Saturday, February 24, 2007
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Finishing the Art Process
I'm sure there are quite a few photographers like me....
Lots of finished prints waiting for their frames and mats.
The sheer cost involved with printing to begin with is rather
daunting, not to mention the frames, the mats, the backing boards,
the glass, the hanging hardware. And people wonder why finished
artwork costs so much once it's on display. And frame shops are
the biggest scam going. For the amount of materials and time
it actually takes, the final retail price is so inflated most of the
working artists I know simply can't take on the cost of finishing
a major body of work. And of course there is the size issue, meaning
that if you want to increase the print size you've just increased all
the other costs equally. We need to help each other out as a
community whenever possible, because all our suppliers are
busy gouging us for all we're worth. Let's stop considering
art as our lonely burden to bear, and let's start thinking about
the great impact we would have if we donated our time,
leftover materials, or money saving resources to each other.
Do you have a printer that would make someone's day?
Do you have a roll of canvas, a roll of paint, some
tech pens, an old frame, you'll never use?
I'm starting today.
Monday, February 05, 2007
She never looks the same. She doesn't mince words.
She works too much. She drives around with her rescued dog.
The paint builds up in layers, repeating itself, covering it's tracks.
Her images confuse your eye, things get lost.
A torso, a tailor's form, a breast all disappear in the pink.
Fleeting women, never quite defined, never explained.
You chase some random desire with your eye, and
it leaves you just as quickly. You glimpse some piece
of beauty and can't find your way back.
Amelia's Back Pages
She showed up with a box of handmade books,
some with binding threads hanging to the floor.
She throws mustach parties.
She was an elephant on Halloween
Her characters are fractured people
trapped in their own indistinct dramas.
You have to read them backwards, but the pages won't turn.
The boy who can only look up, the girl who lost her head,
webs and roots, strange chapters out of unwritten novels,
some dialogue that never occurred yet is oddly familar,
intersections that you crossed once but forgot,
like when you go out in the morning with the sun
coming up and the moon is still visible in the sky.