seventeenth bird

Make something that floats (it doesn't have to be a boat).


"It doesn't have to be a boat," in my mind, is an underhanded challenge that it should not be a boat.
I considered a Monty Python witch, but dismissed that as hard, and instead made Ursula.

In case you can't tell, it's two pieces of brown paper that I whip-stitched together. You probably can't tell.








But, of course, Ursula in water is not just a bear.

Being a pack-rat, I sort of didn't have the heart to put it in water because, while I'm sure it will float, I'm also sure that it won't survive.


But, maybe that should be the point.

First the outside-legs of the bear
Up and fell down, in the water, like knobby garters

Then the outside-arms of the bear
Fell off, as easy as if sloughed from boiled tomatoes

Low'red in a genteel curtsy 
Bear shed the mantle of her diluvian shoulders;


And, with a sigh, 
She allowed the burden of belly to drop like an apron full of boulders








I made her blue because, even though the song never says it, I always imagine Bear becoming a constellation, like in mythology, when the hero doesn't really die, but goes to live in the sky. 
 
I'm not sure exactly how Joanna Newsom would feel about this. She probably wouldn't care, since it's not a tremendously amazing art project.

Side note: when I asked Chris what it looked like without telling him it was from the song, he said, "The Pink Panther."

sixteenth bird

After a long hiatus which involves more excuses, as well as some emotional turmoil (not mine, except by empathy) and some being focused on things that are more important, like birthdays, crises, time with friends and family, and, quite frankly, finding God more important than self expression, I'm back with your next bird.


Create something with what you find in your car.
Well, I don't really have anything in my car except for crumpled receipts and dust. At the suggestion of Carroll (and after a failed attempt at a video which died a tragic death and was neatly discarded in a place where no one will ever see it, though I may yet try to revive it), I've decided to write my car a poem. To be specific and obnoxious, I'm writing an ubi sunt, which is a style taken from the Latin phrase "Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?", meaning "Where are those who were before us?"  Ubi sunts celebrate or bemoan the transitory nature of life and the things in it, and as such are perfect for discussing the dilapidation of a beloved vehicle (although not so beloved as my first car, which may have contributed to the current strain on our association).




To the aging of my car, and how this affects our relationship
--an ubi sunt


Painfully idling at a stop light, the car shudders, dies,
the last wheeze of an impatient engine that cannot 
handle the waiting,
would rather give up than sit still.
Then an agonizing regeneration,
like a phoenix who dies in a carbon dioxide cough
and comes back old
after three tries.


Where is my engine, which used to roar
with vim and vigor and ferocity and oomph
Where is the full force of my air conditioning, which whispers and quits
when it's switched to full blast
(Where, for that matter, is the cold air? I know what you're doing. You're blowing in the outside.
This delightful morning breeze cannot fool me at midday.)
Where are the cup holders? (The cup holders! The cup holders!
As long as I've known you they've never emerged to serve the busy hands,
except for one, which, like a child frightened by authority, collapses on contact,
spilling hot coffee on laps and papers, purses, pocket books, passengers, projects,
and homemade lunch.)
Where is the key to the child-safe locks
on the windows in the backseat
so that the passengers can determine how badly they want their hair 
tangled and how loudly they want to shout 
instead of relying on me
who rolls the windows all the way down
and then drives down the highway 
with focus and speed


For that matter
where are the passengers
who used to ride with me 
holding their frozen drinks in aching hand
shouting over the din of the traffic
or the high blast of the finest cold air
petroleum can produce
Why do I find myself alone in a car
that gasps and grows still
at the sight of a light glowing red at the center of each intersection

fifteenth bird

Ok, this might be my favorite project so far.


Make a unique print by cutting up a potato or sponge, and use it to stamp on a material of your choice.

I chose le potato.


This one had grown poisonous rootlings, so I didn't feel too guilty about using it for something other than food.

The other nice thing about le potato is that if you mess up with one end, you have a back-up.


++

I decided to make a star. Mostly because it's not tremendously difficult to do.

Here is the t-shirt, awaiting its fate.

No, that's not doom you smell. It's bleach. I thought it could be interesting to use bleach rather than paint.


Meadow-y fresh!

Firstly, you dip le potato stamp into the bleach. Not for too long. The stamp doesn't absorb too much liquid before you get to the shirt.

Secondly, stamp, re-bleach, repeat.


I like that black shirts bleach to orange. <3

This is pre-wash. I threw it into the washing machine with detergent and washed it on cold cycle.

And this is how it turned out. I really like it.
















Tips: 
1. Put a garbage sack inside your shirt or the bleach will run through and you'll have a mirror pattern on the back.
2. Wash immediately in cold water.
3. Do this somewhere with plenty of air ventilation.
4. In the past, Carroll and I tried to bleach something with gel bleach (the kind that "doesn't splash"). While this is very considerate for laundry, it doesn't actually seem to bleach much color out of fabric. I don't know exactly what it's doing for your whites, but it definitely doesn't work for art projects.
5. I think that le potato works better for this than a sponge would because le potato is much less absorbent. Less absorbency=less bleach on your hands.

fourteenth bird

Still sick. Just to make that disclaimer.


Make something inspired by and/or that goes over an eye (yours or someone else's).


Ok, so, this one stumped me for a while. But then my Dayquil kicked in, and I thought, "blooming eyes!"
Yes.


So, this is called, "Blooming Eye."

Here are the materials I decided to work with.
Are you nervous?


Decongestants. You've been warned.

I tried to smile, but the raffia was poking me in the eye. Also, it's a picture of myself. Also that.


But, I clean up pretty good for a plague-sufferer.

It's reversed because I took it in the mirror. It was hard to get a clear focus on my eye. Silly camera.

And, flipped. Just because.

And, another flipped close-up. 








Don't say I didn't warn you.


I thought about forcing Chris to wear it. But then I decided to be kind.

thirteenth bird

So, I'm home sick, but the fever is gone and my cold medicine is "non-drowsy," so I thought I'd play creative catch-up. Any weirdness in the next few posts can be attributed to my very weird reaction to decongestants. (True story.)


What can you do with a dollar? Use a dollar bill as your medium or inspiration today.


I call it "The Great Escape?".
--Also, punctuation is a tricksy beast. Where does the period go?

The Wallet--a prison to the dollar.

The dollar peers out...

wary of danger.

The weight of The Wallet is tremendous!

Finally, he extricates himself...

and takes a better look at his surroundings.

He makes sure the coast is clear.

After making certain that no one is around to recapture him...

he allows himself a brief moment of celebration.

The dollar sets off at a run...

eager to reach the edge of the table--and his freedom.

The dollar is almost there!

At the edge of the table, he springs...

and takes a flying leap into freedom's arms!

Never again will he be traded away for cheap, fleeting items such as chapstick or dental floss. He'll be his own dollar. He'll choose his own destiny. He'll--

 OH NO! He's been caught!

"Please," pleads the dollar. "Not back in there! Anywhere but there! A pocket! A piggy bank! Please! PLEASE!"

But the hand knows no mercy.

The Wallet closes with a small click. And the dollar is left alone in the darkness to await his fate. The pennies snicker together and whisper, "We knew you'd never escape. No one ever escapes The Wallet."

twelfth bird

How small can you work? Make something that you need to use a microscope to see.


Seriously? A microscope?


Ok, I'm really not good at tiny, detailed work. My hands are not large and cumbersome, but they really like to pretend.


This is about as tiny as I could go:

Can you tell what it is?

It's my tiniest fan! :D
:D


My camera wouldn't zoom in any closer, but maybe my scanner will do the trick. If yes, I will post more later.

eleventh bird

I'm finally posting the next bird, and, I know what you're thinking. Surely, since she's taken so long, it's going to be the most epic of epic posts, full of creativity and joy and the quirkiness of a truly talented individual.


So sorry. I haven't been working hard on my project. I've just been excuse-y. And the awesome project? It's really silly, actually.


Do something unusual with tea and/or a teabag.


I think when the author put this journal together he must have been extremely hungry. There are a lot of projects that involve food.  


The first thing that came to my mind when I thought about tea bags is the thing that comes to everyone's minds: parachutes.


Oh. Right. That's just me.

Here it is pre-jump.

Poor little terrified almond.

Aim for the packet!

I actually did hit the packet on the ....5th try. Poor little terrified almond.














Ok, I know, it's sort of ridiculous. I've been cutting a lot of sugar out of my diet. I blame this. 


I'm busy this week with the many excuses, but I will try to update more regularly. 

incidental bird

Ok, so between a migraine and youth church practice, I haven't had any time to do my next project. No judging. This means you.


To satisfy your longing for my artistic genius, here are some pictures of the sunset that I took on my way home.