I haven't seen a mantis in a long while! Maybe one of this one's children will be waiting to say hello when I go back to visit family next week...
Another darkroom class photo.
I don't know why, but things look fine whenever I use the computer that's hooked up to the scanner, but the moment I look at them again on my home computer they always look really faded and gray. It's kind of infuriating.
( Flickr link )
Another late night, complete with some caffeine induced decisions that turned out better than I'd thought they would! This is definitely an AP and a bit smudgy, but it did turn out better than most of the final prints. Probably I should be kinder to it than scotch taping it to my wall.
( Flickr link )
Our assignment was to just draw anything, really, just to get the hang of etching on our zinc plates. I'm pretty enamored with Angela Carter's short stories and thought I'd do a take on The Bloody Chamber. My professor pretty much thought it was flat-out castle fairytale ridiculous, and my attempts to save my first day of class reputation by pointing out that the hands were supposed to represent dead wives were... not really helpful.
Of course the next instruction was to scrape off two thirds of the surface we'd just etched and revise it... The waves were nearly impossible to scrape. The waves at the bottom were preposterous! It's so much easier to remove straight, parallel lines because the tool doesn't catch as much in the process. This is just a newsprint process scan for the heck of it.
And then it was midnight and I was too exhausted from all of the scraping to come up with any revelations about the plate's true direction, so I just added more hands.
That last one is the print I consider the closest to "final" for this set. Later on I was learning how to aquatint and needed a plate to experiment on so that if I messed things up I'd not have to worry about scraping yet another plate and starting over before my next deadline, so I tried things out on my older plate. This is just the newsprint, but I thought I'd archive for comparison's sake it just in case someday I got access to a studio and took it in an entirely different direction. You never know.
( Flickr source )
Allrecipes: "Restaurant-style Egg-drop Soup" Submitted by W.J. Cory
- 4 cups chicken broth, divided
- 1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
- 2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives (or shallots; I'd suppose onions could also do in a pinch)
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
- 2 eggs
- 1 egg yolk
- (Or just three eggs, whatever)
- Reserve 3/4 cup of chicken broth, and pour the rest into a large saucepan. Stir the salt, ginger and chives into the saucepan, and bring to a rolling boil. In a cup or small bowl, stir together the remaining broth and cornstarch until smooth. Set aside.
- In a small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk together using a fork. Drizzle egg a little at a time from the fork into the boiling broth mixture. Egg should cook immediately. Once the eggs have been dropped, stir in the cornstarch mixture gradually until the soup is the desired consistency. (Erm, Gabe/the comment suggestions opine that this should probs happen before the eggs are dropped.)
“All those who saw her picture gallery wondered, but Nelson would never have her pictures cleaned. She always said, didn’t she, Liz, that Time himself, the father of transfigurations, was the greatest of artists, and his invisible hand must be respected at all costs, since it was in anonymous complicity with that of every human painter […]” (28).
“Yet there remained something a little unfinished about him, still. He was like a handsome house that has been let, furnished. There were scarcely any of those little, what you might call personal touches to his personality, as if his habit of suspending belief extended even unto his own being. I say he had a propensity for ‘finding himself in the right place at the right time’; yet it was almost as if he himself were an object trouve, for, subjectively, himself he never found, since it was not his self which he sought.
He would have called himself a ‘man of action’. He subjected his life to a series of cataclysmic shocks because he loved to hear his bones rattle. That was how he knew he was alive. (10)
From narrow provinces of fish and bread and tea, home of the long tides where the bay leaves the sea twice a day and takes the herrings long rides, where if the river enters or retreats in a wall of brown foam depends on if it meets the bay coming in, the bay not at home; where, silted red, sometimes the sun sets facing a red sea, and others, veins the flats' lavender, rich mud in burning rivulets; on red, gravelly roads, down rows of sugar maples, past clapboard farmhouses and neat, clapboard churches, bleached, ridged as clamshells, past twin silver birches, through late afternoon a bus journeys west, the windshield flashing pink, pink glancing off of metal, brushing the dented flank of blue, beat-up enamel; down hollows, up rises, and waits, patient, while a lone traveller gives kisses and embraces to seven relatives and a collie supervises. Goodbye to the elms, to the farm, to the dog. The bus starts. The light grows richer; the fog, shifting, salty, thin, comes closing in. Its cold, round crystals form and slide and settle in the white hens' feathers, in gray glazed cabbages, on the cabbage roses and lupins like apostles; the sweet peas cling to their wet white string on the whitewashed fences; bumblebees creep inside the foxgloves, and evening commences. One stop at Bass River. Then the Economies Lower, Middle, Upper; Five Islands, Five Houses, where a woman shakes a tablecloth out after supper. A pale flickering. Gone. The Tantramar marshes and the smell of salt hay. An iron bridge trembles and a loose plank rattles but doesn't give way. On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
A dog gives one bark. A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably. Moonlight as we enter the New Brunswick woods, hairy, scratchy, splintery; moonlight and mist caught in them like lamb's wool on bushes in a pasture. The passengers lie back. Snores. Some long sighs. A dreamy divagation begins in the night, a gentle, auditory, slow hallucination. . . . In the creakings and noises, an old conversation --not concerning us, but recognizable, somewhere, back in the bus: Grandparents' voices uninterruptedly talking, in Eternity: names being mentioned, things cleared up finally; what he said, what she said, who got pensioned; deaths, deaths and sicknesses; the year he remarried; the year (something) happened. She died in childbirth. That was the son lost when the schooner foundered. He took to drink. Yes. She went to the bad. When Amos began to pray even in the store and finally the family had to put him away. "Yes . . ." that peculiar affirmative. "Yes . . ." A sharp, indrawn breath, half groan, half acceptance, that means "Life's like that. We know it (also death)." Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl. Now, it's all right now even to fall asleep just as on all those nights. --Suddenly the bus driver stops with a jolt, turns off his lights. A moose has come out of the impenetrable wood and stands there, looms, rather, in the middle of the road. It approaches; it sniffs at the bus's hot hood. Towering, antlerless, high as a church, homely as a house (or, safe as houses). A man's voice assures us "Perfectly harmless. . . ." Some of the passengers exclaim in whispers, childishly, softly, "Sure are big creatures." "It's awful plain." "Look! It's a she!" Taking her time, she looks the bus over, grand, otherworldly. Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy? "Curious creatures," says our quiet driver, rolling his r's. "Look at that, would you." Then he shifts gears. For a moment longer, by craning backward, the moose can be seen on the moonlit macadam; then there's a dim smell of moose, an acrid smell of gasoline.
It is odd, but if we had been voting we certainly would have chosen one of the runners up: ''I Was Tortured by the Pygmy Love Queen'' or ''Cheese Problems Solved.'' Our cheese problems are just really out of control.
The title joins a pantheon of past winners, including ''Weeds in a Changing World'' (1999), ''The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories'' (2003); ''Bombproof Your Horse'' (2004); and ''The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification'' (2006).
I thought these were a hoot, so I did some research.... Highlights for the awards include:
1978 : Proceedings of the Second International Workshop on Nude Mice
1979: The Madam as Entrepreneur: Career Management in House Prostitution
1980: The Joy of Chickens
1983: The Theory of Lengthwise Rolling
1984: The Book of Marmalade: Its Antecedents, Its History, and Its Role in the World Today, by Anne Wilson1986: Oral Sadism and the Vegetarian Personality, by Glenn C. Ellenbogen
1988: Versailles: The View From Sweden, by Elaine Dee and Guy Walton
1989: How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art, by Kathleen Meyer
1992: How to Avoid Huge Ships, by John W. Trimmer
1993: American Bottom Archaeology, by Charles J. Bareis and James W. Porter
1994: Highlights in the History of Concrete
1999: Weeds in a Changing World
From the novel Boy Detective Fails:
"Wait a moment, what's happening here?" Melinda asks.
"Billy solved a mystery. A great one."
"Wait a minute, what mystery?"
"The one about where you go when you die - ha ha. Go on and tell her what the answer is, Billy."
"Where do you go when you die? Ha ha. Go on, go on and tell her, Billy."
Billy smiles. "You become a little voice in someone's ear telling them that things will be all right."
(I love the literary tattoos community. I may have just written that in the last post, but it can't be said enough. Two of my favorite things.)