The auburn girl

I’ve been working on this painting for a while, and I just can’t seem to get it in a place I want.  I feel like I’m missing something.

Any thoughts or ideas are much appreciated.

A Sketch

I recently bought a new Molskine, and have been sketching quite a lot lately, mostly just for practice.  I am, however, quite proud of this little sketch.  It was done fairly quickly, and was based on a photo of Laura Marling, although there is little resemblance.

Get your craft on: what are “altered books”?

the cover of my Norwegian troll story book, painted with acrylic

I’ve been running a series of altered book workshops for about half a year now, and as the program winds to a close, I thought it might be nice to write up a post on it.

I didn’t know anything about altered books before last summer, and it’s a bit of a funny story how I got involved.  I’m sort of known as the crafty one at my library, and have often had the task of filling our display cases with art.  Last summer I was sitting in a meeting, and we were discussing possibilities for a display, and someone asked me if I could make something with withdrawn books.  I grabbed a few old books from the bin, took them home, called a few artist friends, and began crafting.  I also began researching: looking up altered art, scrapbooking, and artists who have used books or book parts in pieces and installation.  About half a month later, we had some finished pieces: collages, a pop-up cutout piece, a canvas with paper butterflies, books with layers of paint and sketches, “prayer flags” made from book leaves.  We artfully arranged them, and that was it.  I thought.

The Simple Pleasure of Homemade Things

There was an ad on the television last night, presumably for some prepared meal or food, that stated sarcastically that there’s nothing more relaxing than chopping and sauteing after a long day’s work.  I can understand the sentiment: sometimes I arrive home exhausted, and want nothing more than popcorn or yoghurt,but I do find cooking, for the most part to be quite relaxing, when setting my own pace of course.  There are some staple recipes that don’t even require thinking, so simple and easy are they to create.

One particular favorite of mine is homemade spicy tomato sauce.  This happens to be one that I make more in the summer than winter, particularily because of the abundance of fresh tomatoes.  To me, canned tomatoes don’t have the same flavor, and therefore require a different set of ingredients.

First, I boil water, and drop the fresh tomatoes in whole with just a small “x” cut into the base, and let them sit in the water until the tomato skin starts to split, and then I remove them.  Peeling the skin from the tomatoes is fairly easy after that.  I chop an onion and some garlic, and saute them in olive oil until caramelized.  Then I chop the peeled tomatoes, and throw them in the pot, and add some fresh basil, oregano, and chili pepper.  The tomatoes break down into a lovely sauce, and I usually add a teaspoon of sugar to counter the acidity.  The sugar is also interesting in that you can play with the tastes a bit: I’ve always found the spicy/sweet combination interesting.  But, it’s all about personal taste. Also, I generally add a small amount of salt to taste.  I love eating this sauce with whole wheat penne which has a slightly nuttier taste and bite.

There is something incredibly rewarding about making things from scratch, and I’ve found the little extra effort is truly worth it.

There and Back Again: My quick NYC trip

A view from the train

I received my syllabi for the coming semester this past week, a herald of the end of summer.  It’s something that is slightly unsettling to me, although I am looking forward to school, and getting on with this Masters.  The summer has flown by, and while there have been many things I’ve accomplished and many life changes, it still feels too soon.

This past week I took a short trip down to the city.  NYC, that is.  It’s not a long trip, just a lazy train ride down the Hudson.  The train was late, so I ended up getting in at around 11pm, and made it to my aunt’s by midnight.  She lives in the Ritz Carlton in Battery Park, which is quite a nice area, with a spectacular view of the Statue of Liberty.

Trips to visit my aunt are always wonderful, and a tiny bit overwhelming.  It’s a lifestyle I enjoy visiting, but doubt I could handle forever.  We ate room service at nearly one in the morning (the best croque monsieur I’ve ever eaten), zipped all across town the next day: looped through Battery Park and up to the World Financial Center, then up to Chinatown and SoHo, walked a bit around Wallstreet.  I found myself talking a lot about my paintings, which my aunt seemed to love, and ended up showing off a few photos. (It’s always nice to talk art!)

 The next day we visited a beautiful and exclusive old club, the University Club.  I toured the library with the director, who gave me a magnificently passionate and detailed history of the library and it’s gorgeous ceilings (modelled after the Borgia Apartments at the Vatican), and leafed through a few rare books, some dating from the 1500s.   It was magnificent. (and a real treat for any librarian or future librarian like myself!) 

The train ride back was equally lazy, with the sun setting over the Hudson.  As we neared Rensselaer, we passed through a thunderstorm.  I felt a little bit of relief as I neared home, feeling the exhaustion of the trip.  My life is so incredibly simple here, and there is something nice about that.  I really do enjoy traveling, but there is something to be said about coming home.  I think that it’s all of that, the journey and the return that make the trip.

Now it feels as though I never left!

Pash

It’s not done yet, but this is a painting I was working on tonight.  I feel as though I’ll probably go too far if I continue tonight, so I’m just going to step back.  Feel free to note if anything feels off.

Inception, or my love letter to Nolan

Dom's totem (film still, does not belong to me, and will remove if requested.)

I finally made it to a showing of Inception, and I found myself completely blown away.  I really don’t want to spoil the plot for anyone, as I made sure myself that I knew nothing about the film before seeing it, which I do recommend.  So, if you have not seen it, and are planning to, it is probably best to stop reading now.

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Really.

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Have you left yet?

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You won’t find more beautiful trolls on this side of the moon

This is a true story about my father and I, but considering I was nine when this happened, you should probably take into account that nine year olds can have impressive imaginations.
It was nearing the end of my Stockholm summer, and my family was preparing to move to the States.  My father was planning on staying until the end of his contract, but my mother was anxious to return; being so far from family had its strain. My parents had bought a Volvo in England, and we had to take it across Norway to ship it. My father suggested that I go with him, and camp along the way.

a picture taken from the volvo

I had this hot pink camera that my great grandmother had given me, and I spent most of the first day taking pictures from the car. A picture of the road. A windmill. Some cows in a field. My father played with the radio, putting on tapes of World Party and Clannad. At one point, we stopped in a field, and I got out to take some pictures of the cows close up. I had to climb over a stone wall to get a picture.

Back in the car, and an hour away from the field, I realized I didn’t have my camera anymore. I begged my father to drive back, and he was very cross with me, but agreed. I cried the whole way back to the field, and sure enough, there was the hot pink camera, sitting on the wall. By this time my father was feeling sorry for me, and I was feeling a lot better. Back on the road again, I soon forgot the whole incident.

We bought a few cans of baked beans in a town for dinner that night, and continued down the road. Along the way, we passed a large potato field, and my father, being just as mischievous as I was, told me to go pick some potatoes. I complied, and snuck down the slope, pulling up a few plants, until I heard a dog barking, and panicked. I ran back up to the car with a handful of small potatoes, my father laughing the whole time. To this day, those potatoes were the best I ever ate.

Troll Crossing, Norway (photo by Hesse1309, wikipediaGNU FDL)

We crossed into troll country, and spent the night on a hill, camping by the side of the road. In the morning, I awoke at dawn, and opening the flap of our tent, was greeted by dozens of sheep. A shepherd had been walking his sheep up the mountain, and they had surrounded out tent.  A haze of fog swirled around their feet.   It seemed strange and magical.

That morning, I scanned the trees and rock faces for a glimpse of the trolls. I’m going to assume that most readers have never seen a troll, so I’ll explain a bit about them. Trolls tend to be elusive creatures, shapeshifting into rocks or fallen trees, or even just becoming invisible. They aren’t bad creatures like some of the stories say, just a little slow (well, the men are, but the women can be quite clever), and will treat humans as they’ve been treated.

I had no luck.   We saw troll crossing signs, and even some rock formations which could have been trolls, but no real evidence that they were there.  I’ve heard it said that they don’t come near roads.    That night would be our last night camping, and I was desperate to see one.  We found a place to camp by a lake, on a

photo by Michael Haferkamp (wikipedia GNU/CC-SA)

little cliff above it, and my father set up the tent close to the edge.

The nights were still very light, and my father had left me alone to go in search of firewood.  Being a wanderer myself, I walked through the woods, down towards the lake.  I had to hang on to saplings to ease my way down the slope, and by accident, I pulled one out by the root.  My father had warned me not to pull up any plants while I was in the forest, and I felt quite bad that I did, so at the bottom of the slope, I dug a hole to try and replant the poor thing.  As I labored over the sapling, I heard a branch snap.

There was a young girl about my age, partially hiding behind a tree, and I waved at her shyly.  After a few moments, she approached me.  She was a blonde little thing, with tangled hair, and a rough patchwork dress.  She knelt down beside me, and helped me fill in the hole.  Our lack of conversation wasn’t strange; I had a friend in Stockholm who didn’t speak  a word of English, and we had gotten used to communicating with our eyes and hands.  Perhaps verbal communication isn’t as important with children.

A great lumbering man, hairy and tailed, came slowly into the clearing, and the little girl got up and ran to him joyfully.  He slowly stooped down, and picked her up in his arms.  I watched them for a moment, quiet as a mouse.  The girl had a long tail with a tuft of hair on the end, just like the big man.  He held her in such a way that I knew he was her father.  It was a look I had seen on my father’s face so many times.

My father called out to me, and I looked back up the hill to wave to him.  After a shout, he saw me.  I turned to my new friends and saw they were gone.  With nothing else to do, I climbed back up the hill to my father.

“Find any fairies?” he asked.

“Nope. Trolls!” I replied.  He laughed, and shook his head.

That night, we slept above the lake, and my father later told me that throughout the night, I had been inching closer to the edge in my sleeping bag, so much so that he had to adjust me.  The next morning, we  packed up, and drove to Bergen.

That day, we took the train back.  I remember it being crowded, and being anxious to get back to my mother and sister.  I almost wish I hadn’t been in such a rush. Today, I mostly remember the trip as the last time my father was healthy.  Even now, recovered from cancer, he’s never been the same man.  It is a bittersweet memory, one that I hope he also thinks fondly on.  Who knows, maybe some day in the future, we could have another adventure; maybe someday he’ll be better.

But I never forgot that night by the lake.

Look at them, troll mother said. Look at my sons! You won't find more beautiful trolls on this side of the moon. (John Bauer)

**This story was first published on my other blog, Adventures in the High Kingdom. Since it is more personal in nature, I’ve moved it here.