The Story: Vermilion Tea

Vermilion Tea BOX PRINT reproduction & paper print available

A few years ago, I was helping a friend do some demolition work and we were tearing down a few walls in an abandoned house here in Chicago. Inside one of the walls, we found a handful of beautiful old newspapers from 1950-something I believe. One of the papers was called the Daily Colonist and it covered the region of Victoria BC.

Earlier in my career, I worked as an interpretive naturalist for the forest service. Part of my job was to identify various birds and animals and to help the campers and hikers to identify those in the region. After leaving that job, I still kept that knack for identifying these birds and animals wherever I went. I’m not sure if I told you this part but the bird on this particular piece was actually an inspiration from another abandoned building where I got the wood lathe that I used on the frame. He was living in one of the rooms at the time (and I think it was an abandoned church building) and when he flew away I thought about the migration of birds and how they are truly daily colonists themselves, going from place to place for short periods of time. While I was in that place, I also found a bunch of old hymnals on the floor and one of them was open to page 28. The song was “This Life is Hard to Understand” and, as with many Baptist hymns, it talked of being saved and all that good stuff but I thought the title was very interesting, since many other titles were things like “God Lift us up” and “The Savior is Ready.” I saved the pages of these old books and used them to create a collage in the background. While traveling in North Carolina, in the middle part of the state, I stopped at an abandoned farm house to look around and found an old magazine in the living room. It had an article in it about how to create patterns on leather with a tooling device. In the article there was a photo of a gal wearing a handbag, so I blew up the image of the handbag and used that pattern in the background of this piece, sort of like wallpaper.

In my life I’ve created hundreds of pieces and each one has been inspired by a place I’ve been to or something I’ve seen. I’ve explored over 100 abandoned houses, some in Virginia, some in North Carolina, and some in Illinois. The rest have been here and there. In each house, when I take some little relic or piece of ephemera, I also leave behind a tiny work of art or a poem I’ve written, sort of as a trade-off. I like to think I’m giving the house or building a little something for what it’s giving me.

Cotton Belt Junk Truck

We ventured through the land of cotton; bowled over the byways, bested back roads and broke our stride with beef brisket and sage scented bar bee Que. From Houston to Little Rock, from Memphis to Mo-line , the black asphalt steam clouded my mind and left me driving dazed but determined...For in that land of soft ceremony and hard liquor, I was seeking out a junk truckers daydream, a roadside rendezvous with flea market mayhem. I was under the gun, running from artshow to studio to refill my wares, but still managed to snag a few simple souvenirs from the southland, spread out here like butter on bread.

Bowl of cotton, found in a ditch in Missouri

Red metal number Seven from Texas junk shop

Arkansas License plate was stuck up on the ceiling at the junk store

Sparkly numbers from a Texas roadside attraction

Aluminum and brass hang-tags for cattle and sheep

Wooden folding rulers from Texas schoolhouse

Aluminum level from Arkansas thrift

Bible, Elephant book, and rat trap. Gifts from God.

Wheels from children's toys, roadside junk stand in Texas

Old measuring tape, from Arkansas thrift

Blog Crawl: My Life is an Open Book

Today, we have a special post for you, the next entry in a series of posts by bloggers across the globe organized by Dallas-based interior designer and blogger hello, splendor. To read more posts in this series, check out the official hello, splendor Blog Crawl roster and schedule here. Thanks to Jill of The Someday Blog for passing the torch to us and head over to The Paper Anniversary Blog tomorrow for the next post in the series.

The assignment:
Interpret as you will...
"My Life is an Open Book"

The Author:
The Setting:
The Characters:
The Plot:
The Twist:

And the response from Dolan....

As everyone should know already, I don’t go in for candy coatings. That’s not to say I’m not prone to my fair share of tender sunset moments, but I seek to divert myself from the vapid glamour-mag style barbie blogs. The main reason: I don’t relate. When I first moved to Chicago, I slept on a pile of clothes and quilts for the first month partially because I was broke, but also because I just liked the aesthetic of making a different shaped bed every day. Some people think that sounds gross or weird, but it changes your point of view when you start on the ground every day. Last Monday I turned 33 and already I’ve accomplished many things I never thought I could. I’ve managed to snag a beautiful and supportive wife and have had the fortune of selling artwork to a ton of very loyal clients. I even bought a fishing boat. But like a true Libra, I’ve always reflected on both sides of the coin. While I’ve been running the art race out here in Chicago, I’ve missed some things I didn’t want to: my sister grew up, my nephews are doing the same, and my grandmother passed silently away while I was selling artwork on the street somewhere. Through our lives, we make trade-offs and sometimes we have to stand away from ourselves to see the full picture, or in my case, the full painting. In my view, every experience in life, everything we see, and hear, and taste piles up in a giant cupboard in our heads and there are days when we have to clean out the cupboard and take stock. On the days I do that, I end up with stories. So here’s a story for you. I’ve left out the images because I think the story is visual enough without them. Enjoy…

Barnstadt and Marigold: Days Beginning

Barnstadt caught the catfish. His right hand was crippled, bent like a petrified birds foot, and he wound the line tightly around this appendage wrapped in burlap- so as not to dig deeply into his flesh. His hands were no longer like twins. He pulled with his left on the twine. Before all of this the line was tied to a tree branch, a finger thick green branch, a branch that could bend and fight the weight of the fish without breaking. The young branch, the green branch, dipped and nodded its neck when the fish ate the bait that was tied to the hook at the end of the twine-line.

This place where he was standing was not a new place. It was an old and religious place, painted with chips of washing machine green tucked under a blanket of clay and pine needles, beneath his feet earthworms sped past collembola thrusting through the dank meaty muddirt, past sowbugs rolling like armadillos, past square nails rusted to bent bolts, shaving hollow places in the earth where the wood that held them was now long gone. Further down into the ground there were bodies here. Once bulky and gravity-challenged dead weights of human things posing problems to people like Barnstadt, now the bones made neat stacks of white that paled in the underlight night world where the worms hung out and hummed whale songs through the marrowless caverns.

Clods of earth caved as a thumping, grinding weight came from above. Barnstadt was crushing out a cigarette that had been spit from his chapped lips. There was a little coal that was still burning by his boot foot, and a miniature pennant of smoke whispered up snakelike along his leg and disappeared into the day. A shake and a twist and a splash, a bird rattle, a snake sliding under a log. A folk radio station played a young and felonious bluegrass whine from the dashboard into a biscuit trucks interior, where it echoed and then died before the door was opened and a heavy metal cooler was pulled heavy-handedly to the edge of the trucks back bumper. The lid opened with a sucking sound and released a smell. Barnstadt thought about summer and hay and a friend and a calendar with a picture of a horse running through a Colorado river. He threw the fish into the cooler where it thumped against the icy interior until it resigned with a frozen brain, its heart still pumping blood, keeping it fresh.

Standing thirty feet away from this scene you would see a box truck with the words Hon is its, painted over, maybe three or four times. Rewind twenty years and the truck side would read Hone iscui s. Rewind 22 years and the truck side would read Honey Biscuits. The truck was a senior-sad truck, and most of the other things about the truck could be found anywhere on a truck of the same age. The painting on the side was unique because it was hand painted , and the image of the biscuit now looked like a dripping aborted sand dollar. The rust from the screws that held the truck together drew attention to the screw holes, and looked like a collection of cake sprinkles melting on warm icing. Someone had attempted to shoot a bull’s-eye in the biscuit with a rifle , had missed , and accidently dotted the ‘I’ below the biscuit picture. But this is not really important. This is all just commercials playing, bathroom breaks during the movie.

The movie itself featured Barnstadt, re-baiting his hook. He took out a cloth bag from somewhere in the novel that was his coat hanging on his shoulders. A button popped, a zipper unzipped, a hand entered. The folded pages of wool and flannel; the hand found the cloth bag and retrieved it, pulling it out into the oxygen. The bag look like it was prepared to give a speech. It cleared its throat, coughed up a thing that was chunky and square, and the speech ended. The cloth bag was put back on page 39 of the flannel and wool novel. (a nod to Brautigan) The thing that was chunky and square was held like a prohibition relic in Barnstadt’s chunky hand. Barnstadt had cut his chunk from the shape of a deer in the grass by the side of a road. The shape of the deer was now being changed into the shape of the grass and the ground. It was being sculpted (subtractively) by twenty seven members of one family of Silpha, who were being helped by sister species of Nicrophrus, who were digging deeply in an attempt to choreograph the body’s burial. “Bury the body, flesh sextons, flesh sextons can bury better than buttered biscuits.” They sang and feasted on the deer body-minus a few carrion chunks, stolen by the hands of a man intent on catching a fish. The thing that was chunky and square and was now found out to be part of a deer body, was pushed onto the sharp point of the hook, and was tossed into the water. The string twine line sunk slowly into the dark green water-cream and disappeared like a penny sinking into cement, like a face in the fog. The bait reached the bottom, and looked around, emitting a cloud of stink and slime into its surroundings. It did this release thing because it had to, as protection but also like perfumes and pheromones. It was marking its territory in the water. It saw not much as it looked around. It missed the rest of its deer body friend, and longed to be buried as well. It made up a secret curse in its head and spelled out omens in the murky dark water. It put a spell on a caddis fly larva, and turned it into a razor blade. .it commanded the razor blade to cut it free, but the spell was broken as the caddis fly sneezed and was confused. And so the deer meat waited for the catfish. It had seen the earlier fish, and was waiting for the relatives and the fish search party, the catfish who searched with taste buds and tongues.

All of a sudden, the deer flesh bait was pulled back into the real oxygen world, Barnstadt jerked the line and the bait waved its swinging self from the pendulum point of the rod tip , swinging close by Barnstadt’s side. He was finished with his fishing, an impatient urge now pulled on his entrails. The bait was gruffly plucked and ripped from its impaled position, Barnstadt wiping his hands on the grass and roots near his boot, flinging the piece into the murk where it plopped and sank again into the water mud-mire, light now as a feather it fell and just out of sight was sucked into the inner jaws of a rock-bass, a redeye, striped face bronze and brown plump being, darting out from a secret underwater ledge and returned to its place there, chomping on the specimen, and little bits floating through its gill-rakers and sitting then undisturbed eating and satisfied. Barnstadt’s boots made preliminary fossil prints in the mud clay grass area near the creek in leaving, and the earthworms that had now surfaced were smashed between boot tread and were separating themselves in escape attempts, some leaving with half bodies squirting entrails, remembering the harsh upper earth reasons to remain underground.

Fast forward found Barnstadt driving the box truck through a semi-road-way past thorn thickets and rhododendron, between redbuds and sycamore and sugar maple and eastern hemlock and bracken fern and jewelweed and Indian pipe and hidden lady’s slipper , wet weeds and fringe forest flora, and in his head was a humming, or was it a buzzing, too busy driving to reveal its real origin, which finally flew out the window crack, a buttery bush bee stuck in the nap and crawling ivy locks of his matted hair. The bee retreated once loose and on its windy way out the window back to its flower haven by the streamside where its legs puffed with pistil placed pollen.

In the rear-view mirror Barnstadt saw the trucks interior in reverse and upside down as his rods and cones tried desperately to flip the picture, he whacked the side of his skull with the butt of his palm, and the image was shocked into place and became more appropriate to the rest of the surrounding surreality. He was on his way to another place.

Marigold made a cake, ate it all, waited in the kitchen and placed chocolate fingertips on a lap steel guitar leaning shinning against a Formica countertop which had sparkly boomerang shapes swimming around in its flat horizontal shape. What Marigold waited for was an inspirational moment in time. She waited for warm weather so she could pitch her face upwards towards the warmth of the sun shinning down and receive its vitamins and mysterious creative inspirations. These dark rainy snowy cold and windy days were long scratches on her inside prison walls, and she marked the last scratch every five days in a connect-four line diagonally across the rest as she waited, wounded by desolate days and deep depressions of human spirit. Marigold waited for a feeling that she knew would come, that she knew was far away, a feeling that was like a giant life preserver bobbing just out of reach on a stormy sea, like a glint of a distant windshield approaching a lost soul wandering in the desert. She opened her mouth a little bit, enough to let her tongue muscle slide out and lick a salty tear that was making its way to the edge of her face. She tasted the salt, and thought about the overflowing jar in her head from which the tear had been pushed out. The jar was full, and little drops escaped over the edge in no formal fashion, in odd moments of reflection or during daydreams. This was no smashing glass emotional momentum, but a slow weight that hung like the proverbial avian around her soft neck. She had earlier been plucking feathers from this bird, preparing to roast it, eat it, and embrace whatever it contained, but had grown lackadaisical in her efforts and had let the idea slip away, and so the feathers had reattached themselves and the bird was again complete and seemed now heavier and more distracting. The story she had been writing was ridiculous and headed in the opposite direction of success, and so she left Barnstadt and his adventures alone on the woodsy road and began writing about her constant misery. She had decided to abandon the idea of writing in the first person, and so here she was, looking in again on herself and trying to write away from herself. She decided to make another cake and so she stopped writing.

Remembering Jeanne-Claude

Today I’d like to remember the life of Jeanne Claude, who was a wonderful and inspiring light in the world, by relating a personal story. She was the life partner of Christo, and was truly the wheel on the great clipper ship of creativity in that relationship. I saw them speak at the Corcoran once. I think it was nine or ten years ago. My great friend Matthew Grimes (now a faculty member at the Corcoran College of Art and Design, ironically) grabbed me one day and said “You wanna go see Christo at the Corcoran?!!” At the time I was in school, and had my head deep into my studio work, and Matt was my lightening rod for great happenings. I of course said yes and he said, “Okay, grab your jacket, we have to leave now." So we drove to the Corcoran, almost missed the opening introduction to the presentation, but made it in time to hear both Christo and Jeanne-Claude speak. She was truly a diplomat of the art world. She was eloquent without being too verbose, and was honest and straightforward about their personal connection to each installation and event. After the presentation, I waited patiently to get a chance to talk to them and was so focused on Christo that I almost didn’t see Jeanne Claude. She was trapped in a crowd of eager autograph seekers and sensationalists who were throwing a barrage of art-speak her way. I could see she was exhausted. I knew they had been doing a sting of presentations and she looked like she was extremely tired of being in the public eye. So I thought I would help her out. I barged right through the crowd and went up to her and said: "You wanna step outside for a smoke?” She grabbed my arm and said, “Lead the way!” It was like a dream. We stepped out the back door and chatted for fifteen minutes, about life, about the artwork they were doing, but mostly she wanted to know what I was working on and what I had in mind for the future. I remember showing her my sketchbook (I know I am a total art nerd) and I told her I would send her a collage if she gave me her address, which she obliged. Then we hugged and she went back inside to face the crowd. I was speechless. Later, for Valentine’s Day, I sent Jeanne-Claude and Christo a card and a collage. A short while later I received a package in the mail from them. It was a copy of their book The Gates and on the inside cover was little note. I have kept that in my studio since then, to remember the authenticity of Jeanne-Claude and the inspiration that I felt from being in her presence. I miss her already.

Local Girl Missing for 100 Years

This morning I arrived at the studio determined to stay on task and finish several commissions I have been working on. Needless to say, I got sidetracked by a large pile of metal.

My landlord has been replacing the 100-year-old windows in our warehouse with brand new ones...a wonderful idea before winter. Since I love to collect piles of useless old rusty scrap metal (mostly for use in my artwork), I asked him to set aside the old window frames for me. Well, this morning I was taking out some recycling and noticed one of the frames laying all by itself out on the loading dock, so I decided to take a closer look at it. It was what you might expect: a huge, heavy metal window frame, complete with heavy chicken-wired windows. However, there are several layers of peeling green and red paint, which I love, so I decided to drag this particular frame into my studio. As I was trying to lift it, a huge chunk of concrete slid out of one of the corners of the frame and smashed the hell out of my foot. Apparently, 100 years ago, the installation of the window frames required that the installer fill the hollow metal frames with concrete. I was about to drop the frame and go back into my space for a large hammer to show the window who was boss, when I noticed a small chunk of trash stuffed into the hollow area behind the concrete. As I dug it out I could see that it was actually a wad of newspaper that had been stuffed into the frame, presumably to fill the empty space before the remainder was filled with concrete. As I dug further, I was able to find several handfuls of these wadded up newspapers. It wasn't until I took then into my space that I noticed how old they were. So, now that I was fully and completely off task, I thought it would be in my creative interest to open the papers and inspect them fully. Unfortunately, the first wad of paper crumbled to dust in my fingers. Now, I've heard people say this before and have always thought "is that really possible" and so I will tell you that it is definitely possible. With the help of some glue, however, I was able to piece together two scraps of paper, and was able to make out a small amount of the writing, as well as a great image. I'm going to keep searching the interior of these frames. If I find any bones, I'll report back immediately.

Abandoned House #54

A week ago I left the studio and headed north into Wisconsin. I needed a break. I had just had the pleasure of having my mouth drilled by one of those vile servants of the dental arts, and it was feeling like someone was entertaining a party of tortoises wearing ice skates on my gums, so I needed to be in a place where, if I threw something, no one would get hurt. So I tried my hand at fishing for a day or two, and with a little luck was able to land a few bass and even eat a few. After several days my teeth were still sending rude little love notes to my arms with orders to cut off my head to end the pain, so I packed up the car and started to head back to the city in search of some serious medication and strong booze, possibly taken together.

As I sat in construction traffic on a backroad headed to the interstate, I had the time to take in my surroundings and, in doing so, noticed a hulking house-like shape hidden behind large spruces nestled between birch, cornrow and poison ivy. I took the next road and turned down a winding grassy lane that lead me further from the prying eyes of local farm traffic, and came to a metal gate partially overgrown with wild grapes and honeysuckle. I saw no signs suggesting I keep away, so I hopped the fence and headed towards what I hoped was an abandoned house. One hundred yards down this weedy path I came to the house; a turn of the century two story farm house, whitewashed wooden siding with a small covered porch. Near the house sat a small shed, and in the shed sat a rusting model t, which appeared to be the only thing actually holding the shed in place. Scattered around the automobile like bark falling from a dead tree were scraps of metal, pieces of old license plates, and snipped remnants of barbed wire. By the base of the shed, covered loosely by piled dirt, were a few glass gallon jugs of suspiciously clear liquid, probably old vinegar jugs, although I wanted to guess moonshine.

I headed from the shed to the house, which probably saw its last tenants sometime in the nineties, judging by a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. However, the articles scattered around the floor told a different story. Kids coloring books suggested birthday parties where Tom Mix and Howdy Doody were the heroes, and the decomposing magazines in the upstairs bedrooms touted man’s foray into the new age of space travel. Since most of the collage materials I use come from these old abandoned houses, I gathered a few handfuls of papers and stuffed them into a backpack, waiting until I got home to sift through them. My way of gathering materials is sometimes childlike. It’s similar to what happens when a kid hits a piñata. Everyone scrambles for candy, and it doesn’t matter what you get, you just go in open handed and then pull your fingers back to inspect your claims. I like to be excited when I get back to the studio and see what my fingers have snagged. I should note here that I am always respectful of the houses while I gather materials. I don’t break windows, I don’t spray paint walls, I don’t pee on the carpet. I try to act as if I am going in to collect specimens that will help tell a larger story, and I try to leave the house with as many of its beautiful accouterments as I can. And the things I bring back with me, these aged souvenirs, are immediately turned into works of art.

Somewhere in Wisconsin, there is a white farm house that just had a shave and a haircut, and its putting on its shingles to dance around in the moonlight tonight. I can hear its piano heart playing along while the screen door slams the rhythm and the crickets spread their midnight basement gossip.

>>> Posted by Dolan <<<

Revelations and Proclamations: A Bird in the Hand

Over the past few months, I’ve been gathering photos of things in my hands. Yes, it’s just what it sounds like. The idea is that to really connect with life and death most people use their hands. We pick things up, we feel them, we hold them, we break them. So I thought I would start to photograph things that I found, caught, picked up, and held in my hand. Most of these things have been fish or animals or dead birds. There's a pattern here I think. As always, my inner naturalist controls my hands, but I’ll be working this into a painting somehow in the near future.

Revelations and Proclamations: Top Sights This Year

It’s August already. Sitting here in disbelief, I was starting to get bummed about how fast the summer is flying by and then I thought, "Hey, I’ve seen some pretty cool stuff this year." So here’s my list of the top coolest things I’ve seen or discovered this year.

Brooklyn Street Art: One of the main reasons to visit the big city is the street art. These were in Brooklyn in June when we we were in town for the Renegade Craft Fair Brooklyn. Nice tiger face, eh? Here’s some more NY street art for ya.


Starfish: I’ve never seen a starfish in the wild. Seriously. Well, this year I saw two. The first one, a ochre starfish, is from January when I visited Los Angeles, California and drove up to Big Sur. The second one is from our recent trip to Emerald Isle, North Carolina. As I've been trying to find info on the second starfish to no avail, if anyone can correctly identify the second starfish, I'll ship you a free Panel Painting! Just leave a comment and we'll take it from there. Here is a Flickr photo I found of the same starfish.

My little nephew, Easton. Okay, so blog readers probably don’t really care about this, but hey it’s my first nephew! He’s eating a mango with his momma Juliet in the Philippines where she returned to visit her family. Before and after our trip to Emerald Isle, we stopped in Raleigh to soak up some quality time with him.


The Jersey Shore. So, yes, everyone knows that New Jersey has a bad rep. But that’s pretty bogus when it comes to the Jersey Shore. This pristine landscape is rife with national geographic vistas, old-fashioned clam diggers, and a plethora of nautical inspirations. I saw this sign on my way to get some fresh clams, and I was struck by its charm. See, you can have a sign that’s decorative while being stern and instructive. The Jersey Shore was also host to the World Series of Bird Watching this year. So take that New York!

Banana Slug: I was trying to camp one night in Big Sur and I saw this awesome thing. I really did think it was a moving banana. Pretty amazing. And I found these little guys online, so if you want to get something slug inspired and a little less slimy for your desk check this.

Hiking in the Rockies: Despite a lackluster Cherry Creek Arts Festival, the hiking that preceded and followed the festival was certainly a treat. We hiked three different parks that are part of the Jefferson County Open Space Project and would recommend each of them: Mount Falcon Park, Lair o' the Bear Park, Deer Creek Canyon Park. This shot, from Moutn Falcon Park, looks out over Red Rocks park and ampitheater.

Update 8/12/09: Thanks to Laura O'Brien for helping us identify the starfish in question. We're shipping a Panel Painting to her today!

Revelations and Proclamations: A Super Bowl Protest

Image c/o BloesemKids - Craft Projects by Arounna Khounnoraj - visit website

Since most people are getting ready for the Super Bowl, I thought I’d write a little blog to say how much I enjoy not watching the Super Bowl. I’m sure I’m going to lose a few of my supporters here, but I’ve never really been one to sit around stuffing my face with Doritos (wait, maybe I do like Doritos). The idea of watching a bunch of primates knock each other around is a little, how should I say, uninspiring? Maybe if I had some money riding on the game it would be more interesting. Maybe if I enjoyed couch activities (oxymoron?) I would be a little more interested. Take note: one professional football player alone can make more money in half a season than most people’s entire family does in 3 years--you tell me those guys are working harder than you are. So, in honor of boycotting this ridiculous sport where Americans readily toss the last of their money at super-pigs in jerseys on the television screen, I’ve decided to spend Sunday doing what I usually do on Sunday, make art. But this Sunday, I’ve invited a few folks to my studio, where we will most likely try to be studious, and not talk about sporting events, but about the state of the art world at large and how we can assure that our Chicago art community has a future. Sure, we have a great president, but I think most will agree with me when I say there aren’t many of us who have any laurels left to rest on these days. If you’d like to do your part, you can help the creative community by creating a greater arts awareness in your household. No this doesn’t mean flipping through your coffee table book about Degas. It’s about being active. It’s about boycotting laziness and boredom and taking charge of your creative life. It's about being a creative leader for your family. You can convince them to get off the couch and into something fun and new. Below I have listed a few at-home activities, things that are pretty simple to do, and cheap, too.

So that’s my Sunday challenge to all of you. And, if you send me pics of your projects, I’ll post them in next week’s blog, and even send you a free panel painting for being such good sports!

For the little ones:

• homemade chia pet
• faux fruit
• winter indoor activities
• 30 arts projects to do with your kids
  

For the teens, tweens, and everyone else:

• bead and button teacup
• red firecrackers
• how to devise a scavenger hunt for teens
• science toys and projects

Revelations and Proclamations 1/6/09

So maybe I’ve been listening to too much Brandi Carlisle, but the New Year always puts me in a very sentimental mood, and I feel trapped and a need to “get the hell out of here”. Winter definitely doesn’t help, with its moody lowlight and its icy grip. However, this year I decided to fight back. When I was young I was always outside in the cold; exploring, watching, wandering. It’s only after moving to the Midwest that I’ve been spending these frigid days indoors. Granted, I’m working more these days, but my sense of exploration hasn’t waned a bit. If anything, the desire to explore has only grown, to become another real emotion in itself, it leaves me antsy and nervous. And it must be sated, indeed. So, I’m exploring, even if it’s only my own little square of green, or rather grey, backyard. Here at the studio, I’ve got a good chunk of backyard. And even though it’s nestled in between brick and concrete and probably covering up an unhealthy amount of dried chemical sludge, it’s a wild area in a tame landscape. So this is my destination, and I’ll be dissecting it bit by bit over the next few weeks. Every bird that enters this area will be documented, every dried and dead seed pod will be identified, every concrete block will be overturned to reveal its underbelly. I don’t have time to sit around and wait for these winter blues. I’m over it. It’s time to explore. I’d encourage you to do the same in your own corner of the universe, and let’s compare notes.

--Dolan 1/6/09

The Wolf Says How

Dolan Geiman Wolf Biz (or The Wolf Says How) - 2008- $50

This is the latest in Dolan's series of Sketchbook Collages, more loose and eclectic pieces Dolan creates during the twilight hours in his studio. This most recent Sketchbook Collage, Wolf Biz (or The Wolf Says How), was inspired by a segment we heard on NPR's All Things Considered last night about the Mexican gray wolf. The collage includes maize, jumbled Russian and German text, a clock (guess the metaphor), and an image of Jim Bowie. Who is Jim Bowie? Why the inventor of the Bowie knife, of course! He was also a solider who fought at the Alamo.

Here's a short excerpt from Remember the Alamo, Chapter 13:

"The cry of Santa Anna has been like the cry of wolf! wolf!" said Bowie. "I hear that great numbers that were under arms have gone home to plant their corn and cotton. Do you want Santa Anna to murder them piecemeal--house by house, family by family? Great George! Which of us would accommodate him with a prolonged pleasure like that? No! he shall have a square fight for every life lie gets"; and the calm, gentlemanly Bowie was suddenly transformed into a flashing, vehement, furious avenger. He laid his knife and pistols on the table, his steel-blue eyes scintillated as if they were lightning; his handsome mouth, his long, white hands, his whole person radiated wrath and expressed the utmost lengths of invincible courage and insatiable hatred."

To learn more about the Mexican gray wolf, visit http://www.azgfd.gov/w_c/es/wolf_reintroduction.shtml

Look for Wolf Biz on Etsy in the near future.

Image c/o Dolan Geiman

Grade School Fad

Along with the usual childhood collection of He-Man, G.I.Joe and Star Wars figures, I was also really into collecting stickers and pencils. While I was home over the holidays, I found one of my pencil boxes from grade school, filled with pencils and the occasional love letter. Not sure why I decided to collect these things, but I think it had something to do with the really cute girl who sold them in the school library. I was such a sucker. But recently, I found out that I wasn’t alone. At least, not entirely. I found a couple of other folks who appear to have the same fascination, although they are lacking in the Rainbow Brite pencil department. Check these collections:

http://www.pencilpages.com/gallery/eagle/eagle.htm

http://www.brandnamepencils.com/

And then if you want to take it further, you can reminisce about the erasers, as well. I know I definitely had a ton of these. I had some that were like ice cream cones, and elephants. Basically, I think all of this stuff was just used for school fundraisers. And also, kids and fads go hand in hand. Check these peeps:

http://joewoodworker.com/erasers/erasercollection.htm

These next ones are the ones I remember.

http://pagesperso-orange.fr/suba/3D/Animals1.jpg

I can't quit with this line of thinking till I cover all the bases. You know what's next: Plastic Charm bracelets.

http://www.inthe80s.com/clothes/undadog_8hotmailcom0.shtml

Believe it or not, there are no sites devoted solely to these things. I guess I am a little disappointed, considering the fact that girls at my school would cut off your leg to get that plastic Hairdryer charm from your anklet.

A New Year's List of Superstitions

Calf Mountain Party Spot: Christmas 2007, Virginia
see more photos from Christmas on Flickr - Virginia Photos

Superstitions abound in the new year, so to make sure you get your fortunes all in a row, I’ve decided to compose a little list of do’s and don’ts for this first day of the year. Here goes:

DO: invite a male stranger into your home

DON’T: invite a male stranger into your home who has the markings of the devil (i.e. evil eye, flat feet, uni-brow) I’m guessing there are a few other signs as well, but if you want to be 100% sure the old boy doesn’t come around, you can always spread some honey on the door knob. This apparently keeps Satan at bay. You’re on your own with the bees.

DO: party all night long

DON’T: forget the noisemakers. In ancient times these were used to drive away spirits.

DO: make sure the spirits you drive away are the evil kind, not the alcoholic kind. It's bad luck to run out of booze on new years.

DON’T: forget to keep extra water bottles on hand, along with ample space in the fridge. Apparently, water turns to wine on new years day, so you’ll need somewhere to keep all that booze.

DO: Eat black eyed peas. These have been a sign of good fortune for ages.

DON’T: Eat fish. Or anything else with fins. According to ancient proverbs, eating finned creatures on new years will bring short lived luck and long lived misfortune. Better call that whaling party back to shore before its too late.

DO: Wish good luck and good fortune on almost everyone you see.

DON’T: Wish good luck and good fortune on the mailman. This one is weird, and I’m still trying to figure it out, but it has something to do with delivering bad news, etc. Sorry, mail carriers, you’ll just have to hang out together somewhere else. By yourselves.

DO: Make sure your cupboards are stocked, and your fridge is full. An empty cupboard bodes ill for the following year.

DON’T: Stock your cupboards with canned fish. (Again with the fish.) I’m guessing some of these superstitions were just an excuse for fishermen to have the week off.

DO: Kiss a loved one when the bells ring in the new year.

DON’T: Kiss a mirror. This ones a bit of a stretch. In the days of yore, a mirror was hard to come by. Remember, these were dark times, with creepy forests and wolves and plagues and such, and everything foreign was covered by a cloak of mystery and intrigue. Foreign things were also evil, of course. If you were a peasant, and you probably were ( no offense), seeing your reflection might just scare the bejeesus out of you. It might also give you good reason to add mirrors to your list of bewitched objects, along with animal jawbones and toenails and things like that. Some witty folk decided ‘what better place for a witch to live?’ than inside this cursed object. And, of course, the only way to release a witch from a mirror was to chant a spell , or on that rare occasion, to kiss the mirror on the first day of the year. There are probably more stories about this whole mirror thing, lost in the pages of some wizards journal, but for us commoners there’s enough left-over story here to just have a general “safe” fear of mirrors. It’s probably best to leave the mirrors at home on new years anyway, or at least wait until after the witching hour before making like Narcissus.

So that’s my short list of Superstition 101, for 1-1-08.

Luv,

Dolan

Happy New Year (mailmen excluded, sorry)

PS: Here's the black-eyed peas recipe we're testing out today, compliments of Daily Candy.