Thursday, September 24, 2015
Working away, developing drawings in support of a lyrical text but today I run into a roadblock. From a quick sketch that has the right feel but the wrong proportions, I redraw and redraw again. Every iteration pulls farther and farther from the vision I hold in my mind.
Taking a break for lunch.
Regardless of the one-step-forward-two-steps-back kind of day this happens to be, any day where you can find time to do something you love and enjoy the feel of the sun on your face is a good, good day.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
So when dollmaking crept in to my imagination as an adult, it was always with the idea of something tiny. Something you could slip into a pocket, take along in a car, and where if you had three or four of them, they could all be played with at once, a whole adventure of dolls. (I'm pretty sure if you look it up, you will find that is the term for a gathering of more than one doll.)
I began with one. A prototype. Loved all 3 1/2 inches of her, from her touseled blue hair and smudged nose to her tiny unformed turned-in toes. And she was so special a little thing that I put her safely by until I could make her a friend. My children have learned to dread it when I say I have put something they ask for in "a safe place". It means they may not see that thing again for a good, long while. And so it is with Doll One. Onesie is safely snoozing somewhere. Snug and secret. So I made Twosie. She had no hair. I simply could not decide what colour her hair should be. But she had a wide, sunny smile and a bright yellow dress to match. She seemed so HAPPY I had made her. And although she stood beaming at me under my lamp, watching me work for a long while, eventually she must have gone off to find her friend, because she disappeared. I know one day while turning out a drawer or unfolding tissue from around some precious thing in a box, I will find the two of them making up stories, telling dollie secrets and enjoying themselves wonderfully together.
But I was still without dolls.
And I had a craft show to attend.
So I sat down with fabric and my weensy template and drew out a whole dozen dollies of different colours. And I stitched, stuffed, painted and stitched some more. I took three along on the drive to the craft show, stitching their hair on the highway between Toronto and Kingston as the early sun barely cleared the dashboard, and four more the week later, who came downtown with me to an artisanal store here in Toronto where others like me have brought work together to be sold.
And again, I have no dolls.
So I'm stitching again. Making Tiny Friends to send out into the world in their little matchbox beds to make friends and make magic in quiet hours and hushed corners - or possibly get up to zany tricks and antics in circuses they cause to happen around them. I wish I knew.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Today's doodle, photographed and posted on Facebook bobs up in my mind. Twirls lazily in the mental current and glints invitingly. I know what it is about, this bottle whose contents entice and yet bring reluctance...
...it is a memory. 19 years old, of a kettle rinsed, and a boy just two, demanding both it and a tea-towel. And rubbing industriously. Sometimes action is needed to help thoughts gather, become solid, so I don't interfere too soon, but eventually I ask - why all that rubbing, when the kettle is clean and dry by now? My older son replies very seriously: "It is to give the genie a chance to come out. Like knocking on his door."
Ah. In that flash between the boy rubbing a kettle and his words falling on my ear, a story falls into my head. About how we become. And how we lose some of what we could be, over time. And possibly, tenuously, how we might regain some of what we have lost, to be our whole selves. Or more whole selves. Perhaps.
I said to my son: well. That gives me an idea. Quite a story, in fact.
He laid aside the tea-towel, kettle resting on his Osh-Kosh little legs and asks: Can I have that story? Is it mine, because I gave it to you?
Yes, son, of course. It is your story.
And now, 19 years later and rolling around in my mind, first draft in the back of a drawer for years already, it is more relevant and more his than ever.
And it comes out in doodles. In flashes of memory, bits of insight where I realize WHY something I wrote had to be so indeed.
And possibly, even, what might come next.
Although, as with most really good stories, that part is never certain until you read it.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
These last few days I've enjoyed filling out my display with small pieces, sketchbook images growing into paintings. This one just made me grin - and got all kinds of music playing in my mind. (And the first person who tells me the name of the song in my head wins a prize.)
The idea - of being able to just lift into the air and leave problems behind - is an age-old daydream. Trouble is, your problems might just be able to do the same thing... and then, if you are fat little mice, you look like this:
Come down and say hi if you can. I'll be the grin behind the table at the corner of Liberty and Pirandello.
Hope you all have a fabulous day.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
I.F. - Airborne - A Dream of Flying - Work in Progress - Prep for Liberty Village Art Crawl outdoor show June 13
Night washing away in the dawn is yet part of the dreamer, the flier.
Friday, May 22, 2015
what it means, or what I am saying. Just as the words I choose to express an idea will more or less frame and colour the fluid thought I have in mind, so they will be heard and interpreted differently by every listener, depending on context, history, perceived tone and expression; a myriad different interpretations.
And beyond that, other than direct illustrations in response to a concrete text, paintings which I create may begin with a line or shape and thereafter take on a meaning different every time I work on them and holding each of these references for me while perhaps having none of these for the viewer.
So unless we have a lot of time - and I mean A LOT - to discuss all these various themes, histories and nuances given the lines, colours and shapes that appear, go ahead and tell me what sort of response YOU have to a piece. Really. Go ahead. No response is unacceptable. And let's go from there.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
On my worktable just now... Countdown is in the final two weeks. This is when it is the MOST fun (until adrenaline takes over on the day of, at least) because in my mind, just at present, everything I dream I will do is still possible. I have not yet run out of time to get every vision on to canvas and out the door.
|All happening at once. I can just imagine the conversations they are having when I step away for a moment.|