There's been a constructed journal lying about waiting for work to do. It's not that I'm ever finished with any other journal I'm working in compelling me to start another. I just begin again. Teesha Moore's fabric journal creation had inspired the building of this one. It's been sitting on a shelf in the studio for two years. My daughter nearly has her pages full. It's been a slow two years.
However, this past summer (so sad to say it ~ Past. Summer.), I was working pages with a wild frenzy. No plan. No outline. No course to follow online. Simple work. Simple painting and mark making and collage and mess making. Whatever my heart desired working with what I have rather than fortifying the studio with more supplies. Cheap acrylics and the slippery Stabilo All pencil. Loud music. Mustn't forget the raucous music.
Also, this past summer (and there it is again), I dismantled and then categorized two old family albums. They had been moved from house to house along with my grandmother and mother for years. As I've neither to reference the photos and discern what connection the people in them have to me, I took the moldering things apart to find gems. Not all, but many of the black and white, deckle-edged beauties were labeled with who and where and, sometimes, when. And if I knew a body, but had no connection with it, that photo went into the Becoming Art Someday pile. All the rest I put into wax envelopes marked according to year.
This is now my source material for collage. It is more mine than anything I could find in a browser search. Along with the baggage of a person's captured soul. Oh, the stories they may tell!
Along with the mutable lines of certain pencils (and now graphite sticks ~ I'm in love all over again), I've discovered the randomness of painting with string. I suppose it could be any string, but I didn't get past linen. Linen thread has an animated quality to it. I found myself dunking and dropping a length of it several times, letting it fall where it wanted, making loopy, drippy, springy lines. The linen thread had bounce. The process was delightful, encouraging a disconnection from perfection.
And so the work of this God continues . . .
|Dip, drip, drop.|
|Another page of unrecognizable photos ripped and "spliced" back together.|
The little girl might be my mother.
|Finished for now with oil stick X's.|