LMU

Thursday night, I did a demo on monoserigraphy for my friend's class at Loyola Marymount. The likelihood is that not a single student will actually do the technique now that they know it, but Gretchen, the teacher, said that she was excited to give it a try now, so there's that at least.

I did the painting earlier in the day, so the image I printed would be a little more impressive than the regular demo doodle one usually sees at school. Because, what's exciting about printing a squiggle? Where's the incentive to try this technique out if the first example of it is some crappy demo drawing?

So, here's the Nate Martin print:



I got four pulls out of the screen, but I messed up one of them. I'm going to see Nate Martin when I go to Chicago for Southern Graphics Council next month, and hopefully by then this entry will have changed his Google results somewhat.

Second time

More from Lou O'Bedlam. These were shot just before the Los Angeles Art show at the Marriott.



I was all jittery and nervous for the demo I was going to do at LA Art, so I don't think I was really working at my best, but I really like how these came out anyway, but that's probably more due to Lou than me.

Blind Embossing, cont'd

I listened to "Bluebeard" by Bartok while I made this print. I like that it is organized by the story, each piece titled as simply "Door" with corresponding number, each number inexorably bringing the plum voiced heroine closer to that last and final door.





Monoserigraph, blind embossing, monotype, and then corrective blind embossing.

Economy

Photographing artwork in slowly failing evening light.



Students in the liminal state between attentive and distanced pass me on their tour of facilities, assuring the university of their intent to retain all fingers and various other necessary appendages for the duration of the time spent in this facility remark quietly about my prints, saying methods as questions, waiting for confirmation.



Last night, I delivered the entry form and images for an exhibit; the directions took us on a circuitous tour of Los Angeles, through the curling pearl necklace streets of Beverly Hills, with the occasional sad handpainted sign directing the interlocutor to where star maps may be purchased, guides to see people whom they will recognize and know intimately but won't recognize them, the tourist playing out the role of the reject, the unbelonging, in larger and larger spheres--up to the steep and comfortable manicured dilapidation of Laurel Canyon, the shops mimicking the drowsy friendliness of small resort towns. The prices I left for my work on the entry form are optimistic, an attempt to align with the economy of where I am as opposed to the economy of where I was and who I knew.