Tuesday, November 30, 2010
He's never sold a one. Given them all away as gifts to friends. Each taking a few months to a few years.
It's clearly a love of pencils. A love of lead and wood, to say nothing of the obsessiveness; the frame of mind he must go into to get this to come out of it.
I love pencils. I love their beauty, their simplicity, the way the lead shines on the paper. The daily use of pencils are one of the things that have kept me in classrooms into adulthood. I write entire missives in pencil. I would sign checks in pencil! if it wasn't for all the implications...
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The clever man behind these moving homes is also the brilliance behind the busycle and the park spark.
In the landscape of a new America, maybe this guy could run for President.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanks for the giving, indeed.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry. I who don't know the secret wrote the line. They told me (through a third person) they had found it but not what it was not even what line it was. No doubt by now, more than a week later, they have forgotten the secret, the line, the name of the poem. I love them for finding what I can't find, and for loving me for the line I wrote, and for forgetting it so that a thousand times, till death finds them, they may discover it again, in other lines in other happenings. And for wanting to know it, for assuming there is such a secret, yes, for that most of all.
written by denise levertov
Sunday, November 21, 2010
When winter falls around here, it always renders me a little bit mopey for NYC. I miss it.
Yes, I still miss it, lo these many years later. My good friend, and great artist, Karen Slovak paints NY scenes that make that missing-it-pattern ease my heart ache just a bit.
A few years ago, Karen and I were in NYC at the same time. So I showed her my old haunts and we wandered down old streets new to us, all the while Karen was snapping photos of a New York she hoped to recreate in paint.
Karen grew up in the city and it's where her family history still lives. This painting, lovingly recreated from an old photo, was her Uncle's barber shop.
I have my own piece of Karen's New York now. A tiny pink version of a building after my own heart.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
This coming Saturday, Kick (a.k.a. my mom) is participating in an open air market in Summerland, near Santa Barbara.
Kick's the queen of textiles. She never misses a good deal and has been collecting for years. Our annual trip to France is no exception. She spies them from far away, sidles on up, does a 'hem and a haw' routine she's worked out with myself and my sister and darn it all if she doesn't walk away with some of the prettiest linens you've ever seen. There's a tiny sample of goods on her Flickr site, just to whet the appetite.
Kick at the woad forest, shrugging her shoulders at a field of blue. What else can we dye?
Kick and myself looking for the linens....
Kick sorts the linens in France.
No matter what she finds or where she finds it, the linens always come out looking like new. I wore Kick's wedding dress on my big day, but before I did, we had to pull it out of a box that had been in the attic for 30 years. Besides removing the sleeves and making some room in the busty area, mom knew it had to be cleaned. We were bemoaning the fact that we were quoted around $300 to clean it. To a woman who grew up on a farm, that seemed crazy! Instead, Kick soaked the whole thing in the bathtub in her secret ingredient, laid it out on the grass for the chloroform, and dried it by the light of the moon. It was the most beautiful site I'd ever seen... She's magic like that.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
There's a shop in Australia called Newspaper Taxi that carries my cards and just the other day did a fun little interview with me for her new blog. Big thanks there, Stef!
Interviews are a funny thing: I'm always fairly confident in answering the questions, and then always fairly shy about the fact that someone is reading my words without actually knowing what my voice sounds like. Then there's the "ohyeah, i wish i'd said that or this or that other thing" when you read it in "print". And always, in interviews, you're asked what you're listening to and who or what you're inspired by... and THOSE lists are so insanely long in my head that I tend to over list or under list.
Funny, those lists. Funny, these interviews. Funny, this life.