Littlest Print Exchange

Exchange portfolios are one of my favorite practices of printmaking culture. A group of artists are given (or agree upon) a theme, dimensions, and an edition number. Each artist receives a complete set of all the prints. Often two or three of the portfolios will go into special collections, be sold by the organizer, or go on display.

In the case of the Littlest Print Exchange, organizer Christopher Clark gave participants the theme of "cliché" and the littlest print dimensions of 3" x 3". The resulting prints offer insight into the minds of the fifty-five artists who participated in the exchange as well as a nice survey of the diverse aesthetics of print media.

Click on the image here to visit the Littlest Print Exchange site and browse a gallery of the 2010 images.

Barn Razing

Razing the Barn from katie on Vimeo.

Razing the Barn (2) from katie on Vimeo.

Oh Painting

I waver continuously in my understanding of how an image may affect us. Mark Rothko is quoted as saying that he wanted the viewer to fall to his knees and weep before Rothko's paintings. I've never fallen to my knees and wept before a painting, certainly not in any of the privileged institutions where one can see a Rothko in the flesh. That said, some images speak to me. Most often the work makes me want to make work.

The paintings of Sam McKinnis make me wish I were a painter. Or that I were fabulously wealthy and could buy several of his portraits. Shown here is McKinniss's virtuosic study for a portrait. Browse through his series and wish you were a lithe young thing in the Boston area.

Then It Hit Me

Scanning old photos and found this.
















New York City, 2005.

Cobblery, Shoe Making

I'm beginning a project in which I hope to make myself a pair of tall fashion boots out of leather (or hide) that I tan myself. A brief google search for "shoe making" turned up this gem, Ms. Mary Wales Loomis. She asks, "Have you ever thought about making your own SHOES? I did."

Yes, Ms. Loomis, I too have thought about making my own shoes. It did not occur to me to make my own pumps, but now that I've seen this glorious display I'm considering getting set like Ms. Frizzle for my next job interview. Ms. Loomis is an example of why I love DIY. She ripped up a pair of shoes to learn how they were made; she cast her own "lasts" using plaster of paris in a pair of existing shoes; she starts teaching her shoe making; and then she publishes a book. Right on sister.

I'm reminded of the craftastic Zen saying, "To make a kimono take apart a kimono." Or something like that. I've found this to be especially true with other clothing projects: careful deconstruction reveals the process in a poetic way. Perhaps I will be heading to AmVets tomorrow to find some boots for an informative and Zen dismantling.

Time is a Luxury

I finally made the sumac tea. It's pretty easy: add cold water to the berries and let sit for a while. Strain and drink. As reported, it is very much like a lemonade. I would like to add that it soothed my hangover, cured my acne, and made me a sparkling wit for 24 hours, but that is not true. It is refreshing and simple. That's enough.

Since graduating last year and starting work at Beardsley Farm I've been cooking more. My half CSA share from A Place of the Heart Farm has helped push my food experimenting. As I write, napa cabbage sits in brine waiting to become kimchi. In November I'll attend a canning class by my friend Kat Raese. I enjoy the labor of cooking as much as I like to eat the food, but am continually amazed at how easily I can pass several hours cooking. And then it's time to think about the next meal.

This experience reinforces for me that the obesity epidemic (and our other failings of health, both physical and ecological) are far more complex and difficult than a matter of will or making good choices. It's hard to argue for things like canning your own food (which takes several hours) in comparison with buying canned goods from the grocery store. Especially when the store bought food is so inexpensive. I have the benefit of several factors that make it easier for me to cook and experiment with things like canning and kimchi, but chief among them is time. I have time to cook because I don't work three or four jobs or have several children or older relatives in my care. Were I responsible for feeding people beyond myself and my husband, you can bet there would be a couple nights of fish sticks and ketchup.

I enjoy fantasizing about a life lived more closely off the land: growing more of the food we eat, having bees, making our own clothes and furniture, etc. etc. but the reality of that lifestyle is that it demands a lot more of your time. As of yet, I cannot figure a way to be the super urban homesteader and have a contemporary career. I follow the flickr images of a woman who goes by the name Wilderness Gal. She and her husband and daughter are living a back-to-the-land life of homesteading. It looks gorgeous and rugged, but it also seems isolated and all consuming. Their sustenance is her primary occupation, where as I approach things like gardening and wildcrafting as hobbies with aesthetic and metaphoric value.

The Way You Do One Thing

A friend of ours recently mentioned the expression, "The way you do one thing is the way you do all things." The truth of the sentiment makes me cringe: the way I do most things is not the way I want to do all things. To quote Issa, "And yet, and yet." And yet I rush impatiently into many situations only to find myself wishing I'd had the presence of mind to stop for a red hot minute and make a plan. Or change my shoes.

Today as we traveled up and down I-75 I saw clumps of staghorn sumac growing in edges of the fields alongside the highway. Since last fall I've been wanting to harvest the berries and make the lemonade-esque drink I've read about. Additionally, it is supposed to rain tonight and I'd heard that it's best to harvest the berries before a rain drains them of their flavor. These details converged in my mind and generated a sense of great urgency that propelled me to rush out to the embankment near our house as soon as we got home. Despite the fact that it was dusk and I was wearing cowboy boots, I made for the sumac I'd seen growing, slipped through to the other of the chain link fence, and started skittering up a steep slope towards the plants.

After watching me fall clumsily through the tall weeds, a burly neighbor yelled up to ask just "What the hell are you doing?" I told him. Twice. And then skittered away trying to look like I had every business stumbling through the brush and hoping he wouldn't call the police. None of the young sumac plants I found had berries-- they don't produce until at least a year of growth-- and I realized I would have to hop the tall fence in my stupid boots in order to avoid backtracking down the steep hill. I ripped my t-shirt in the process but avoided skewering myself on the fence. When I finally found a plant with berries, I was so eager to make up for my earlier mistakes that I greedily broke a primary rule of foraging and harvested all three clusters--rather than leaving some to reseed or for other foragers to harvest.

The way you do one thing is the way you do all things. Next time I will do the one thing with better planning and more reasonable shoes.