Buffalo Small Press Book Fair

I do love this little show. It reminds me why I chose the book arts, even though I have had to learn to be pragmatic about my designs in order to make a living at it. Rubbing elbows with young artists who make charming little books out of cereal boxes makes me smile, makes me proud in a funny way.

We are allotted 1/2 a table. Yes. 4 feet of space, 2 chairs, another table backed up against yours so that "oops, sorry, excuse me, coming through, look out" are the order of the day. Nobody complained. I resisted the urge to bring everything I had and focused on what I thought was most appropriate for the fair.

I think it worked.

The fair is in the Karpeles Manuscript Museum which used to be a church, so we were surrounded by history and Spring sun through stained glass. Behind a row of tables, enormous organ pipes reached to the ceiling,



But the most inspiration came from the other lovers of books and words and paper that sat behind the tables, row by row, up and down the steeply slanted floor.

A woman with short blond hair and a little girl voice explained her books to me. "This isn't for sale or anything and it's not like really a book because the inside is just things I like" Something like that. She had chap books of her own poetry, the covers were tissue and the pages were a pamphlet and the poems were touching and ethereal. I so wanted to buy one but in the rush of things I never got back to her.

There was an "office journal" which had signatures made of ledgers and business forms sewn into a calico cover.

Beautiful, professional leather journals, books with latches and clasps, with pressed copper cutouts.

I was in heaven.

There were small publishing houses, too. Mostly with books of poetry or literary fiction. A little bit of everything book.



Dashing about, announcing workshops, soothing sellers, answering questions, assigning spaces, collecting fees..Chris Fritton, unflappable book fair organizer



Organizers for some of the "big" shows we do could take a lesson. Just sayin'

I sold some things, schmoozed with friends, got inspired. And then the buyer for a museum shop that sells some of my things came by, liked the new photo journals and we talked about me doing a line of them specifically for the shop!

I think it was a good day.

crafting a life

So, today I was a vendor at a Women's Conference for Buffalo for Africa. I didn't know much about them when I heard of the opportunity, so I did what we all do. Googled. And I was moved by what these people do for the women and children of Africa who suffer so much, not only at the hands of their tormentors, but through poverty and struggle.

There were workshops on Darfur and human trafficking. Things you can only try to assimilate. The keynote speaker was Maureen Orth, a respected journalist/activist and the widow of Tim Russert.

She spoke of the injuries suffered by many of the women and children as a result of repeated rape. But she also related the story of the school she helped establish and the positive changes being made. It was a sobering and powerful speech.

During a break I visited with the vendors who were selling items from the different countries as a fund raiser and I bought a little embroidered pouch with a peace dove inside for Russell and a small, carved musical toy for the mantle. Then I spoke with a woman who was selling jewelry made of paper beads by women of Uganda.

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I am a papermaker, paper artist and I know paper beads. Here we use imported papers and foils and tissues. But the Ugandans use strips of magazine pages and packages and junk mail. They craft beautiful beads that bear little resemblance to the recycling project they are, and they are sold to finance a growing industry there that is making a difference in the lives of their community. I picked up a strand of rainbow colored beads and I swear I could feel the energy of the woman so far away that had spun the paper strips round and round to make the necklace draped across my palm. I rubbed my thumb over the fine ridges and imagined her. I chose a multi colored strand because I liked the free spirit of it and I thought it must have been fun to make.

All of us art carnies out there, selling our lovingly crafted work, are working to help support our families. Granted, for us it is more about needing a new car or fixing a roof than simple survival. But my fellow art carnies in Uganda, thumbs up to you. We, all of us, know the feeling of working with the joy of creativity. What you have done with this simple idea is amazing.

"Bead for Life" and "Grassroots Uganda" are 2 of the organizations helping to promote the artisans of Uganda. A visit to their website will bring some color, a smile for your day. While you're there, visit the store. Treat yourself. Reach out.

There are so many sadnesses in the world. I often feel powerless and sad. Will a strand of paper beads change the world? No. But hundreds of them will change a community. A community of sister artists who daily face trials I can only begin to comprehend and who carry on, spinning strips of color into dreams, crafting a life. Creating hope.

precisely...

I almost have the little photo journals worked out and ready to meet their public. Along the way, I learned something not related to the book arts. I suck at numbers and exactitude. I have OCD about fractions and decimals.

Well, I didn't exactly just learn this. I've known this since about 3rd grade when math became more than tidy little boxes of numbers that easily added up under a straight line and little gold stars appeared on the paper. I still don't really know the times tables, having to count backwards or forward from the one I do know to get to the ones that stump me. (6 times 9 = 6 times 10 minus 6) I changed my major in college when I realized I needed statistics for a degree in journalism. Huh?

Anyway...the covers are photos that are exactly 4X6, I had my paper cut exactly 6 inches. My OCD kicks in when I try to imagine that those two places, blocks apart on Delaware, will cut things exactly 6 inches. Then I have to cut the cardstock exactly 6 inches and all those things have to line up ...aaarrrgh! This, for some reason, turns my brain to mush.

But, I'm coping. My photos look pretty awesome and I'm proud of them. I'm going to take shots of local landmarks, too. I feel calmer thinking about that part.

And the gorgeous finishing press that Russell surprised me with last year is finally getting used for the "perfect binding" these books use. That's fun, too.

I took a test once to see if I had left or right brain dominance. It came back that my brain is apparently neither, the traits of each testing...precisely...even.

Well, that explains a lot, I'm thinking. One side thinks up an idea and the other side makes a list about why it won't work. One side sees all the housework that needs to be done and the other wants to go out and take pictures of dried leaves on brown mud. Then the other side sees the need to rake. Then the rake makes pretty shadows against a fence. Then the fence seems to need painting.

One part of me hates to be late, the other abhors clocks and watches.

One part of me makes lists and keeps a calendar. The other side forgets where they are.

The analytical me likes to figure things out, the other me often wanders off before the answer is revealed.

And so it goes. Does it help to understand all this? Ha.

I know the pretty pictures make me want to make books of them and the stress of the precision only lets me make a few at a time. I can handle that. As long as there are no flash cards involved. Which means...

Hmm...there's an idea for book covers. Old flash cards! Maybe playing cards. Like Old Maid. I should go to Amvets, they probably have old cards....wait, what was I talking about...?

when worlds collide

You can just sort of wander along, living your life, batting at deadlines and obligations, nonchalant and in control. Then you turn around and notice there was stuff following you and about to gain the lead. Oh man.

So, here I am with a week to show #1, feeling good about what I've made so far and what I have planned, thinking I have soooo much time to finish up. But, no. We have Mom patrol (more on that later), house stuff, long days at the theater, on and on. Not to mention needing to pick up supplies and have paper cut to size, laundry piling up. Sales tax due next week and I've lost my ledger. Struggling with a Zapplication that has a tomorrow deadline.

Now, I am the Queen of multi-tasking. OK, maybe the Princess. I parcel out the days in hours. I dedicate one hour to housework, then an hour in the studio, then an hour with TV or a book, then an hour cooking, etc. When you have a miniscule attention span, small nuggets of activity work best. And I'm realizing now that my supply of hours is smaller than I would like.

Some things take more than an hour. Like Mom Patrol. Mom was going along fine (for 87) until December. Up to that point, her increasingly eccentric behavior and fading memory were her worst problems. And since she didn't recognize them as problems, she was cool. Then an bad diagnosis of what turned out to be a massive bleeding ulcer, landed her in the hospital and deflated her a bit. They found a heart valve problem common in older folk, but other than that she should be fine now. But she's less than she was. She's smaller, somehow, her face bears a look of wary defiance. She confuses easily and has a mean ol' temper. My brother and I take her to doctors who assure us she's OK while she curses under her breath. I take her shopping, pushing her around in a wheelchair shopping cart while she points to what she wants with her cane. She is demanding and unreasonable most of the time, but we try to understand.

Now she wants to drive again. The snow is melting, she wants her wheels. She's not gonna get them. My brother and I talk strategy. This is gonna be ugly. I know that when I go there today it is going to come up. I want to crawl under a quilt and take a nap.

But I can't. I have to Zapp that app, do that laundry, make a dozen cards and prep some boards for covers. Then I put that hat aside, and don the daughter cap. That one looks like a battle helmet, I think.

It seems to me that if you make your living as an artist type, you should be able to make your life artist-like. But that never happens. Everyone I know in this business is juggling kids and parents and car repairs and leaky roofs and tiny bank accounts and unreasonable art show juries.

Better go back to Zapping that app. Took me hours to figure it out yesterday. Got one picture uploaded. Today should be easier, right? Easier than telling Mom she just can't drive anymore.

picture this

I tell you, the only thing that gets me up in the studio this time of year is a new idea. Yes, I should be getting ready for the coming season. Yes, I vowed to be ready for the coming season. Yes, I have a show in 2 weeks that I should be getting ready for. Yes, yes, yes. OK?

But it's so cold and I haven't heard from any of my apps yet. I mean, I might be rejected from all of them, so why bother? Right? I look outside and can't even imagine that in a matter of about 10 weeks or so, it will be show time and I will be pitching my little white tent in a neighborhood near you. Well, unless they all reject me of course.

I needed a boost, a kick in the patootie. So, I played. My hobby is photography. I have what they call a "good eye" but over the years the math component, the science of the art eluded me. I have no brain for numbers. The smaller number, bigger lens F-stop thing stopped me every time. Huh? I just want to have a photo that looked like what I saw, what I wanted. Don't make me do math.

Digital cameras changed my life. Now I could take 40 shots of the same thing and one was bound to come out. There was no cost or shame in putting 39 pictures in the "trash". It made me giddy. And I ended up with a few really lovely photos. What to do with them? I made another blog, just to post the rare "keepers". Otherwise, they sat in my laptop, in iPhoto, doing nothing.

Then, while looking for ideas for making a better photo album, Google gave me a video of a woman using photos as covers for a journal. I got giddy again.

I ran with it. She just glued photos to a text block, which I guess is OK if you are making one for yourself, just for kicks and giggles. Not good enough for an art show or to sell, though. My experiments began.

Next time you are browsing at an art/craft show, thinking "I could do that", I want you to ponder, instead, how that widget came to be. For instance:

#1-I glued a glossy photo to a coordinated card stock, left a border to compliment the colors, used polyester/cotton quilt binding as the binding overlay. The exposed cardstock cheapened the photo, the cotton buckled under the weight of the glue, the adhesive from the text block oozed out onto the 1st page.

#2-Glued photo to cardstock, still left the edge showing as it was a softer color, used coordinated color paper for binding edge. Nope. Need to use a more distinctive color for the binding, stop letting card edge show.

#3-Cardstock under the photo, not showing, cotton binding glued differently...

OK, I'll stop now since you are most likely snoozing. I've made a half dozen of these things and I am almost there.

The covers will be borderless photos printed matte not glossy, mounted on card, sprayed with acrylic, the binding edge will be silk paper..a compromise between fabric and paper. The front and back cover will be different scenes of the same shoot. Are ya still with me? Here's a group shot:

This book has the Newport, Oregon Yaquina Lighhouse on the front cover. The back is the interior staricase. Cute, huh?



Yes, these photos I just took of the books as they sat on my chair this morning are not among those of which I am proud. They will not be book covers.

Flower beds at the Chautauqua Institution...a long shot and a closeup:



There you have it. The evolution of an idea. Still has a way to go, but almost ready. Each book will have a notation of what the photo is and I will credit myself as the "photographer". I think that out of the 2000+ pictures in my iPhoto library, I should have a dozen that are good enough to use. I guess that makes me a photographer. Not.

( I know a couple of amazing photographers that run in my carnie circle. I have great respect for what they do. I can't do that. But I may do enough to make some books.)

And I'm still trying to come up with a good design for a photo album.

weekends

Once Summer starts, if I'm lucky, most of my weekends are working "holidays". Those festive Summer festivals that many people plan as part of their Summer fun are long and tough for us, even though we do enjoy them... most of the time. For the art carnies it means waking up and getting going in the dark, the grunt work of set up, the long hours of exhibiting and, hopefully, selling, followed by the exhausting chore of breaking down and packing up.

So, when a Winter weekend of fun beckoned, I looked into the future and decided to grab for it.

First, a grown up "sleepover", a group of women friends in the country. Good food, conversation, wine, laughter, "chick flicks" on DVD. Some of them I knew very well, some just a bit. But there is a funny sort of "secret handshake" syndrome amongst women. Put a bunch of us together, no men or kids, and any strangeness falls away. I wonder if the same thing happens with men.



I slept in front of the fire under a soft quilt while the snow piled up outside and the wind chimes on the porch sent gentle music into the silence. It was wonderful but I'll admit I did miss Russell. And I wasn't the only woman who sent whispered conversations into a cell phone that night. Sisterhood is powerful and all, but it's nice to have your sweetie on the line for a goodnight call.

Then, it was off through the snow, back to the city for the Powder Keg Festival, the oddly named Winter event downtown that featured the world's largest ice maze and snow tubing down the off ramp of the Skyway Bridge



It was fun. There was Zydecko music, too, and broom hockey. All sorts of stuff. The big Winter sun threatened good weather, but the snow and cold held in long enough for most of the events to go forward.

Now, after all that, it was understandable that I chose to spend the rest of the day in that big chair with a book and my laptop and TV competing to keep me there.

All of which means I now have just a couple of hours to make an app deadline for a show I really love to do. You would think that since I love the show I would have been getting that app ready weeks ago, right?

I may change my business name to "Procrastination Studio".

accordion books

OK, so people always ask me for photo albums. The thing is that plastic sleeves inside a handbound book seems wrong. I could make a standard album with heavy rag pages for mounting photos, but the spaced binding of those is a royal pain and folks don't want to pay for the extra effort.

See, you can buy a photo album at the dollar store for, well, a dollar. If you have to explain why this one costs forty dollars, this is not your customer.

So, every so often I play around with the accordion album. These are not without their own unique construction frustrations. If the folding is not exact, solid, perfect, the book goes all floopy. (Floopy is a fancy technical term used by master bookbinders. Or so I like to think.)

In addition to the threat of floopiness every time you start one, there is the matter of closure. Do you tie it with a ribbon, make a button clasp, elastic band?

Ribbons are just too precious for me. I don't want to deal with button and clasp constructions, elastic bands look surgical.

And then, while playing around with my new gypsy, boho designs, I hit upon an idea. I would use elastic, but not a thick band. I took some fine gold elastic cord and incorporated it into the embellishment.



The brown book has beaded fringe and the elastic cord, which comes off when not in use, has a bead in a coordinated color that blends into the fringe when it is in place. The cord on the green book is permanent and part of the design.

Since one of the cool things about an accordion is that it can be used as a display, open on a mantle or table, the cord needs to be able to slip off without ruining the look. On the green book, it can just go over the front cover and the design does not change.

I may be on to something here. These books are small, for 4X6 photos. If I get this down, I'll go bigger.

Feels like I'm getting my creative mojo back. Maybe?

the week that was

I've been nattering about how I can't quite get my head into the art space for the coming season or, more urgently, the jury season. My studio is cold, I whine. I have no inspiration, I grumble. What do they want from me, I snap.

Then, this week, a reminder of working for another, for little money, on a clock not mine.

Two concerts this week. Wednesday, the Grateful Dead reincarnated without Jerry. Last night a double-header comedy show. Both audiences had "issues", there were security problems. Last night the comedian decided he wanted an intermission at midnight after all, even though we were dizzy from fatigue and the bars had been closed and wiped down. Sure, most of the attendees at the 3 shows were fun and easy to deal with, but it's the creeps you remember because they make your day longer.

Last night, 3 young women stood at my counter, disappointed and trying to be polite. There were people in their seats who refused to move. Our staff was unable to remove them. The women wanted their money back and they wanted to leave. Management tried to think of a way to do that against all the safeguards in place to prevent such a thing.

"We bought new clothes, we had our hair done", one of them said as she ran her hand over her long, shiny fall.

They were beautiful in silver, red and teal. The woman in the silver vest over black pants had some glitter brushed over her cheeks. The lady in red wore no adornment other than the tailored tiers of scarlet that seemed made specifically for her. The teal dress was fringed from top to bottom and shimmered when she walked. I was so glad when they got their money back, but sad that all that plumage had not been appreciated enough. I hope they went clubbing. I hope they fell in love or something.

The audience for the Dead was not as festive, but I'm thinking one needs to make some decisions about which t-shirt to wear, whether to resurrect the tie dye or go edgy. Despite the 50 "no smoking" signs taped all over the theater, opening the door into the house shortly after the show started released a cloud of smoke still illegal in most States. We are still chuckling about the wild-haired guy who tried to crash the show without a ticket and, as the police escorted him out, screamed that the genie made him do it.

So, although I usually enjoy my part time job, I will truly appreciate my cold little studio today. It is mine. All the mess is mine, the pile of CD's are music I like, the remote for the TV handled only by moi. If I decide to spend 20 minutes there or 5 hours, it will be my choice.

It will be quiet. I will be alone unless Quincy comes up to check on me. But he usually just sniffs around to make sure all is well and then, satisfied, goes down a flight to nap on the bed.

I know, intellectually, that being able to almost make a living doing what I do is a blessing. It's just that every so often you have a week that grabs you, turns you around and makes you really see. OK, I get it.

And if I falter, there's a week of Sesame Street Live coming up that should really cap it for me.

champions

So, I'm sitting here watching the Olympics and pondering what drives a person to devote their lives to perfecting something like skiing or skating. Or curling. What gets them out every morning before dawn to go practice in a frigid environment day after day? After years of that can you really be satisfied with no medal? Can 4th place ever seem like enough? Is it all about the levels of the pedestals or is there more there? I just don't know. I don't get it.

I do appreciate these people and I especially like the Winter games because there are more moments that make you go "whoa!" than the Summer games. If I were standing at the top of a ski jump knowing that I was expected to leap into the abyss ..... see I can't even craft a metaphor I'm so stressed just imagining it. But for some of them, there was a moment, when they were very young, when that scenario played in the imagination and something in their DNA said "yes!"

What did I dream of achieving? Better hair. The ability to ride a bike gracefully. Stuff like that. As I got a bit older it was more ambitious but still rather pedestrian. Publish a novel. Write a song for Bob Dylan. Single-handedly save the environment. None of which I did, of course.

It occurs to me that what holds me back more than just the simple fact of my clumsiness or suspect work ethic or lack of talent is that I cherish free time. Time to read a book. Watch a movie. Walk the dog. (Well, not the current dog. He walks me)

As a kid, I spent a lot of hours under this huge weeping willow in our back yard reading books. Nobody could see me so I was free to be lazy. That is the childhood dream that I cherish, I guess. A big tree to hide under, the Spring breeze rustling the branches, a book open on my lap and a couple of oreos in my pocket.

I could medal in that event. Gold, baby.

daydreams of an art carnie

pondering technology

I have had time to ponder since I missed my first show of the year due to a mix of incoming head cold and outgoing stomache ache, both of which conspired to keep me up all night and totally useless at dawn.

Of course, now that I have absolutely nothing to do, I feel great. So I ponder.

Today my head is wrapped up in technology. Now, this is odd because the prevailing wisdom, I bet, is that artsy types disdain technology. I guess we are perceived as spending our free time whittling or finger painting. The sterile anonymity of computer technology would seem to be alien and destructive to the creative process. But, the opposite is true, I believe.

Sitting here in a big comfy chair, laptop, appropriately, on my lap, I can visit dozens of sites with inspiring book art, browse for quotes to use in my work, shop art sites for components that spark the muse, research art shows I might want to try. Before computers, just that would eat up weeks of time better spent in a studio.

What has me pondering technology today is the iPad. Disclaimer: This is a PC-free home. There is a huge iMac on the desk, a MacBook on my lap. iPhones in all of our pockets, AirPort sends WiFi through the house. We do not write with Office unless it is absolutely necessary, choosing iWork for our words and numbers. We do not leave Walden Galleria without stopping at the Apple store just to check it out, so for Christmas, I bought Russell a year of Mac "one to one" which gives him a pass to go schmooze with a Mac "genius" on any topic he chooses.

So, when Steve Jobs was about to do one of his famous "revelations" at a Mac conference, we signed on to the live stream and refreshed and refreshed along with all the other MacHeads out there until the systems crashed under the weight of the modems of the faithful. we were not disappointed.

Yes, there have been smack downs by the uninitiated. From making fun of the name by associating it with feminine products (and, as a result, causing me to wince when using a mouse or scouring pad) to sneering that it doesn't have a camera. Huh? But "we" get it. Macs are elegant, intuitive, advanced, virus free and they seldom crash. The naysayers are, as we speak, scribbling away in their airless rooms attempting to copy it. And they will, but with less grace. Just compare all those touch screen phones that want to be iPhones, the MP3 players that just can't be iPods. They try but can't quite get there.

I would love to be able to get one for Russell to use for school. The first time he went to college, he used a chisel and slab of rock. Heh. OK, yes, it was the same time I went. So?

I remember reading an article mumbldemub years ago, when we were both in college, that stated emphatically that within 20 years every home would have a computer. The only computers you got to use back then were on campus. The thought of us each owning one was like some fantasy. But it didn't even take 20 years.

Now I can't imagine life without this connection. This tool.

I bank on line, communicate with friends on line, buy and sell on line, research on line, blog.

But I will not tweet. I have my limits.

Unless Steve comes up with an iTweet. I did drink the kool aid after all. ;)

getting going, going indie

So, I ventured up to the unnatural disaster that is my home studio because I actually have a gig this weekend. I dug down under the layers of desperation that represented the last few weeks of last season and found enough table space to begin again. It made me very tired and I wondered if I should have taken more of a break.

Then I went over to the venue to scout the space and got energized by the founder of Buffalo Indie Market, Mary Stephens McGinnis. She has been promoting her market for a few years now in a city that does little to support its entrepreneurs. She is happy to be hosting her market on Elmwood this weekend, on a Saturday, instead of the Main Street location on a Sunday. She has the use of one of the newer, trendier restaurants on a street that prides itself on trendy. The area bustles on Saturday and she has 22 artists signed up to fill the two glass-walled levels. This could be good. The weather may even be decent.

This will be the first of this year's marketing experiments. In March there is the book fair, which I've done before, and a Women's Conference that will be new to me. A photographer friend approached me about an artist collective and there are some shops I'm thinking of consigning to. I don't want to do a whole lot of Spring stuff because I need to get ready for the season. So, I'm doing some sampling, I guess. To grow a business, you need to plow further afield, right? Or something. There were sadder growth metaphors I could have used, trust me.

But first, another afternoon with Mom and assorted doctors. We are lucky. Since she's been out of the hospital, all of her appointments have been "good, see you in a few months". This, of course, irritates her, as so many things do now, because they have wasted her time. Time she would have spent glued to the game show channel, smoking menthol cigarettes and reading tabloids. But, to each their own. She would not understand me being addicted to Facebook and Rosie's blog. Tomorrow we visit the podiatrist and eye doctor, leaving little of her that has not been examined, diagnosed and/or medicated over the past few months. If she was under warranty, we'd be good for another year.

I will spend the morning in my colorful chaos, waking that part of me that imagines and creates. At some point, after a couple of coffees, the enthusiasm will return. The air will smell of glue and paint. There will be humming. I will spend the afternoon with someone who used to do that. Mom went through phases of embroidery and cross stitch, framing the ones that came out really well. She was meticulous and disciplined, learning any stitch that she needed to complete a project, having the pieces professionally stretched and framed. I have one here somewhere. I really should hang it. Because now all she can stitch are plastic canvases with big holes. She makes coasters with Christmas Bells or initials in them. Piles of them.

Suddenly that messy studio seems like heaven, the piles of applications are fun. Because 25 years from now, my son might be saying "Mom used to make things" and I am so blessed to be in the artistic present tense.

Somebody remind me of that sentiment Friday night, OK?

breaking the surface

I fel like I've been swimming under water. Quiet, isolated from the air and light around me. Just gliding along, eyes ahead.

The trouble with swimming under water is that you miss things. Like the sun. And people. And obligations. Plus your fingers wrinkle up.

Now, I could batter this metaphor within an inch of its trite life, but I'll skip to the chase and report that I have taken a deep breath, organized my paperwork, checkbook and schedule and resurfaced here in my real life, ready to take it on. It wasn't easy. If I may return to my metaphor for just a moment, coming back home after a month on the Island with my son sort of gave me the bends. My rhythm was broken. I had no transition time. My mind and body rebelled.

I'm better now.

The sight of my 2010 binder pleases me. The check marks indicating "done" are little victories. I have an urge to buy office supplies, always a good sign. I have a couple of ideas for new widgets this year which I will share should they ever exist. Before you know it, the season will be here. Oh, God of Art Show Carnies, let me be ready this year. I really really want to be ready this year.

2 apps in the mail this morning, 2 almost ready to go tomorrow. Then a week to get ready for the first show of the year. Good thing I came up for air.

I may float every so often, but got to keep my head above water from now on. Life is waiting.

pondering craft

I will admit that sometimes people ask me when my next craft show is and I cringe a bit. Because "craft show" brings to mind the kind of work that is, well, less than artful. I don't like being called a "crafter" because I don't want anyone picturing me carving decorative doodads out of old milk cartons. This is, admittedly, a bit of undeserved elitism. I am equally uncomfortable when I am referred to as an "artist", though, so you need not worry that I have become hoity toity. As one art carnie put it, the only time I refer to myself as an artist is when I ask where the artist parking is.

My problem is not with the term craft, it is how that term is perceived. Elbert Hubbard's Roycroft movement was all about craft. Beautiful, artful, intricate work in wood and metal and clay and paper. One of my favorite shows, 100 American Craftsmen at the Kenan Center is a showcase of the best of the genre. I am always amazed when they let me do the show. Same with the Roycroft Summer show and the Chautaugua Crafts Alliance. They are dedicated to the art of craft.

There has been a lot of discussion amongst my fellow art carnies about the start of the art. The craft fair phenomenon really sprung out of the 60's generation, the majority of whom are now experiencing their own 60's generation. When you look at the people in their little canopies, you notice that most are graying. Will new blood rise up to take our places when we pack up the bungee cords and shelves? Or will the movement dry up with us? Add to this the explosion of imported craft from China that is copied from American artisans, mass produced to mimic their work and sent back to sell for pennies on the dollar. If you think your local craftsmen copied an idea they saw at Pier One or Joanns, think again. It was most likely the other way around. Trust me.

All of this musing is to share a snippet of an article I read by the woman, Carol Sedestrom Ross, who started one of the premier craft shows in the Northeast, Rhinebeck. She talks about how the movement surged and then faltered and how it is changing with the times. I found this most interesting:

What is happening now is what is called a "pulled" movement because the public is very tired of mass produced things and prefers handmade so it is pulling the movement forward. There is now a huge appetite for craft in the US. I heard a lecture last Friday by John Naisbit who wroteMegatrends. He is most famous for his "high tech, high touch" concept, that is, the more technology we have in our lives the more things we need to touch to remind ourselves that we are human. It was the industrial revolution which started the craft movement and now it is the technological revolution 100 years later that is really pulling it forward.

Yep. I believe this. After a several years of recalled Chinese imports, losing ourselves in Solitaire without touching a paper card, connecting with friends through Facebook, even when they live across the street, we are pulled to things crafted with care, one at a time, by the person selling it to us. There is a connection. The item becomes special, treasured, remembered.

Ross also says that she notices in tougher times that people may not be able to buy, say, a full set of handcrafted dinnerware, but they will buy one special piece to accessorize the ones they already have. They are still drawn to artful things and want to own them.

So, I am optimistic about the future and proud to be a craftsman. I am encouraged by the younger folk coming up to fill our empty canopies when the time comes. I've begun to notice craft taking on an edgier, contemporary look. Maybe those art and craft fairs we love so much will continue to bring some dazzle to the long hot Summers.

But I have miles to go before I sleep and there are apps waiting. Enough musing. I have work to do. Creative work, one of a kind stuff. Apparently there is an appetite for it. :)

happyness

I was walking along this afternoon, running errands, nothing special, and I felt this surge of lightness, a bubble of happiness and I wondered what triggered that. I mean, I am usually pretty happy, but this little bubble made me want to skip or grin or something.

And I thought that it might be that my kid and my Mom were, for now, safe and settled finally, but it wasn't that sort of heavy-duty, relief-filled happy bubble.

The sun was out, making the snow sparkle and melting the icy sidewalks. I was loving being back in my neighborhood. My short shift at the theater had been busy and fun. A book I requested from the library was in and I was about to pick it up. There was a bottle of wine in the car that I would use in a recipe later.

It occurs to me that most happiness moments are triggered not by something like winning the lottery, although that could go a long way to make me ecstatic. No, lots of happy moments come from things like picturing a book on a shelf with your name on it or feeling the sun on your face in January.

and we're off

First app is in the mail, it begins again. I am, as always, totally irked that the first one is an important one and it comes while the Christmas decor is still struggling to be boxed up and when the bank account is trembling, especially since this is a show that cashes the check right away whether you get the show or not. It is also hard for me to gear up to create something new and fresh so soon after the last season ends. In January, my activity of choice is to wrap up in a quilt and read books by the fire.

I tried. I went up to the studio, which, by the way, at the end of the season looks like the set of the disaster movie of your choice. Wind could have done it, maybe an asteroid. No human could create the chaos in there, so I'm thinking maybe aliens. But I digress.

I dragged myself up there, brushed debris off my chair, cleared a spot on the work table and tried to create a new book design so charming and artful that jury members all over New York would gasp in admiration when the image was revealed.

Yeah, right. What I actually did was scape the embellishment off an existing book, re-sewed it and stared at it for a while, trying to conjure inspiration. For a while I have toyed with the idea of adding bead fringe to a binding, going for a gypsy look. So, I did that. It was actually kind of fun, but I couldn't get a good photo of it. And, truth be told, while it is probably a design that people will like, I doubt it will bring a jury to its knees.

New York show season pretty much runs from June to December. Is it really necessary to have entries for June in the mail while the New Years baby still is running around in a diaper? Seriously, show committee type people, once you get these frozen apps in the mail, how soon do you actually open them up? You can't wait a couple of weeks?

Sigh.

You know, a lot of this is my fault. I declared early on that I would take pictures of my best work all year so that when jury time came I would have a whole library of photos to choose from.

Sigh.

OK, so this is mostly my fault, I get it.

It is not my fault, however, that the next app asks for slides. Slides! Nobody asks for slides anymore. Even CD's of images are becoming old school, it's all online now. Slides. Cripes. Should I do the CV on a cave wall with a chisel?

I'm beginning to detect an attitude problem. Deep breath.

Tomorrow I will do my yearly studio cleanup. It will psych me up. All those clean surfaces, washed brushes, sharp scissors. Tools in clear pockets and totes. Papers assorted by color.

Then I can sit by the fire with a book and wait for inspiration.

not looking back

I dislike New Years Eve, mostly because of the dripping nostalgia, the list of celebrities who died, the montage of the best, the worst, the funniest. I hate resolutions because I never keep the one I've been making for 10 years now. To make it a really lost night for me, I don't really drink and the forced gaiety irritates me.

Really, can you imagine trying to party with me tonight?

I choose to look forward and envision the changes I plan for this coming season. Because I learned a lot of things and I'm going to use them.

I'm working on new jury slides because what booby traps an artist is not fear, it is smugness.

Rain in the forecast can't worry me anymore because I have lived through 4 terrible storms in my little white tent and not only survived them but had great sales.

The most valuable asset in an art show business is the support and friendship of your fellow carnies. I can't wait to see them all again.

The idea of a new season makes me happy because I am astonishingly grateful to be able to make a living this way. I know how many people would love to be able to drop the job shackles and do what we do. I intend to loudly bitch and moan when warranted, but I feel blessed all the same.

While planning for the future I am totally aware that you never know what might make you change those plans and sometimes those changes are for the best after all.

I am so looking forward.

paradise is overrated

The glow started to tarnish when I realized they don't salt or sand the roads here. Granted, it doesn't snow a whole lot, but there is this charming thing that happens when "the fog mist freezes". Call it what you will, black ice is black ice, no matter how scenic the hilly, winding roads are.

You can't really get a pizza here, although there is a guy in one of the little shopping arcades that advertises "New York Pizza", but he's only open during the day to sell slices.

The Chinese takeout place is so expensive, it would be cheaper to actually go to China to get some.

Food is at least 30% higher than at home.

To get the stuff we need for the trip..a trailer hitch, a trailer, new tires...you have to go "off Island" which means a pricey and long ferry trip, turning a job that would be 2 hours at home into a full day wasted.

It is beautiful here, but after a week, the view from our kitchen window no longer startles me. It is just there, like the sun is just there. No less majestic, but sadly commonplace.

I miss my city neighborhood. The 4 page pizza menu at the local takeout, the 16 screen local theater, my cherished neighbors, the salt truck and the snow plows that careen down the city streets at high speed, sparks flying from the steel plow blade.

I miss the diversity of my neighborhood. The colors and sounds of so many cultures, cobbled together into its own demographic.

Is this a beautiful place to spend a Summer? Sure. As long as real life is waiting.

As long as you don't need pizza.

pondering the view

Here in my son's house, perched on a hill overlooking the bay, watching ships sail silently by, the lights of Victoria BC just starting to come on, I find myself looking past all the beauty and pondering instead how the hell this happened.

I was here 2 months ago. He seemed rooted and looking toward a future that contained all he had established in his life and in this place. Now I am back helping him pack up. All of that is gone. And though some delightful things have come to replace them, there is still this humble acceptance of how powerless we are after all.

Watching him gather up the past and pack it away, looking forward, tackling each challenge as it comes, setting off on a brand new course in a brand new place with new strangers and old friends is inspirational and it fills me with pride. He wallowed in pain and anger and fear for a few weeks and then he brushed away the fog and set his course.

I don't know where he will be in 6 months, neither does he. But, now I'm thinking..so what? Life is a daring adventure or nothing. I think Helen Keller said that. And he has no obligations. He is free, tethered only by love and hope and vision.

So, I do what I have always done. Wait for him to let me know how I can help, only helping if he needs me. Try really hard not to butt in.

We will be driving home together. The 2 of us and a Golden Retriever. In the dead of Winter. Cross country. This will be quite the test.

But we can go home together. We already grew up together. What's a little ride?

island navigation

It is beautiful here. OK? You think you're getting used to it, then you are doing something mundane like cleaning up the kitchen and you turn and the view startles you into inaction.



But the place is familiar to me now. Or I thought it was until I had to navigate solo. Usually Russell would be driving us around, but he isn't with me this time. And as much as I love my son, the idea of spending from 4 am to 5 pm in his coffee shop was not exactly a spine tingler. So, after stocking up on groceries ( Island prices: loaf of wheat bread $5.50, small peanut butter $3.99, can of kidney beans $1.39 ) I ventured out to find my way back to the house from "downtown". Billy set the GPS for me, I was feeling secure.

Hopped into his SUV, figured out the gears, told the GPS to take me home, pulled out to the street and the lady said "Please refer to the map"

What???

The "map" was a blue line with a blue arrow and a red bigger arrow. I took a deep breath and went in the direction I remembered, expecting the lady to break in any minute and tell me in that soothing slightly foreign voice where to go. Nothing. The blue arrow worked its way off the screen and I wound up in a dead end with a bunch of off-duty snow plows.

I called Billy. Distracted and busy with customers, he told me to just follow the map. It wasn't so hard. And to call him when I got home. No, I thought, this isn't working. I'll go back to town and start over.

The lady remained silent.

Since I was heading for the ferry landing, getting back was pretty easy. Keep the water in view, look for buildings, I got to the intersection near the shop and the lady awoke, told me to turn left and then immediately right. She was bringing me back to the shop. The shop is not one of the memory points. How did she know? Weird.

So, I parked in front of the shop, played around with the controls, re-set the thing and she promptly told me to proceed. It was like a lover's voice, warm and reassuring. I smiled, relaxed the tight grip on the steering wheel.

So, crisis averted. Until we got up the hill and she gave up. Told me she couldn't help me anymore, the info wasn't there. I should watch the map and be careful. And the arrow dropped away.

Nice.

Let me explain that it is one thing to navigate a city, where you have touch points, landmarks, guideposts. A convenience store, a bar with a mural of jazz trombonists, a cupcake shop with striped awnings, the used guitar place. Here, unless you can tell one fir tree from another you are pretty much out of luck. The road twists and curves beautifully, every so often the lush green parts for a glimpse of blue sparkle and then closes up again. The houses are set back behind the trees, most of them hugging the water or straining for a view of it. None of them care to be by the road, it seems.

And suddenly, the lady tells me to make a legal U-turn. Huh? I don't think so lady. I look at the road sign and it is Smuggler's Cove Road. This is not a name you forget. I turned on it, chanting "spyglass hill, spyglass hill" because I knew that one took me home. The blue arrow trembled, fidgeted and then pointed strong to the red house icon. I was going the right way.

I am sitting in Billy's big man chair, looking out over the water. Below me the road curves down and away with no guideposts. In 3 hours, I will leave here. A pot of chili on the stove, a loaf of bread being kept warm in the oven. And I will find my way back to town. I will. GPS lady or not.

I can do this. But next time I'm leaving a trail of bread crumbs.