Another Weekend Project

I've been looking for my little camera so I could show you these. I finally found it wound up with the recorder and splitter and headset from the interview yesterday--somehow I grabbed them all off the desk and put them up in a big glump. All is well now, however.

So this weekend I made 39 little books. 39? Aieeeeee! If I'd known that, I would have made another one, just for a nice round number. Sheesh. Let's say I made 40--it's entirely possible one is lurking somewhere, having fallen behind something.

I guess talking about journals spurred a bunch of us into bookmaking this weekend. Check out Aimee's creations here.

Anyway, so these each have 5 sheets, for a total of 10 pages or 20 sides. The little thing on the tie is a bamboo paper clip. Not very practical (the little knobby end catches on stuff) but pretty cool.

Now I have no excuse ever to be without something for notes. Nope, I'm not even going to try giving them away. I'm taking a break from that--it was making me too grouchy. The garments that didn't find new homes? Back out into the storage building until I'm ready to try again.

Finally Finished Some Stuff

Here are a couple of projects I've been working on. I started this one, In Vino Veritas, long, long ago and then decided I wasn't going to wear it and put it in my Etsy shop. It began life as a pale dress, ankle length, with a rounded neck and elbow-length short sleeves. Cut off the bottom, the neck, the sleeves. Dyed it. Stamped it with commercial grapes and the dots (the end of a sponge dauber thingie). The wine glasses--that was fun: I took a photo of a wine glass with water in it and altered that and printed it out in the size I wanted and used carbon/whatever-it's-called paper to transfer the glass around the bottom. Painted in the wine and drew over the lines and, later stitched them. When Jacquard asked for some altered artwear, I dug it out and worked on it a lot more--adding stitching and text. The text is about why it's better to drink wine than to drink beer, as our neighbors do. They tore a plug out of The EGE's grass when, mowing drunk, they wandered over into our yard.

Then--finally! hooray!--the Alabama Stitch Book swing skirt. Oh, what a killer the end of this was: since the pattern seemed WAY too small, I had enlarged it. It seemed fine up until the moment I put the skirt on. Then I realized it was WAY too big. Knit = stretchy. Duh.

So here it is, very low on the hips and kind of baggy and too long:

I couldn't find the fold-over elastic required, so I used regular elastic. That was a big mess, so I ripped it out. I ripped out the side seams and made it smaller. It was still too big, so I ripped them out AGAIN and made it smaller. Now it's not so low on my hips, and I don't think I'll have to shorten it--a long, tedious process requiring that I re-stitched all the cut-outs along the bottom.

It was made from 7 or 8 t-shirts I got from Goodwill and overdyed. Everything was done by hand until I got to the seams--they're supposed to be done by hand, but I was tired of it by then. All of those reverse appliqué x's and o's were stencilled with a freezer paper stencil and Jacquard paint, then stitched by hand and cut out.

The elastic I tried to use in the waist was some I already had, and the only thing I had to buy was one skein of embroidery thread when I ran out. I did buy some of the craft thread she rec. in the book, but I never even tried it--I used embroidery floss because the craft thread comes in only a few, very dull, colors. Ick.

All in all, it cost about $11, and I have enough of the t-shirts left over to make something else. You could do it for nothing if you already had the t-shirts. Sure, it takes a lot of time, but it's fun. And it's wonderfully comfortable--I wore it the other night at the lawn concert. Strangely enough, no one seemed to notice it--I was hoping I'd get to talk about recycling and stuff, but nope. Maybe it's not very noticable.

Comfortable and colorful, though--and those are my two requirements for clothing, so I'm a happy stitcher.

You're Right! I'm a Fabulous 1930's Husband!

Well, OK--not fabulous. 67 isn't even a passing grade. But it sure beats my score as a 1930's wife--

67 As a 1930s husband, I am Superior Take the test!

Eeeee! Good Thing I'm Not Living in the 1930's

13 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Blast from the Past, or Omigod, A Memory.

As usual on Sunday evenings in the summertime (Summertime, and the livin' is easy. Catfish jumpin', and the cotton is high.) we went to the concert at the Museum of the Southwest, which is within walking distance of The Voodoo Cafe and is quite delightful in every way. Except that I drink wine while there and then, when the concert is over and we're sitting around visiting, suddenly realize that I reallyreallyreally need to pee. And the museum, with its nice, clean restrooms, is closed. And all they have is the Porto Potties from Hell. Like I'm going to go there. So I have to pack everything up in a rushrushrush and do the whole racewalk thing all the way home, muttering, "Shit, shit, shit, I NEED TO PEE!" Every week. Seems I'd learn.

So this week, as we're on our way out the back gate, I realize I don't have a pocket and so drop my keys, the abbreviated set, into my bra. I may be white, honeys, but I'm not so white that I don't know the benefits of wearing a brassiere, my dear. Kleenex, keys, money for yoga (I love to terrorize my yoga instructor by folding up the money and putting it in my bra right before I walk in the door and then making a big deal of taking it out and smoothing it out and handing it her, just to watch her shudder. She IS that white.)

In case you're all confused about the white reference: The EGE has female relatives of prodigious bosoms (like: many have had to have medically necessary reductions), and they have stored all sorts of things in there. Money, of course, and the requisite keys, but also small handguns (think Nancy Reagan's "tiny little gun," only with more oomph). Not like White Women, who are much less creative with the carrying and will take a purse when all that's really required is a B-cup or larger.

So. I drop the little keys in there. And some Kleenex, of course. And we're off. And we get there and settle in next to our friends, and more people arrive, and soon, right in front of us, is C, a friend of mine from high school, someone we see now and then at HEB. He's the one person from back then I ever see, and it's so apt: he was my Very First Date, in the 9th grade, and then morphed into a good friend, and then was around when I met The EGE--turns out they'd worked together during the summers in college. He tells people he introduced us, which is cool with us, although there are several other people who make the same claim

And they're all wrong: I saw The EGE dancing and stared at him until he couldn't ignore me. I didn't need no stinkin' help, thank you very much.

Anyway. So it's a long history, although we don't see each other outside of chance encounters in the produce section.

But we say howdy and all, and I suddenly start to grin. Because I remember (hark! a memory!) a summer many, many years ago--lord, it must have been 35 years ago, when we were all at the pool. And, for some reason, I was trying to keep a set of keys away from the guys. I, silly child, put them down the top of my swimsuit--white though I was! I must have seen it somewhere!--and was all happy with myself, knowing that these guys were Good Guys and were NOT about to reach in there and retrieve the keys. I was so cool.

Except. I was kind of skinny back then. Like really. And not so much like Dolly Parton, in any kind of way. So the keys didn't really have much purchase in there, if you can imagine.

And my friend C just kind of sighs and rolls his eyes and picks me up by my elbows and gives me a good shake, and the keys fall to the ground.

Guess how long it took before they quit giving me grief about that.

So I remember this tonight and tell The EGE, and he says "You ought to tell him," and so I do. Except I lean over and am telling him and get to the part where, "And I dropped the keys down the top of my swimsuit. . ."

And C rolls his eyes and says, ". . .And I picked you up and shook you, and they fell out."

35 years. Like it was yesterday. And still with the eye-rolling. He helped us finish off the bottle of wine, and The EGE took photos of the new baby in his family. A good evening, indeed.

A Whole Slew of Journals

Since I started the Art Journal list (called, wowza, theartjournal list--click on the link in the right-hand margin to join us), I've been thinking a LOT about my journals. I've kept one since 1973 and have always had one, constantly, since then. I do not have them all--I got irritated at the crap I used to write about (boys, weight, money, jobs, in-laws--in a kind of boring, cliché female progression of obsessions) and started tossing them. I tossed all of them up until about the 40's--not my 40's, but the journals numbered in the 40's. That was roughly when art sort of took over my life in more than an internal way--I started putting ideas and notes for projects and sketches and stuff in the notebooks, and they're WAY more interesting to me now. So I've kept the ones since.

And I was admiring them, all lined up in there, and thought I'd show some of them. When I learned how to bind books, back in the 90's, for a while there I was totally obsessed with doing that. I learned how to bind books The Real Way, with the sewn signatures and all that, with the Official Bookbinding Thread and stuff. And I made a ton of those, just because I could. But they weren't very cool for journals, and so I experimented with all kinds of techniques--I'd gut old books and sew in my own pages. I made leather books from old bags and purses. I used old ledgers, old yearbooks, old encyclopedia. I also used regular books that I bought, from spirals to notebooks to graph paper books. I tried everything.

Here are the shelves in The Voodoo Lounge--the right-hand section of the bookcase is The Journal Section. When it fills up, I'll have to start with the oldest ones and toss some more. These used to be sooooo important to me that, at one point, very early on, I rented a huge safe deposit box to store them. I got over that just the way I got over thinking my hip-length hair was something I'd never give up. Life is change.

You can see that I started out with spiral notebooks, up at the top. Then, in the middle, you see all the different kinds of bound books. Now, down at the bottom (sort of hidden by the back of my big-ass chair), you can see it's reverted back to spirals. Who knows what will happen next? This new journal group may inspire me to try something different--it's already spurred me to spend most of the weekend making tiny little notebooks, but that's another post. . . .

So, sort of in numerical order as I pulled them off the shelves, here we go:

I don't know which one this one is--it's an old photo of an old cover, back when I was doing elaborate collages on them and covering that with satin varnish. Oy.
#87--this was an experiment in padded fabric covers with leather spine and corners. There were a couple of these. I abandoned this style immediately on the day one volume fell on the floor of the restroom in the courthouse during a murder trial. Although the restroom looked spotless, as courthouse restrooms always seem to do, I was aghast and could never use the notebook again. Shudder.

#88--much easier to clean. A cool black book cover with red suede spine and corners.

#89--an old ledger. I think this is one of the ones where I hand-dyed (coffee and tea) Every. Single. Page. Did you ever notice how I tend to get the teeniest bit obsessed about things? Yep.

#91--a paper journal from somewhere like Flax--my mother gave it to me for Christmas.

#92--an old encyclopedia, I think--these covers were so old and crumbly they began to disintegrate while I was using them.

#95--collaged cover--old map and a photo of me, all nicely covered with some waxy application. This might have been back when everyone was raving over Dorland's, but I don't really think I ever used it on a book cover. I can't remember. I can remember that I was wearing this dress (this was taken at a museum in Santa Fe) because I'd just gotten a tattoo I had to keep out of the sun. I saw the photo and said, "My god! What a dump!" And quit wearing these--I cut them off and removed the sleeves and use them to sleep in. Hideous. I looked like a bag lady living IN the bag.

Here are a couple of pages--I didn't make a note about which one they were in. Sorry--it doesn't really matter, though. This one is from a trip, and this is the front title page.

Then this one, #96, is odd: my Best Friend From High School did this piece. I had bought Photojournalists' Vests from Banana Republic, back when that place used to be cool, before it got all hideous. My friend took mine and fixed it up--we'd been embellishing our clothes together since 9th grade, and I thought it would be great fun to have something she'd done. Alas--she did it all in pearls and lace and gold stuff. Even back then (80's?) that was so Not Me. I wore it maybe once. I tried to take all the stuff off but couldn't and ended up putting the vest in some sale (I could kick myself--it was a $100 vest, and I can't find them any more--The EGE's was recently dyed acid green, and he wears it every time he goes anywhere with his camera. But mine is long gone. Poor me.) Anyway, I saved this honkin' big lace piece that was in the middle of the back of the vest and put it on this New Orleans journal. There are dangles from the spine--a tiny ceramic coffee cup for The Cafe du Monde, and some frosted flowers we found in a bead shop around the corner from our hotel.

#100--I wanted to do something special for this one, so I used a 1919 leatherbound yearbook--from the University of Texas, I think--it might have been 1920--it was right around in there, and I have a couple and can't remember which one this was. The numbers are from the hardware store, and I liked them so much I used them on #101, too.

#101 and #102--from old leather bags and jackets. The straps are brittle and break every time I pull on them now. Kind of sad, but they worked when I needed them to. This one, below, I'm not sure about--I took the photo (very long ago) before I added the number.

#104--another of the old, falling-apart encyclopedia. I'm starting to chage my focus here--not nearly as much work going into them.

#105--more minimalism

#112--back to the spirals--I love this cork cover with flecks of gold and so didn't want to put anything else on it.

You can see some of the spines here, some with dangly stuff--little toys from childhood that I wanted to save. But what's the point of having stuff hidden away in a box somewhere? Put it on the spine and enjoy it while you're using that volume; and then, when you're done, put it on a shelf and enjoy it all the time.

And now I'm on Volume # 129. I'll be ready for #130 in a week or so. You've seen them--a week or so ago I posted about having them made at Kinko's. Very plain, with cardstock pages so I can use Sharpies--when my fingers started changing with arthritis, and writing became painful at the best of times, I slowed way, way down with the journal. It was just too painful--physically, mentally--to try to write, and I had to save my fingers for typing and stitching. When I found out about cardstock pages and Sharpies--the pens glide over the cardstock--from Sally Jean, I realized I could once again enjoy the process. Now maybe it's time to decorate a cover or two--minimalism has never been my thang.

Whew. This has taken f-o-r-e-v-e-r. Hope you enjoyed it.

Now to go try to finish a big project--meaning a trip to the store for--omigod!--"baby diaper elastic." Huh?

This Whole Giving-Stuff-Away Thang is Getting Old.

I think I'm going to have to give it up. Pack it in, hang it up. 'Cause I'm having NO luck finding homes for these last remaining garments. No one wanted the Levi's skirt, and no one sent me their address for the stamped dress. I'll try again on that one--if anyone wants that skirt , I'll send it to you. Suz Stuff--if you'll send me your address, I'll send the dress to you.

I've got two more denim skirts, two full-length ones that I started embellishing. I hesitate even to offer them--one of them is so way-cool that I'm loathe to get rid of it, but it needs someone to finish it, someone who remembers Rubberstampmadness in its heyday with great fondness. I did so much work on it I should just keep it. But if I don't finish it and wear it, what's the point?

I'll figure something out on Monday. In the meantime, Suze, please get in touch. And if anyone wants that Levi's skirt, let me know.

Just a Little Bit of My 4th of July

So we were supposed to have the Celebration of The 4th at the House of the Eldest Brother of The EGE. That's what we thought. So The EGE spent much of the day making his Special Kool-Aid, which is a concoction that I, as An Old White Person, cannot tolerate: it is so strong, so flavorful, so sweet, that it makes my teeth ache up into my brain and makes my nerves vibrate like a bed in a cheap motel, but which makes everyone else--his family, white people younger than I, his former students, etc.--go crazy with happiness. It's that good. Or so I'm told.

One of his brothers once sidled up to me and asked for The Recipe, for what made it so sweet, and I leaned over and said, soto voce, "He stirs it with his dick."

And bless his brother, who paused only a moment and then said, very cheerily, "Well, then! Some damn fine dick it is, too!"

I love that man.

Anyway. So then he calls today to find out exactly when we're eating The Barbecue To Die For, the one meal all year long that leaves me cursing my life as a Near-Vegan, the one day when I wish I loved parts of long-dead animals, complete with gristle. Because, honeys, his brother can do Brisket To Break Your Heart. And his cousin? Can make Ribs That Make You Whimper.

Lord. Those Zachery men.

And when The EGE calls to find out the time, the eldest brother, it turns out, is NOT hosting the annual blow-out. Because The Man Who Delivers His Meat is late.

Am I the only one snorting here?

And so, instead, The EGE, still happy and cheerful, delivers the Kool-Aid of Joy to the house of his mother. And, much later, comes home bearing food (no, not barbecue--he stops at Rosa's and brings home taco salads Our Way, meaning just beans and cheese with no meat) and gossip.

Oh, honeys--The Family Gossip. Oh, my. Once upon a time, I had a sister-in-law (one of the many, many of these who have passed through the family) who Loved to Gossip. I was young. And Not Buddhist. And so had no compunctions about listening and, indeed, pitching in where I was able (I'm missing a whole shitload of Girl Genes, though, and have never been so great with the gossip, not that I haven't given it the big try, way back when). But she's been gone from the family for lo! these many years. And the gossip? I don't know if it's been slim because I keep myself to myself or because people have all gotten older and less inclined to trash each other verbally. But it's been sparse in these parts.

But tonight, The EGE comes home with lip-licking tales, indeed. And I'm salivating, I tell you--this is stuff that ties in with our own drama from decades ago--things that we remember from when we moved here and let other family live in our ex-home. Lord.

BUT! I can't enjoy it quite as much as I should be able to, given that it's about people who caused us lots of grief (read: caused the utility companies to threaten to put a lien on our ex-home, which we still owned until, finally, in a pique of Screw You, Then!, we sold it outright and put an end to the nonsense. But that's neither here nor there.) Because it's soooo Not Right Speech. And I do try to practice. You know I do.

I failed miserably tonight. I wallowed in hilarity at the horror. I reveled in the fact that we're now far away from the drama. I relished being justified in the time I confronted one of the many Ex-Women in the Family and ranted at her for a good half hour, reducing her to tears without ever cussing or raising my voice, simply because I had the Power of Being So Right on my side.

Plus she was a truly skanky ho' woman.

Ooooh. I didn't go there. Did I? Oops.

But never mind. I kept saying, "And then? What happened then?" And he'd tell me more.

And I'd moan, "Ooooh, I'm going to hell. Oh, wait: I don't believe in hell. Omigod." Like that.

All I can say in my own defense is that I feel guilty.

And oh, so glad not to be involved in any of it any more. It's enough to make me say, "Thank you, jesus!"

But it was so, so good. Kind of like barbecue, but without needing napkins.

My Favorite Books About Journals & Diaries

OK, here's my partial list, with links to amazon.com, in no particular order:

How to Make a Journal of Your Life, by Dan Price (I have all his books, I think, as well as the first several dozen volumes of his journal, Moonlight Chronicles, which I heartily recommend)

1000 Artist Journal Pages, by Dawn DeVries Sokol

Drawing from Life, by Jennifer New

The Journey is the Destination, by Dan Eldon (pus the book his mother and sister wrote after his death)

Signatures, Stampington

True Colors, Kathy Bold

A Life in Hand, Hannah Hinchman

A Trail Through Leaves, Hanna Hinchman

The Decorated Journal, by Gwen Diehn (I have both of hers)

Everyday Matters, by Danny Gregory (I've got several of his--all wonderful--it might not surprise you to know that Danny and Dan Price know each other)

OK--this should give you some ideas of the various things an "art journal" can be. It's not always about those intricately layered pages. There's sooooo much more! Leave a note and tell me your favorites--of course I need to add to my collection--sheesh.

Some Random Things

I may have mentioned that one of My Current Obsessions (and I always do have some, don't I?) is making stencils from photographs. Here's my first attempt, inspired by LK Ludwig's book:

Her instructions for getting the photo ready didn't work for me--I think she has The Real Photoshop, when I have just the elements. But I was able to figure out the steps, and I think it'll work if I can just figure out which photos are the best. High contrast, I'm thinking.

Then there's this--our weird neighbor's house in the midst of what I believe is a huge mistake (she lived there, she left, she leased it, they trashed it, she came back, she had it fixed up, she doesn't know what she's going to do with it, she had it painted this hideous baby diarrhea color):

All I have to say is: Why not pink?

And here's The Princess herself, the one I terrorized last night, assuring us that yes, indeed, she could use the old laptop if we'd just open the top for her. I'm sure she could--she's very bright. She'd be writing letters to the SPCA every day.

Making a Big Fun Mess

I know I've been remiss about showing photos, so I thought I'd take some of what I've been playing with this morning. The EGE bought me a roll of cheapo kraft paper yesterday, and this morning I cut it in big pieces, wadded those up (with help from Moe, who adores paper and rolled on it and chewed on it and used it to slide across the floor) and took them outside.

I poured the leftover coffee on them and dumped out the coffee grounds and smushed it up:

and then I got my spray Adirondack ink and sprayed them. And wet them from the hose and sprayed some more and then smushed them up some more:

Now we'll see what happens as it all dries. If it does--it looks, once again, as if it might rain today. Grrrrrrrr. I need some SUNSHINE here, people!

Terrorizing the Cat

I'm going to hell for sure, if only I believed in it. . . .

I'm in the bathroom, brushing and flossing and brushing and--you know. And Lennie Lulu, the Little Princess, is looking at me. And for some reason, I start to sing "Tomorrow," from Annie, which I have never seen, thank you, jesus. And she's just entranced. She stands on her hind legs and reaches her paw up to me tenderly, as if to heal me. Because, y'all, you KNOW I cannot sing for shit. Never have, never will. My singing? It's a painful thang.

And of course this amuses me so very, very much that I KEEP singing to her, many, many verses of "Tomorrow." Except I know only the one. Well, OK, pretty much only the part of only the one. As in, OK, singing the word "tomorrow" over and over and over, at increasingly high pitches. Or notes. Or whatever the fuck you call it.

So, later, she's sitting in the kitchen. And I ask her if she's eaten. And she licks her lips. And I say, "Well, it's a good thing, or I'd have to sing to you some more" (sometimes she won't eat unless The EGE presents her food to her in a certain way).

And she looks at me, alarmed, and puts her ears back and races from the room just as fast as she can.

I'm fucking Rodney Dangerfield here, in my own damn house.

New Art Journal Group

Yeah, yeah, like I need another yahoo group, right? But there's a lot of interest in art journals, and there's soon going to be a brand new publication about them (yay!). So why not have a place to discuss tips and techniques, ideas and inspiration, plus see photos of what others are doing? Go here to join me. Please! It's never much fun right at the beginning of setting up one of these when it says: Members - 1.

Aieeee! Makes you feel like you're back in junior high, trying to start that geeky club no one else thought was any fun. Who knew everyone else had outgrown dinosaurs?