my katagami try

I went to the Asian Art Museum one unusual solitary afternoon, because I really wanted to see an exhibit of contemporary Chinese book arts. The first room took my breath away. They were functional stencils for dying fabric-- mulberry paper stained with deep purple-black persimmon juice--and were heart-breakingly delicate cuttings that intertwined loose organic shapes with smart geometries. I realized part way through that these were not part of the book exhibit... they were neither Chinese nor contemporary (ha!)... but the bug was already in me (more on this in a sec). I looked at the book exhibit, and it was interesting in a totally different way. I remember reading in "Encounters with Chinese Writers" by Annie Dillard, that Chinese citizens at some time could only check out books from the library that related to their specific field. Mechanics could check out books on engines, chefs could get books for recipes, but no mechanic could support a weekend cooking hobby (through the library, at least). I've tried to research it out to remember the details, but I only have that memory to go on. In any case, a lot of the Chinese book arts were cutting criticisms of censorship and the tyranny of information hording. And this was intellectually very interesting, but the beauty of those tissue-thin paper cuttings were what stuck with me. I've played around with cut paper for years, especially as pages in handmade books, but finally got pushed over the edge. The name for the stencil process is 'katagami,' and they're Japanese. I, of course, am not dying fabric with them, and am starting with white paper, but I'm excited about the possibility of joining paper-cutting to drawing, painting and sculptural elements, so we'll see. In the meantime, I've posted some images on flickr, and am sending a few to London. It makes me feel very cosmopolitan to say "I'm sending a few to London."

(The piece at top was found here.)

allegoric

My work, along with the work of some people friends from "the old country" will recognize, is going to London! It's the Bridge Art Fair, and the booth is called Allegoric.

I'm excited to have these little guys be more well-traveled. I think their horizons will widen when they encounter new cultures and sample new foods. I'm also sending some new paper cut work... images soon to appear on flickr and my website.

don't let them harsh your mellow

One time, I was sitting in a friend's house, upset and worried about some social awkwardness, and I glanced up to read a book title: Keep a Quiet Heart. Sometimes such a simple suggestion can be like a thumb at your inability to follow it, but sometimes it's actually possible to respond. Lately, as summer and summer projects both draw to a close and extend into the beginning of the school year, I find my interior life scrambling and scrapping, taking turns with a slow soft sadness, fading into fleeting contentment and gratitude, you know, etcetera, but a quiet heart has not been the norm. (I'm treading diary territory here, but hopefully in enough of a universal slant.) Just today, I've had that book title come to mind again, and it's helped. I feel like I'm tending a garden that's been neglected.

On a thinly related note, I've been collecting sticks for a project I'm working on. Having them stacked high above little boy hands, but still in my house making wild shapes against the ceiling, is a solid comfort. I've always loved bringing things from outside in. It reminds me of something ridiculous. One time I found part of a deer skeleton; I took it home and gave the bones a soak in bleach water before arranging them alongside other finds, mostly seedpods, in my studio space. If you've ever brought in seeds from outside, you know that some of them have shockingly springy release systems that can go off after having been still for weeks. Beak-shaped parts open and spit, or stiff wood-like pods twist apart in an instant, tossing hard black beans several feet into the room. Other seeds quietly dry and drop little specks onto the table. So I was in the middle of an aimless painting and I noticed some seeds that hadn't been there before. I cleared away the bones and stones and pods and shook the paper where they'd been sitting over the wet paint. The texture didn't revolutionize the painting in any way, but the seeds did stick. I gave up on finishing that little piece, and the next time I looked closely at it, I was astonished to see that the seeds I'd sprinkled were actually tiny worms. They must've dropped from the cavities in the deer bones, bleached dead. But even though I might not have done it on purpose, it said more about the wildness of wilderness than I could have said, and was more amazing to me than whatever I was trying to paint.

{The painter Ross Bleckner has a page in a published sketch book that pairs a back covered in acne and an image of a galaxy. The forms are strikingly similar.}

your size in the universe

tiny animals on fingers.