HIGH UP IN THE TREES

The Pythagorean theorem proves handy, at last!

Cutting the fine paws, long snouts and narrow tails with scissors, I glue them in place, after a few scene changes toyed with, and then, once dry, they are whisked under press. This is my process, my pattern, and, as you have seen these past few posts, this is how they later look in book form, open and laid on tabletop. Held in individual book cradles made by Louise (who has the finger cuts to wear as proof of hard labour), these stands support the books and allow for the peering, their triangular shape (with thanks to Pythagoras) mirroring that of the beautiful table legs made by Erik North for Craft Victoria’s use.

In total I have made, especially for this exhibition, twenty-one collaged books. Some were mercifully six pages in length (Primary transport for the dispelling of fallacious beliefs), but most were somewhere between eighteen to twenty-four pages. Some were made in conjunction with others, and some were made on their own. It will come as no great astonishment that all afforded me joy to make. Even those books which chose not to lie flat (thereby making the gluing of a rodent's long tail or boar's hairy snout that fell perilously too near to the spine all the harder).

But this is but one small part of A key to make your own world visible. On the gallery walls there hangs now, until the end of November, Louise’s watercolour works (sixteen in total, four of which are collaborative), several collaborative prints in frames (thanks to Margaret and Colin of the Frame Spot), and a block of my postcard collages, too. Upon a shelf by the window sits Louise’s Especially for you, a collection housed, and our 12 page concertina-bound artists’ book, This evening, however, I am thinking of things past. It is a crowded affair. Bare is not our hallmark.

+ As Louise saw it, photos from the installation.

+ As Esther Van Doornum and Kim Brockett for Craft Victoria saw it, photos from the opening night. (Can you spot me? Can you spot Louise? Can you, perhaps, spot yourself?)

+ Guidance for those curious

{Exhausting all possible avenues. Collage and pencil across the pages of a small red-covered book of cartes vues détachables of Abbay d’ Aulne, Bruxelles.}

Looking into a mirror.

{Looking only for you. 28 pages in length, this artists' book features collage and pencil across the pages of Der Rhein.}


{Passing through, undetected for the time being. 18 pages in length, this artists' book features collage and pencil across the pages of A Souvenir of Bangor.}


{From the second day of installation, and Louise's bookstands are as beautiful as I knew they would be.}


{On the wall, two recent collaborative prints, and postcards, too. On the table, a library of books.}

On the pages of my collaged artists’ books there feature many animals, many birds. My tailed or feathered protagonists often out of place, oft too large for their present surrounds. They scale rooftops, climb cathedral spires; perch high in treetops do my central characters. Sometimes they saunter nonchalantly past a city square. Sometimes they tiptoe or creep. And all the time they afford me chance not just to play with scale and humorous, I hope, foreign juxtapositions, but to convey feelings of awkwardness and oddness. They are out of place, not just in urban environment or strange land (the mountain lions home range is not Brussels), but also in feeling. Being animals, in form, they are easier to relate to. One is not distracted by the dissimilarities because there are so many. I am not covered in fur, with claws for fingertips and a tail to serve as rudder on mountain climb. I am so different that I look only at what the animal is doing in its new environment. It is on the sidelines, watching. It is looking for a safe place to curl. It is passing undetected. It is slinking through the city unseen. It, like me, feels the odd one out.

+ Louise and I will be turning the pages of these books before the week draws to a close. When next you visit, a new page will be revealed.

+ A small review in the paper by Dylan Rainforth. You can read it here.


{Look closely.}

+ I made it, finally, to see Carolyn Fraser's beautiful work, Envelope, at Mailbox 141. You can, too, if you head there before the month is out.

Up she goes, down she goes.

{Up she goes, slowly, A key to help make your own world visible.}


{A pencil addition to soften the tail curl of a new resident in Johannesburg.}


{Quickly captured, a scene from the second day of installation.}


{In Craft Victoria’s beautiful, light-filled gallery two, a library of books is arranged.}

Sunday has rolled around and I have awoken more crumpled and weary than I ever thought possible. At least, in my short memory, I tell myself this, convinced utterly that I have never been so tired, so exhausted, so borderline cantankerous, and so, well, dizzy. Head spins, body aches, I have had head down for so long in preparation for our exhibition in gallery two of Craft Victoria that now that it is up, in place, and opening celebrated, I am spent. I have since squandered two whole days and a third seems set to follow. Much as I should be, but less fun and less rewarding than I’d hoped. Wiped out, as anyone will tell you, does not make for great lolling.

+ Behind the scenes views can be gleaned here, on Louise's blog, elsewhere
+ Oh what a night! Clog, Craft Victoria

(Thank you to all those dear friends both old and new who popped along to Thursday night's opening hoopla. It was wonderful to see you, albeit briefly, in the sea of faces ogling shoes, jewellery, books, prints and drawings.)

Then & now, now & then.

{Invitation featuring our newest collaborative print, All memory of that night shone before fading.}

Doubting whether in my body there is a contemporary bone, so to speak. I seem drawn to things from days past, days long ago spent. Romantic leanings, I have plenty of those, but it is more than that, I fear. I seem devoid of the modern in every sense. Imagery from the past, novels, too, is it just me, or do you suffer this too?

These nostalgic leanings of mine can be seen in abundance in gallery two of Craft Victoria from this evening onwards. Housed temporarily between splendid shoes (Emma Greenwood, Phong Chi Lai, April Phillips, James Roberts, Emma Shirgwin, and Tim Tropp : Shoe Show) and splendid jewels (Karin Findeis : Sampler), should you be free this eve, come one come all, you are all of you invited.

+ Thanks Michi Girl for the mention
+ Thanks Genevieve of Reeling and Writhing, too


{A companion to the above, the second of two collaborative prints made especially for Craft Victoria, All memory of that day sparkled bright and unchanging. (Click to enlarge... it will help.)}

(Photos, I've many to share, but they, for the time being, shall have to wait.)

In the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains.

{In print.}

Arrived by post well over a fortnight ago now, two heavy copies of the October issue of The World of Interiors featuring, upon page 288, my collage for a piece on Marrakesh.

Atop an article about textiles new and old in Marrakesh’s souk there sits my piece and I am happy. Things in print, the big and the small, well, that’s exciting, isn’t it?

In and around the souk, the carpet dealers trade as usual, selling, then quickly replacing, their huge piles of stock. Most of them also offer Moroccan textiles. Rumour has for some time suggested that most of these are fakes, but consider for a moment what 'fake' actually means. Fakes are made to deceive, to fool the greedy or unwary customer. It is true that in the souk you'll find new textiles look similar to the old ones so desired by collectors. You will also find old designs with new patterns added in henna. The dealer will usually point out that those have been altered, and even if they don't warn you beforehand they will almost certainly inform you if you ask the age or origins of their wares.

(Alister McPine, Journal of a Collector, The World of Interiors, October 2009)

+ Swayed by sentiment.
+ Presents from moon and back, a recent zine lands.
+ I could fit in here, I could, via Bird & Banner.

Closer, closer. Closer still.

{No, I am not fond of this place.}


{You really should have asked me first. It's poor form to arrive unannounced.}


{If we just keep our heads, we'll be okay. Right?}

It shall be no small happiness when I finish all work intended for exhibition. It shall be marked, more than likely, by the contented and deep slumber of the exhausted. Spring is all around me, though not present in my step. This final sprint feels more like an old shuffle. With window open and a small vase of rose-red camellias beside me as I work, I may be indoors, but still it is glorious.

Tomorrow, let us head to Marrakesh.



(In last weekend's paper, there upon printed page was Percy the greyhound, a seven-week-old pup ready soon for adoption (through the 2009 Pedigree Adoption Drive). With a fondness for untying shoelaces, no less. Long have I promised myself that if I ever sighted (in such listings) a greyhound by the name of Percy, I would take giant leaps to kennel door to see if he would consider coming home with me. Dear me. What to do? Perhaps the decision has already been made for me. Upon sighting his adorable face, perhaps someone else has adopted him throughout week's course.)

That brilliant stimulant.

{"Yes, we had a table just like this when I was a little girl," said my Mum. "The exact same colour, too."}

Coffee and its powers of keeping the mind and body alert is being called upon with increasing frequency, though still incapable of holding candle to Honoré de Balzac and his addiction. Four cups, not the rumoured forty of Balzac, is my maximum, lest my jitters take over. As I have neither black hair nor liver spots, I will not follow suit and attempt his recipe for coffee drinking that enables “ideas (to) quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground… Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination’s orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; (and) the paper is spread with ink.”

As seems my pattern of late, here are a few more recent postcard collages of mine.

+ For a look at Louise and my recent collaborative artists' book being printed, skip this way.


{I don't recommend that you follow suit.}


{Companionship on such a day was invaluable, surely.}


{Taking the quickest pathway home. (The original postcard sent to me by Marieke Berghuis Leewens. Thank you MBL.)}


{Yes, I'll concede. It's quite impressive.}

Finally, I have discovered a horrible, rather brutal method that I recommend only to men of excessive vigor, men with thick black hair and skin covered with liver spots, men with big square hands and legs shaped like bowling pins. It is a question of using finely pulverized, dense coffee, cold and anhydrous, consumed on an empty stomach. This coffee falls into your stomach, a sack whose velvety interior is lined with tapestries of suckers and papillae. The coffee finds nothing else in the sack, and so it attacks these delicate and voluptuous linings; it acts like a food and demands digestive juices; it wrings and twists the stomach for these juices, appealing as a pythoness appeals to her god; it brutalizes these beautiful stomach linings as a wagon master abuses ponies; the plexus becomes inflamed; sparks shoot all the way up to the brain. From that moment on, everything becomes agitated.
(The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee, Honoré de Balzac)

Nervous and inclined to shy.

{Here comes the night. A moment captured long ago now.}

There is one week and one day to go before Louise and I set up our new work in gallery two of Craft Victoria, and we are both feeling as though encased in our chests a thousand and one butterflies flutter. Remaining still a sizable proportion of things each of us would like to do, the finish line draws closer by the hour.

I cut out various collage elements to the classical sounds of Bach and Chopin, hoping my hand will follow tempo of harpsichord. I glue various collage elements, usually in silence, hoping all will follow my command and adhere smoothly to the page, creating no paper Himalayan mountain range. Having watched a documentary on the mighty river Ganges, (Daughter of the Mountains) scenes from northern India play over in my mind on continuous loop. I saw musk deer frolic and blue sheep climb, and the visuals so rich took my breath away. Seems no nature documentary can be watched without a lump in the throat as I sit in absolute awe, pleasantly exhausted or otherwise.

 

Below is a look at one of twenty new artists’ books of mine (each one different). For purpose solely of this iPhone video foolery, this one seemingly pulled from packed bookshelf upstairs in the State Library of Victoria. Stand beside me, look over my shoulder, as I turn the pages and try to make left hand follow brain's instruction, this is for you.

{Friends, we are no filmmakers, but Louise & I do like to share. Here is the first of a handful of intended tiny moving visuals captured with iPhone's aid for your amusement.}

All the time.

{A fortuitous find.}

Disobeying my circadian rhythm, I awoke before sunrise to find the day ahead clear. With the clocks rolled forward an hour to add extra daylight to the afternoon, and spring in glorious riot, time in the studio beckons and two collaged works are very soon to be ready for excursion to the printers. Yes, I will be a morning lark after all. I will, if only for a brief spell. (And I will share with you this pair of large-scale collaborative prints just as soon as they are ready.)

 

As a morning lark, if I were to tell the time by the 18th-Century Swedish botanist, Carolus Linnaeus and his theoretical floral clock (horologium florae) — plants arranged in order of flowering, planted in a large circle so as to constitute a floral timepiece — I am unfurling with the wild rose and morning glory, springing up at 5am. When the African marigold, orange hawkweed and dandelion open from folded state, it is 7am and time for a second coffee.

8am and Mouse-ear hawkweed and African daisies bloom, and it seems that keeping this in mind is the easiest way for a natural night owl to make the transition to early riser a relatively smooth one.

{From 2002, Louise and my collaborative piece made especially for Craft Victoria's Uno – one unique object exhibition.}


{Now housed in a Perspex case tailor-made and at a dear friend’s house.}


{…where we celebrated the start of daylight savings time with good food and good wine.}

Hieroglyphic scrawl.

{It was easier than one might initially think.}


{Yes, I see what you mean; our cover could well be blown.}

Somewhere between the age of twelve and fifteen, I made the conscious choice to try to loose my cursive hand. I preferred the round print favoured by other girls my age.

I toyed with print, with large bubble-shaped letters, fat and swollen. I even experimented with tiny circles above the letter ‘i’. Hearts, too, if I recall, but not for long did these feature, bloated and ridiculous, hovering above the slender stem of an ‘i’. (Poor ninth letter of the alphabet.) That my Christian name featured a singular ‘i’ made this experimentation all the more fun and necessary. And whilst my ‘g’'s never looked quite right in capital letter, the tail hung down long and mirrored the ‘y’ in my surname, when I opted for lowercase simplicity.

 

Now, my handwriting is a mash-up of loose cursive and print (sans silly flourishes). As I am sure I have aired here before, my lines creep up the page and sometimes my words, in notes to myself, are hard to decipher. Sometimes the scrawl is almost illegible.

 

For all my typing and messaging, I still cannot type as fast as the thoughts or sentences form in mind and this can be a mildly frustrating thing. But I can write as fast as I think and it is for this reason that throughout my home, and in pockets in bags that hang by the front door, there is always paper and pen at hand. Just in case. Things can be lost in an instant and even if I think I’ll remember it, chances are, I won't. Notes and thoughts and titles scribbled across the pages can be downright cryptic at times (though not solely due to poor penmanship).

Do you still call upon pen and paper?

+ By Hand: Handwriting in the 21st Century by Brita Frost
+ Greville St Bookstore has a new blog
+ Lumetta: kaikkensa
+ My Mum's new Thelma's Stuffies
+ BibliOdyssey: Waiter, There's a Hair in my Satire