Week 26

THIS WEEK CONSISTED OF A LOT OF HOURS THAT I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER OR KEEP TRACK OF BUT IT WAS MORE THAN 15 total.

Saturday: Creating mylar masks because paper was ripping. Sturdy.

Sunday: Print experiments

Monday

Tuesday:
Testing different threads for sewing signatures. Tried to attach them all together on one thread but it didn't work the way I had hoped.

 Buried the Sky

 Glass Floats

Asleep on the Umbrella

revisions

Wednesday: Met with Megan Levad to revise poetry, turned in all publication and submission info. Photos of work in the photo studio.

Thursday: Met with Mark Neilsen, turned in work. Created final layouts and printing out digital layouts all night. Making 3 copies of each spread to account for any accidents that happen in the relief printing.
Color studies mixing inks. Cut 70 sheets of paper to size.

Friday: Finishing the digital printing. Emails.

What I discovered
Giving myself time to correct mistakes and allow for issues was a good idea.
I didn't like the tone of color in the text so I'm leaving it black and using color only in the prints.


To Do
Finish

Week 25

Sat March 24th [2 hrs]: Rewriting poetry, trying to find ways to best portray the stories I have.

Sun March 25th [ 2 hrs]: poetry, thesis paper
"creating experience" "mapping cognition"
Reading my feedback from meeting with Megan
-Flip sentence structure
Talk more about influences- how it has affected my work
Not just visual artists, but poets as well
More about Julie CHen
Don't try to make the conclusion universal, this is a very personal piece and it doesn't have to apply to everyone. 
Rewrite conclusion.


Poets to review: 

Still Life On A Matchbox Lid

The heart is colder then the eye is.
The watchers, the holy ones,
know this, no shortcut to the sky,
A single dog hair can split the wind.

If you want great tranquility,
it's hard work and a long walk.

Don't brood on the past.
The world is without appendages,
no message, no name. 

Charles Wright

(His overall poem structure relates to my own, it is fragmented. Many of his poems are a mixture of a detailed sensory landscape and pieces of stories.)

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,   

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.   

Down the ravine behind the empty house,   

The cowbells follow one another   

Into the distances of the afternoon.   

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,   

The droppings of last year’s horses   

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.   

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

James Wright

(This one has an unexpected ending)

As Planned

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don't you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

Frank O'Hara

(Everyone knows Frank O'Hara by his Poem (Lana Turner has Collapsed!) and it is clear to see his signature structure is very much like a stream of consciousness writing. My favorite contemporary poet David Lehman writes in his style as well. These poems work well in a single page because they flow so rapidly.)

January 31 (The sky is crumbling...)

The sky is crumbling into millions of paper dots
the wind blows in my face
so I duck into my favorite barber shop
and listen to Vivaldi and look in the mirror
reflecting the shopfront windows, Broadway
and 104th, and watch the dots blown by the wind
blow into the faces of the walkers outside
& here comes a thin old man swaddled in scarves,
he must be seventy-five, walking slowly,
and in his mind there is a young man dancing,
maybe seventeen years old, on a June evening --
he is that young man, I can tell, watching him walk 

David Lehman

My Friend Tree

My friend tree
I sawed you down
but I must attend
an older friend
the sun 

Lorine Niedecker


Monday March 26th: [2 hrs] Writing poetry and researching poets and woodblock techniques to include in my thesis paper.


Tuesday March 27th: [6 hrs] Finalizing designs to show for small crit on Thursday


Wednesday March 28th : [4 hrs] Printing out designs on digital printers. Figured out how to get the front and back spread registration exact. WoooHOO. As I printed I found a few typos which is a plus. I printed all night with the woodblocks. Slippage and mistakes, the stencils made of paper broke so I need a different material to make them out of like mylar or tyvek.


Thursday March 29th : [8 hrs] Small group critique. Agreement that the imagery isn't as compelling as the poetry. I need to make every move count when the books are sparse. Whisper, barely there. Use color in text to pull the books together, visual cues. Met with Mark Neilsen. He said I should use a display case and that they have tables and chairs I could use. Hannah and Kyle sat down with me for an indepth critique on the poetry, which was very helpful. Revising spreads and poetry to send to Megan Levad.


Friday 30th March: [2.5 hrs] Revising spreads, printing and leaving in Hannah's mailbox.

    Blind embossment on Colour Lovers

What to do

Prototypes to leave with curators. Fill out forms. Write thesis paper. Print and revise. Buy thread to bind books. Perhaps experiment with thin papers in the spreads to play off of revealing and concealing information, or partial information. Fragments. 

What I discovered

No one answers email. I need to experiment more with imagery.

Poetry Editing

I buried the sky
beneath a tree in the backyard
The sun would not mind
because it was winter then
I sat near the hole on an empty bucket
cold sleet freezing in my hair
I know all of my enemies
None at all

Not even ramen noodles for a whole week on the bucket
The steam fighting the cold

Inches of ice on roadways and walks

I hadn't seen a thing like it before

Not a single soul out for feel of falling

sliding

crashing

loosing motor control
I walked to the store anyway to buy more
I returned 

Towering sunflowers dried up

and shed their husks to keep warm

A series of mourners in the winter

feel whole and gone by the end of the season

Synthesis, the regrowth

the brightening

I haven't seen my sisters
since my family brought them from the Rouge
A strange keepsake
Their decedents have lived at my home
for as long as I have
Two families
I go outside and sense their presence
but they remain unseen

but they are very much apparent 

by the generational clues they leave behind
Nests on the fences and dead plants 

They have called Downriver home

as long as I have

18 years

[When we moved from Melvindale, my dad brought praying mantis to live in the garden. Their descendants have been living where I have for the same amount of time. In essence, we both share the same home. However, they are rarely seen. The only way you know they are around is by the nests they leave every year on the fences and plants.]

------------------------------------------

I was not one who jumped
from the overpass into the currents
Smoke lingers in the distance
Fermi II over docked vessels
Swans,
usually seen alone
find their other halves
They sit in the open spaces
The only areas
Iridescent in sunlight
Distracted me as a kid from drawn blood
and sharp backfins
The rocks below never cracked my skull
Something protects all inhabitants here
Rickety old boards of wood and life

We built things
boats and such
Dead fish floating at the ramp
Bones and glass float like boats
Unlike the trailer
half way in the water
the time Joey locked the keys in the Aerostar
Dad had to walk us to a pub
because the marina was full of assholes
can't use the phone
can't use the bathroom
a three year old and an eight year old
one crying
the other yelling at their honest mistake
dusk came
it was evening
too late to fish
The worms all died in the heat of the car
suffocated
smelling of dirt

I know lake Erie
I grew up here
like the fishflies that covered the entire parking-lot that year
Their bodies crunched with the weight of the boat
I sat in the backseat of a truck
Uncle gene and Dad smelled like
sweat, stale beer, cigarettes
It was the only time I was ever there at night

------------------------------------------

I walk anywhere

The bridge to nowhere

moss and graffiti

and purple winds

of martins as they circle my ankles in the grass

graceful bullets against moving targets

Feathers catch the slightest wind

I walk anywhere

Where have you been? 

Mid-summer, only arriving during the calm before the storms hit

Why hide?

Why listen to the river rush on?

Why walk down that bridge?

Boarded off at the end

"Danger" it said

"No trespassing"

What would life be without it?

Tomorrow I pour with the rain

sediments ravage my coat

such a sharp drop from the highest point

I was lying in the mud on my umbrella

until he had found me

Concrete levees flooded over

He dove against the pull

like it's force was nothing

and with a successful catch

contently let the current take him downstream

Week 24

What I Did

Friday: [3hrs] printing, palette

Sat: [2hrs] Scanning, stencils for all blocks

Sun: [1 hr] Took out this book, reading. Going to reference it in my thesis paper.

Monday: Writing [2 hrs]

"Those places that know me best"

I buried the sky
beneath a tree in the backyard
I know all my enemies
None at all
Not even the cold sleet in winter
Inches of ice on roadways and walks
I hadn't seen a thing like it before
Not a single soul out for feel of falling
sliding
crashing
loosing motor control
Towering sunflowers dried up
and shed their husks to keep warm
A series of mourners in the winter
feel whole and gone by the end of the season

The regrow
The brightening
Synthesis
I haven't seen my sisters
but they are very much apparent
by the generational clues they leave behind
They have been home as long as I have
18 years
The migration from Melvindale
into downriver
cycles
Roots

Tomorrow I pour with the rain
sediments ravage my coat
such a sharp drop from the highest point
I was lying in the mud on my umbrella
until he had found me
Concrete levees flooded over
He dove against the pull
like it's force was nothing
and with a successful catch
contently let the current take him downstream






"Say the name again and let it rest"



Began to place text and images into layout.
Time spent on the letterpress doing blind embossment.
Font: Bodoni 36pt

Tuesday: [4.5 hrs]
Created mock slip-case from letterpressed paper, needs slight measurements adjusted.

Wrote more poetry (tried) outside by the pond. Keep in mind this is streams of UNEDITED consciousness.

Sun on my back
feet like flamed torches
treading high blades of grass
soft as the skin of the earth
purple winds
orbit the flames
I shut my eyes and swallow up the whole foundation
Closing on a river, straining the eyelids to reach the other side
Calm
but twitching at the idea of harshness
wind to open them back up again

Purple Martins circle my ankles in the grass
graceful bullets against moving targets
Feathers catch the slightest wind
I walk anywhere
The bridge to nowhere
Moss and graffiti
"I love kittens since 1983"
Breeze on my ankles
Where have you been?
Mid-summer
Only arriving during the calm
before the storm hits
Why hide?
Why do anything?
Why listen to the river rush on?
Why walk down the bridge to nowhere?
Boarded off at the end
"Danger" it said, "No trespassing"
What would life be without it?

Wednesday: [ 4 hrs] Layed out all locations in Indesign. Printed and assembled mockups to show for critique.

Thursday: [1.5] Small group critique with Stephanie, Kyle, and Marian. Feedback on displaying during the show and on poetry. I plan to have a table set-up, with three chairs, woodblocks on the wall, and a shelf on the wall with a second edition in it's case. We all talked about visual cues to keep the books in their respective series without someone shuffling them up.
[3 hrs] Studio time, looking at poetry. Want to send it to the writing mentor this weekend.

Friday: [none before noon]




What to Do Next
Send poetry to Megan and meet with her. Develop layouts to finals. Get paper from Ana, print.

Week 23

What I did

Friday: [ 4 hrs ] Carving, writing poetry

Saturday: [ 3.5 hrs ] Carving

Sunday: [ 3 hrs] Carving

Monday: [ 6 hrs] Created a mock up, to-scale piece to show the curators. Carving blocks, printing signature prototype on the digital printers, registering block location on page, printing on press

Tuesday: [ 9 hrs ] Book binding crash demo, carving blocks while watching tv on my computer, which I never do.

Wednesday: [ 3 hrs ] Setting type for letterpress blind emboss. Want to use Caslon, MISSING THE LETTER "l" from the job case.

Thursday: [ 5 hrs ] Carving final block and fixing up details on the proofed blocks. Spoke to writing tutor about my thesis paper and poetry. She gave me some useful feedback. Meeting with Mark and Steven about displaying my books in the show. They think a table with chairs would be a good way to show the piece. They also mentioned mounting the blocks up on the wall with bent nails. I think it will be interesting. Printed off the poetry dump. Then I got really sick and passed out during studio hours.
Practicing different signature binds that Hannah gave me for the books.

Friday: @ work

What I discovered
At first I felt reluctant about having my work shown in Warren-Robin's gallery but I know Mark and Steven are great curators and know what they are doing. This is kind of fun to do.

What to do
 There are a lot of options on how to pull each series together. At first I thought a book-band would be sufficient, but once it is removed it will be hard to organize the books back together. I want to give cues that would be helpful, like color in the threaded spine, text, or imagery. I'm also really pissed about the Caslon "l". Oh, and I need to go carve every block to get overall consistency in the cutting style. Mainly, work work work, proof proof proof. Start looking at poets Megan suggested for me. I'm hoping to make a second edition to donate to the special collections library at the Duderstadt, if they would like it.