Pedestrian drugs

I have this habit of taking on too many tasks, all of which I'm eager to do, and overestimating the amount of time it takes me to finish those tasks. I'd say I need to manage my time better, but I do manage my time well. Yet, I'm still four illustrations behind schedule, and quite a bit of sewing is left, too.

Last week, I ran out of coffee, and loathe as I am to leave my house and venture into the too bright out of doors, I drank strong black tea instead, waiting for the sub100 degrees opportunity to strike out and purchase the much needed caffiene. Now that I have it, I've been overcompensating and drinking too much. My drugs are so pedestrian.




Show card for show! Want one? Send me your address. Stateside only, if you please, unless you've purchased something from me in the past. Overseas stamps are too much for this venture, I'm afraid.

My alma mater of overdrinking and flirting with trashy band boys has an article about Solecist. True to form, they initially spelled my name two different ways and spelled the name of the show wrong, until I sent them an email gently correcting them. Too much reliance on spellcheck leads to lazy proof reading, but who am I to judge? I can barely manage to credit quotes accurately, and that not even all of the time. To be honest, I didn't really understand the article. What's not well thought out about the name?

Hey, ho, the gangs all here:

For sale at The Trunk Space.
This is the end of paper mached heads. I'm moving on to other time wasters, time wasters of more epic proportions.

I had a set, shot by Lorelei in Tucson, go up at the ol' SG last week. Heretofore, I had no idea how many men dislike short hair on women.

swim

Hair dying ritual




Friends of Trunk Space swimming party

Charming

I'm a criminal,





but only of the charming variety.

At long long last, I knuckled down and opened a wee Etsy shop. Ebay has left me terrified of those sorts of affairs, what will all that ugly layout and great masses of messy code. But, into the breech I went and came out pretty ok in the end.

Other activities of note:
Set which you really ought to take a look at.
Repository of photos documenting activities and friends.
Document attesting to my presence on another website.

It's made from paper

My friend David and I got a tad over enthusiastic about the Mail Art show at Trunkspace, opening this Friday. I had this clever idea that I told him about, and I only planned on making one or two heads. But he had never done paper mache in his entire life, so we went overboard a bit, and there still more heads to go.

We collaborated on some, and did some on our own. The washy brown ones are mine, the bold inky ones are his, and the ones that are a bit of both we worked on together, staying up too late and drinking chocolate tea.

These are made from the College Times, because they have no staples in their publications.

Coat monster

A friend loaned me these rejected passport photos, and I used them as models:




These were made a few days ago, by me. Either I'm terrible at painting flies or people have no idea what bees look like, because a couple people have commented on how cute my "bee mugs" are. Bees have four wings, not two, you silly people. Flies are the only winged insect that have only two wings. Even coleopterans (beetles, my dear) have elytra, which are chitinous nonfunctional upper wings, so they officially still have four wings. My computer committed sepukku, and so I can't get onto Horseflesh until after I find my friend who's hosting it, so let me know if you want to buy any of these in the meantime. I'll consider trades, too, if you're feeling adventurous.



This last one is from my friend's cafe in Couer D'Alene, Bella Rose.

This speaks for itself, I believe.


Off the top of your head, without referring to a dictionary, do you know what the word "predilection" means? What about the word "solecist"? These are not hypothetical questions.

Half cents

Warren Ellis blogged about me. Granted, it was in a completely perfunctory name and image posting only minimal information given sort of a way. But that isn't what counts. What counts here is that Warren Ellis blogged about me. My brother is going to be so jealous.

Oh, Kinkos. The relationship I have with you is just not healthy. You charge 8.5 cents per copy, although you insist, at least in print, that you only charge 8 cents. Are you saying I can't do simple addition, Kinkos? Really, now you're just being insulting. I had to account for those extra half cents, Kinkos, and that's why I took your gluesticks. Really, you drove me to it.

Gentle readers, I direct your attention to my newly added list of friend's blogs over there on your right. Those people, no doubt, have far more interesting things to say than I.

Shameful and shoddy

Lorelei shot this of me at the Hotel Congress in Tucson. Posing for SG consists of this: arch your back till you feel silly, point your toes, and SMILE! SMILE! SMILE! I made the skirt, shirt, and brooch and the sheets are from my bed at home. Then the plebians at SG rejected the photos. Plebians! I've got nothing else I can do with the photos, so I entered them into their Second Chance Sundays thingy. If you're a member, and legally an adult, etc, you can view the rest of the pictures here. Let me know if you think I should have done something differently or not, please.

I've been trying to remember how to make free-spine books. It's been years since I made a book, so I used some shoddy materials to jumpstart my memory.





I used a pair of a friend's old pants for the bottom cover, and I can't recall who sent me the shirt for the top cover, and I used the wrong board, the wrong glue, the wrong thread, and the wrong everything else. But I'm not going to use pricey materials until I can get it right again. I used to be so good at this, and now look at the loose stitching on that text block! Shameful. There's further process photos on my Flickr, so click on the picture if you're interested.

This doll, "She was better prepared for misfortune," was purchased ages ago, but I only recently got around to mailing her off to the saintly patient purchaser in SF. Not only was she made out of my favorite winter coat, that I only cut up when I realized that I'd most likely never wear it again as there's no call for a floor length hooded coat in Phoenix and it was too big to travel with, but she was also ridiculously hard to balance. There's giant metal weights in all those little feet to keep her face from toppling her over. Is it creepy that I talk about my sculptures as though they were people? Behind me are the prints for Solecist, all ready to sew. The fabric is from generous people with expansive wardrobes. And now I'm all out of black ink and must order more before I can print anything further.


What did I do for this long holiday? I've been painting flies and listening to Maria Callas sing about murdering her husband and children. Sadly, I've yet to see Medea performed live. That, and stress out about my stuff waiting to clear customs tomorrow. When it does clear, I don't know how I'll transport it from the airport to my house, and I don't know where I'll put it in my house, but I do know that I'll be making belts, floggers, and dildo harnesses all bloody week, as I've now been twice back-ordered.

Oh, and lastly, do you know what "solecist" means without looking it up? I was recently told that my show titles have too many $1.50 words in them, and it puts people off. So now I want to if I'm being confusing or not.

"Irrefragable"

Should you be reading this, diptegenarian Illinoisan, I hope that I did not contribute to your decision to delete your journal. If I embarrassed you, I apologize and I'm willing to delete my past journal entry if you wish. Please let me know. My plan was to try to convince you to send me your old clothes, because I'm always on the hunt for more materials. But perhaps I'm a bit too much of an opportunist.

Currently, I'm in the process of printing and carving for my next show, Solecist at Kayo Gallery. I'm also at the baby stages of a collaboration with a local comic book artist, and I'm beginning to suspect that he's far more talented than I am. My intention is to become more talented by proxy, or through osmosis. This is the shirt I made him after he gave me the Zardoz shirt:


Yet again, I ventured onto Frontpage. But this time, it was because I had scanned some new images to use, and knew that my harddrive is going to commit sepakku at any moment. I had to get those images online before they dematerialized, especially as the amount of guff the scanner gave me was not something I was willing to put up with twice.


Nerve (highbrow adult content warning) has a monthly photo contest, each month with a different silly theme challenging photographers and models to come up with something sexy. I won third place in last month's contest, whose theme was "Laundry." The judge called it spacey and that I looked vaguely unhappy. Evidently, these are positives. This month's theme is "bubbles," and even though I'm all psyched to try again, I'm at a total loss for ideas.



Thanks to the Westboro Baptist Church for informing me of the existence of the word "irrefragable." It was committed to memory by whispering it under my breath as I did laundry, telling the modest little piles of separated colors in one word that it was incontestable, and could not be denied.

Excessively Self Involved

That shortness of breath and rapid heart beat? It's because I'm far too excited for my own good to go see The Wolfs perform tonight, in only a few short hours. The lead singer manages to have an eerie resemblance to Charlie Brown, yet can sing songs about specific sexual positions without being creepy. Most of the lineup for tonight is from Salt Lake City, so I'm preparing to be assailed by great waves of nostalgia and sentimentality when I get to the bar, especially since summer is speedily approaching Phoenix, reducing its inhabitants to reverse eskimos, baring too much skin and constructing their lives to facilitate maximum exposure to A/C.

My desire to be back somewhere with tolerable weather is of such power that I was actually manifested in SLC. Yes, my sister saw me walking across the street last night.


It was, admittedly, in Tracy Strauss's painting form, but I take it as an auspicious sign. That, and the plane tickets, destination SLC.



While searching for a particular article about me, so that I could cite it in my press clippings, I came across two somewhat perplexing things. Firstly, there is a racing horse named Lady Camilla Taylor. I hate horses. They are horrible animals and I hope to stay as far away from them as can be physically managed.

This is secondly:

Have I yet elucidated how explosively hot Camilla Taylor is? She's hot. That's it: I must age six years in the next fifteen seconds and fight her (probably) sleazy, horsecocked boyfriend. The future is looking bright.

Why, oh why, is Camilla Taylor 26?

Seriously, Knox, internet, go fuck yourselves. I am overreaching, and to a greater extent than usual. And it is your fault. And now I am going to do homework and think about Camilla Taylor and be mopey and wish that I too could be an extraordinary weirdo genius troubled by a devilish imagination and a sickly constitution. Alas!

Huh.

Huh.

Quoted, not linked, because being an aspiring Lothario (look it up, it's appropriate) doesn't merit potential mockery and unwanted attention, in my mind anyway. My reaction to reading this was alarm, but not really of the sort that one would expect. Sickly Constitution? Really? I've always thought of myself as rather hale and hardy, albeit with an irritating belief in the merits of sunscreen, but healthy nonetheless. I don't foresee a romance between myself and this young scribe, but I'm somewhat baffled that my age, a difference of 6 years, is such a barrier. Six doesn't strike me as that big a difference. I once dated someone that much younger than me. He looked chokingly beautiful with his shirt off, played the cello, and I snuck him into bars when I should have known better. Evidently both of our friends had adviced as against it because of our age, and perhaps they were right as he and I don't really talk anymore. Or perhaps I'm getting all nostalgic about him because Rostropavitch just died.

But then, maybe that kid talking about a different 26 year old Camilla altogether.

Additionally, the first entry reminds me of how much I loathe eighties teen movies and the way their conceits have infiltrated society. Yeah, I'm talking about you, John Hughes.

Pretty new things in my shop. I've got big elaborate plans for my website, which will be implemented later in the week.

I'm finagling a trade out of Abbyjane. How does she make those beautiful birds and how does she keep them from toppling over? Some sort of black arts, I suspect.

Oh, and if you've got old button up shirts that you don't want, then I recommend giving them to me. I'm nearly out!

Highly Effective

I hate updating my website. It seems like it will be such a treat when I wake up and think about how I need to finally switch out the old stuff, and show off all my shiney new stuff. But it is not a treat at all. Frontpage was not designed as an intro to web design, it was designed as a highly effective means to leech the souls from its hapless users.

After all that soul-leeching, I've now got some new (and some old) shirts for sale, new wristbands, and finally posted the teacups and a hideous internet abortion that I will continue to direct potential patrons to.




My upcoming solo show in July at [URL=http://kayogallery.com/]Kayo Gallery[/URL] is simply too exciting for words. I'm working on new pieces for it and sewing like crazy. And somehow, I want to engineer some sort of demonstration on medium and technique. When you understand how something is made, it completely changes your approach to it and the manner in which you think about it, or so I think. Understanding the process makes it approachable and, depending on the process, gives it that edge of artisanship or let's you know that a preschooler really could have made it. Mostly, though, I'm just really excited to see my siblings and friends. I've already got a box full of presents to give to people.


I grew a tomato! Oh, come on, I live in Phoenix. If you have any idea how hard it was to grow two tiny tomato fruits, you'd be excited too.


Last night, I met with David B., and I gave him a shirt that was not even half as awesome as the Zardoz shirt he gave me. And then I neglected to get a picture of him in it even though I had brought a camera expressly for that purpose. Now I'm all giddy to have a new friend, and I'll probably end up just creeping him out instead.

I've got a new goal for the year. A new way to measure myself and probably find myself short, but it's the attempt that matters. Or so I think, but then, I'm addicted to fear of failure. It's my cocaine.

LA Times

Last night, I drove. In a car. All the way to Willowhouse.

It was terrifying.

In other news, there's a picture of my work in the LA Times. They've got the wrong title on the piece, but I don't care as long as they spelled my name right.

Culpable, II

Last night, I had a weird dream about one of my favorite internet comics. Mr. Jeffrey Rowland, true to form, wore an animal costume throughout the dream, and we ate large tomatoes together. His animal costume got sticky in a completely nonsexual way.

Onto more relevant blog subjects. Friday was the second reception for "Culpable" at Trunk Space Gallery. It went amazingly well. I sold quite a few pieces, and all to people who I was happy to have bits of me in their homes.

I had a completely new piece for the show, that I finished just minutes before the reception. Nop one purchased any of the edition for the new piece, but it was recieved pretty well anyway, and I'm very pleased with it. It was whipped out in less than a week, including sketches, mockup, carving, printing, and finally sewing (although, I was only able to sew two of the projected 60 in the edition).


In contrast to the last reception, people engaged in a little less "family making." Here's an example of bullying by proxy:

Although, one man went through the gallery and hugged all of the pieces. It was lovely to watch.




Noodle, the homeless gallery cat, made a brief appearance and sniffed around, before he finally got scared away by the crowd.


The show got some great publicity, which I'm certain helped to get people there and convince them to spend some money. Lilia Menconi did a studio visit with me, and was kind enough not to mention the ridiculous filthiness of my studio, or dwell too much on my bondage gear business as I'm way too familiar with journalists doing when ostensibly writing about my art.
(click on the image to read the article)


Lastly, and most importantly, I got the most awesome rad thing. And this thing, this most wonderful of things, arrived in an appropriate way. A quite boy who I had just met, after buying a piece fromt he show, returned to the gallery with a package secured with a big bulldog clip. What I found inside made me squeal and make horrible noises, so overcome with excitement was I. If you don't understand, it cannot be explained to you.

Culpable--First Reception

The turnout for my show last night can only be described as abysmal, but I sold 8 pieces outright, with two ore promised to people when they get the cash, so who the hell cares how many people turned up?

I did the only sensible thing after the show, and got wasted at the tiki bar next door with my friends. I have this funny habit when I get drunk. Inebriation turns me into an overprotective mother hen, and I become overly concerned about everyone's wellbeing. I take it upon myself to make sure the passed out girl gets to bed, and that she doesn't fall asleep with her shoes on. I prevent my loquacious friend from insulting the doorman, or sleeping with the married girl. And then I sober up and stop caring about people and whether or not they sleep in shoes.


The next reception for it will be even better, and I'll have five new pieces that I intend to finish by then.


For the opening, I made a sign and framed it, and hung it on the wall. It read "You may gently interfere with their lives." Giving people permission to touch art started out by just making them nervous, and eventually grown men were lying on the floor talking to inanimate objects.

I had set up all my creatures in two opposing armies, facing off across the room from each other. Everyone after than placed them into little groups, and made sure each creature had a friend. I tested this by placing a few in corners on their own, and sure enough, the next person immediately cooed over them in concern, and either brought another guy over to keep them company, or ushered them into a larger group.



(thanks to Jeff and Jefferson for the photos)

Culpable

I've been working so hard! My arms are tattooed with ink splotches, and my fingers permanently look as though I've been gardening.

I'm terrified about my show in Los Angeles. I have no idea if anyone will like my work, especially since I don't make pretty ladies, and it seems that everyone else I'm showing with makes pretty lady art. There's no boobs in my work! No boobs! Even I'd prefer to look at boobs than at weird little ugly people. Maybe I should make some mammary prints just in case.