Handwoven from homespun :)

 

 

Scarf!

This was woven from my homespun wool (there was some merino, some mystery wool)  Plain weave on a simple two shaft loom that had a faulty brake.  I generally don't like fringes, but I kept them around this time.

It took a while, which is part of the reason I haven't been around all summer, which is a shame, because I seem to have collected some pageviews in my absence.  Hello, whoever you are :)

At any rate, I will try and post on a slightly more regular basis, but there are absolutely no promises.

 

I really should have taken a picture of the pre-woven yarn

 

 



Snoopy patch success

Ever seen a sunset and a rainbow at the same time?It was much better in real life.

You can't take the sky from me...

"You're not a man.  You're God."
"No, I am not"
"Yes, You are!  I've been waiting for You.  I've been waiting for You to speak."
"God has spoken.  This world.  This is what He's said."

- Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo

A rant concerning Art

-Stolen objects in a display case

-Question

-Statement or just trying to mess with people.  Mess with perception?  Does being display make something art?  Or is the art in the taking, the action?  Banksy.  Graffiti.  Is the art what is left after the act or the act itself.  Disobedience.  Rebellion.  Upsetting the status quo.  Would Banksy be as revered if his art was in a gallery as opposed to on the streets.  Would he be as admired if anyone knew his name.  Her name.  It.  Is the point the result or the idea.

-Cezanne.  Popova.  Braque.  The fracturing of form.  The disintegration of reality.  Duchamp.  A wheel on a stool, made useless.  Does effort make something art or does meaning.  You don’t have to like it, you just have to think.  Does beauty make something art or does realism become useless in the face of change.  Changing ideals.  Changing purpose.  Changing world.

-Van Gogh.  Monet.  Colour or form.  Is what we see what is there or is there something else.  Impressionism was rebellion at one point, and now – art made to shock?  Art made to laugh in the face of progress or to place it on a pedestal?  The Untimely Transmogrification of the Problem.  What problem and what change.  Bombarded by images – is there too much to deal with in this world?  Television.  Sexuality.  How long ago would this have been insane.  What makes it acceptable now.  In 200 years will this pointless, passé, quaint?  Past.  Present.  And future.

-Pablo Picasso.  Can something be at once so real and so fractured.  Can a person?  In one image, reality and delusion, intangibility.  Redundancy or contrast.  Light or dark.  Life or death.  Free or crucified.  Are we alive.  Is art.  War or peace.  Freedom or slavery.  Is ignorance bliss?  Are choice and change a blessing or a curse.  Are we doomed to be free, or were we ever?  Is this why art exists?  Is art the question or the answer.  What is the question?  Or is there more than one?

-To be, or not to be?  How can such a question be so simple?  Why is it a question at all?

-Why do we create?  Why do we destroy?  Epstein.  The rock drill.  What is the point of war,  Machinery or nature?

-Why paint in black and white when you can have all the bright shades of uncertainty.  And why did Van Gogh see what others cannot in the sky?

natural dyes

Natural dyes!

Mordant
-alum and cream of tartar

Dyes
-logwood
-hollyhock
-lichen
-cochineal
-lobaria
-woad
-weld

And....

one iron afterbath

Swansea

Swansea, Dylan Thomas Land, Etcetera.

I loved Swansea.

I don't know what else to say.

I want to live there.

It was fairly hilly.   I don't see how one could be unhealthy walking around those streets.  You could see parts of the city from other parts of the city.  It wasn't as flat as it is out in the Canadian prairies.  I love the prairies, but it was neat that it was different.

There was one skyscraper.  British Telecom building, I believe, and it led you downtown.  Downtown itself was like Whyte Ave, except Welsh.  There are areas where cars don't go, and therefore the buskers are more audible, which is nice.  One day there was a guy with an electric guitar playing Piano Man, right outside of the Market.  

The Market is beautiful.  It was, again, like the Farmer's Market in Edmonton, except bigger, and with more things.  There were also Welsh flags hanging off the ceiling.  But there were butcher's stalls and a watch store and a fabric store and needlepoint store and yarn and fruit and fish and a large jar with millions of different buttons in it and a tailor and WARM WELSH CAKES.

Welsh cakes are wonderful things.

Imagine if a pancake and a cookie gave birth to a child, with the added bonus of raisins, and covered in sugar.

There's a square that isn't actually a square just a block away from the car-less area of downtown with a fountain, a big screen (where people apparently gather to watch rugby games), the remains of Swansea Castle and a MacDonald's.

The fountain is encircled with a Dylan Thomas quote.

We sail a boat upon the path

paddle with leaves

down an ecstatic line of light

They seem to be extremely proud of their Dylan Thomas.

There's also a statue of him in the marina, a community theatre where he used to act that operates in a building that holds his name, and a museum about him.

In the museum you can find the suit he died in.  It's a very nice suit.  It has apparently never been established if the ink stain in the right trouser pocket is his fault or not.

You can't say pants in Great Britain.  They'll think you're talking about underwear.

If you stand in the right place, the British Telecom building is positioned perfectly in a dip (or hole) in the remains of Swansea Castle.

I liked the irony.

One of the roads that leads off of the square that isn't actually a square is a road dedicated entirely to pubs.  Wind Street.

Not Wine.  I made that mistake.

And a little space between buildings called the Salubrious Passage

Salubrious:  favorable to or promoting health; healthful.

According to dictionary.reference.com

I would also like to take a moment to point out the physical buildings.

It may be cramped, it may not be beautiful, but it's people sized.

And then on occasion you get a building with stone winged babies hanging off the sides (it was a sandwich shop) or a castle, and I actually love the little rowhouses.

I'm done.

Also, it's by water.

The beach is beautiful.

Water is my love, and water is my god.

And that is why I want to live there

Sometimes I have thoughts that I think are wonderful and brilliant and all that,
and I think,

Let's blog about that.

And then I realize exactly how strange those thoughts would seem if I actually put them into words.

Sometimes I am just amazed at how cool this world is - everything in it (with the possible exception of some of humanity's unfortunate habits) is just so neat, and I get all excited, and I want to do everything, see everything that I possibly can.  I want to travel and meet people and see old buildings and paintings and then just sit in the grass and look at the sky, and that's really exciting too.

But if I ever mention anything like that, I always get odd looks.

Apparently I am amazed by the simplest of things, and most other people just don't see the world that way.

I think it's their loss.  It's a good feeling.  It can be infuriating when I can't travel or work or experience certain things because I have no money and I'm not eighteen yet, but it's still a fantastic feeling.

I'm going to go weed my garden.

strange cat hand creature thing

Van Gogh reproduction

I mildly dislike people who say the any of the impressionists were overrated.

more spinning

What happened to the Folk Fest Jacket

The lining - I was briefly tempted to leave it as a jacket of it's own,

but no.

I would also like to state for the record that this jacket will not fall apart (there are no open hems to fray) and it is the most ridiculously comfortable jacket I own.

Love making things :)

And, once again, all the denim is old jeans, the lining is old flannel pajama pants that my dog chewed up, and the patches are all old volunteer t-shirts.

Work in Progress.
Every year I volunteer for the Edmonton Folk Music Festival, and every year I get a volunteer t-shirt.
Isn't that nice.
Because the Festival is in August, I tend to butcher my t-shirts in order to make them tank-tops.  And this works for the duration of the festival, but then afterwards they tend to be unwearable to most places.
I therefore decided to salvage patches and the names of people I liked from my old folk fest t-shirts and attach them to a jean jacket made from the remains of old jeans.

Here is where I am at.

When I'm done my ridiculous Social Studies assignment and return to sewing, there will be facing, a collar, and flannel lining salvaged from old pajamas that my dog tried to eat.

On Wales in General

I have basically established I need to spend the rest of my life travelling.
For ever and ever.

New York was pretty fantastic.  But here's the thing - Britain, and Europe although I didn't cross the channel, is just so neat.  There are things that you see on tv, or read in a book, and it doesn't quite strike you that people actually say and do that until you're there.  For exampe - the phrase "all right".  It's a greeting.
I love it.  And people do actually say 'chap'.
This isn't all Wales - some of these observations are from the two hours spent near Paddington station.

The main thing, though, was the history.  There's so much old stuff there, I guess they're just used to it, but it doens't really strike you until you're there that this actually happened.  I saw about four or five castles, Roman ruins, but I can't even begin to take in what it would be like to be standing at Versailles, or go to the remnants of a concentration camp.  I only use these examples because they've been drilled into my mind by Social Studies.

And it was the same thing with art - I'm a lover of the French Impressionism era.  I saw a Van Gogh, and I'm still not really registering that he was an actual man, but it kind of struck me that these things aren't just google images or chapters in a textbook.

Maybe I'm crazy, but I want to go back.  And I want to go everywhere, because it really is different, and the same in so many ways, but there is so much in this world, and I want to see it all.

One advantage of living in this century.  Airplanes. 

Edmonton River Valley Skyline on Wednesdays (February 29 - March 21)

February 22

February 29

March 7

March 14

March 21

I would have gone farther but wasn't there fore about three weeks and it ruined the continuity.

Next time.

Order of events:

My mother gave me this fabric about two months ago, I made it into a shirt,

And then my mother tells me that it's natural cotton.  Undyed (most cotton is white but there is a species that is a kind of greeney yellow brown colour) and this is more green in reality

My spinning wheel

Just for fun

I had a commission for a piece of clothing to wear to the Folk Festival, and this is how it began:

Unfortunately, it sticks out like the dress that Jane Jetson wears, and does not spin, so I have to take it apart and make it a different way.

The last post was what happened to it.

Actually a commission.

I only have one question.

Is art a question or an answer?

Wales

Just for the record, I did go to Wales last week, and there will be Wales-related things appearing on the internet.

A Post Not Entirely about St. Patrick's Day

When I was little my sister used to try and catch a leprechaun every year on St. Patrick's day, and one year I decided to do the same.  So I set up the trap with the pile of pennies as bait, and the sticks that made the box fell down when the pennies are lifted.

In the morning, I hadn't caught a leprechaun, but what I had caught was a shred of green fabric and a note in my sister's writing that said something along the lines of 'you were close, but you missed me.  Try again next year.'

I love my sister

:)

This vest used to be two pairs of pants. The pants ripped, I made something else :)

They weren't even my pants.  One pair was ripped by a friend playing an extraordinarily violent yet entertaining game called Stranger Danger, the other belonged to my mother, and unfortunately, I don't know how they met their demise.

I spin yarn now too

Also, just for the record, in theory I have to read Paradise Lost, the Sorrows of Young Werther, and Plutarch's Lives in the next week, or I'll do very badly on a major English assignment.  In fairness, I've known about this all year and have done nothing about it, but I'll let you know (complete lack of people to be you)  how that works out for me.

It has been one month since my last post, which shouldn't even count.  It's pathetic.  The thespian basement dwellers are gone and I didn't get the job.

I also haven't made very much over the past while. I've made some stuff, and there are pictures coming.  I promise.

I am also going to Wales in two/three weeks, and I promise pictures and sketches and excerpts from travel journal when that happens.

It just keeps snowing here.

I have thespian basement dwellers sometimes.
I also may almost have a job

You know,
I'm not even sure

It may be awhile until you see me again.

I don't think you can ever be too old for the completely and utterly unreal.

Also, I definitely painted this :)
And this one came completely from my mind.  I don't owe the idea to anyone.
And I know it isn't realistic.
That's kinda the point.

So apparently I'm only really happy when I'm making something.
Who knew?

What is art?

Personally, I kind of despise that question, as well as the other kinds of questions that kind of go with it, such as:
"How do you define yourself as an artist?"
"What do you want to say through your art?"

Have you ever had to do one of those reflections?  Answer pointless questions that you don't know the answer to, so you just pretend you do and try to use the word juxtaposition so that it sounds smart?

What is art?  Maybe there isn't one definition.  Maybe it isn't a tangible thing, maybe it's not something that you can use words to describe.  A picture is worth a thousand words, so why even bother to try and make up the difference?  For some people, even just living your life could be an art - the most beautiful thing you have to show for all your time and effort is the fact that you are here, alive, on this Earth that can be so goddamn beautiful.  And you're a part of it.  Maybe art is just creating something beautiful, so maybe your child is your greatest masterpiece.  Maybe art is just love.
I don't know.
How you define yourself as an artist?  Why do you have to?  People change all the time, people are the most wonderfully fucked up, beautiful creatures that can read and write and talk and make art, if they want to.  There aren't enough words in the English Language to describe even one person's entire personality or life.
And as for what you want to say, why do you have to explain yourself?  I know I have no idea what I'm saying - it's just a feeling, or just a pretty picture, but I know I don't feel obligated to answer "What are you saying" with anything else but "What do you hear?"  because everyone is different and everyone sees different things.
And I know I'm not necessarily the best artist in the world, but should that even be a factor in what makes "Art"?

Why do we need to answer all these questions?  Why do we need to label and categorize everything?  I know if there are words for it it makes more sense, but maybe part of its beauty is the fact that you can never know exactly what it is.

Maybe that's what art is.
But that's just my opinion.



A slightly different watercolour violin.

The difference is sharpie and a different scanner.

The picture came from a National Geographic.  I just thought the fact that there was a man playing fiddle to his chickens, and so I had to paint it.  Also it was an assignment, but whatever.

Sunday, Monday, Happy Socks
Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Socks
Thursday, Friday, Happy Socks

I do not take credit for the pattern, or the yarn.  I'm just really pleased with the fact that I knit socks

When it froze, when it snowed, the world felt normal.
Is that wrong?

Now it's getting warm again,
And the world is spiralling into madness.

Sister Blog

My sister also has a blog.  Hers is infinitely better than mine because it actually centers around one theme.

Here, have a link:

http://atlassmiles.wordpress.com/

Hello, world.
It's been a while.
How's the life?

I feel no obligation to apologize for my brief absence.  While not on this blog,  I did many a productive thing that I would not have done if I was blogging. I feel that it is silly to apologize for lack of an addiction to the internet.

I finished knitting my first pair of socks, which are brightly colored and wonderful.  I actually made a lot of mistakes, but they're my socks and I love them anyway.
I may or may not post pictures next week when I actually have access to my camera.

I started violin lessons again, for the first time in about a year.  It's ridiculous that I already feel like I play better after one forty-five minute lesson, but it's true.

I still do not have a job.

I have, however, caught the mysterious and surprisingly strong disease entitled motivation.
I have never felt motivation (school-wise) before in my life.  I can usually coast by without studying or doing homework or anything and get a decent mark somewhere in the range of the eighties.
Except the issue is that the eighties cease to be good enough when you find a school that looks perfect to you, where they award a scholarship to whoever gets in, and it's in New York City.
I've been to New York once before.  And there are no words to describe how that city feels.  I don't know how to describe it - it just transcends everything.  Usually I hate cities, but apparently the presence of Broadway outweighs the inherent disadvantages of a total lack of trees. (Seriously, I was there for  a week and saw no living trees except the one day where we wandered in Central Park)
Travel journal-type-things may or may not follow, although I am going to Wales for a week in March, and I will definitely post pictures and drawings and ramblings on that topic.  Hooray for non-sequitors.
The only issue is that this perfect amazing school has a seven percent acceptance rate.
So I have to study.
The eighties aren't good enough.
I have to have 100 percent.
In everything.
I'm going to go become the perfect human being now.
Later.

Hasty multicolored violin