An Exerpt

"A scrap of paper crumpled up and thrown on the studio floor amongst unstretched canvases, on which you stand, pails of pigment - some mixed with clay, the odd saucepan, broken sticks of charcoal, rags, discarded drawings, two empty cups. On the scrap of paper are written two words: FACE and PLACE.

The studio was once a bicycle factory, no? You work here in your painting shoes and clothes. The shirt and trousers were originally striped. Now, like the shoes, they are encrusted with pigment. So I picture you as two people: a man about to ride away on his bicycle and a convict.

However, the only thing which matters, when the day is done, is what lies painted on the floor or leaning against the walls, waiting to be seen the next day. What matters is what the changing night can never quite reveal - the thing to which one is nearest when one fears one has probably lost it."

John Berger, The Shape of a Pocket
. (p. 27)

Stolen Biography of Paper

The Cellar

Finding ones' self masticated and beaten, hoping only to be whole again. Longing for rooted ground and sunshine. Instead left to dry in some dark room in preparation for a life of enclosures. She'd heard the stories but never believed them to be anything other than myth.

Cumulonimbus

To pass the time we choreographed plays, casting characters to be guessed at by those looking from below, shading the one disappointed plant who only seemed to reach further for the sun. Barely discernible whispers of "please move" waft up as I float by. Sounds of others, telling stories of places where no sun exists as they giggle at the ridiculousness of such a thought.

Sustenance

Stretching upward, pleased with the warmth of the sun on my face and the coolness of the ground beneath as I heave and sigh breathing in all that surrounds me. I stretch and wave as a cloud passes over. Please move I whisper, longing once more for the warmth of the sun on my face.

The Sun

It was startling, this giant forcing her fingers into the dirt around my roots, but she brought warmth. It was like the sun but without the light. She said my roots were strong; I'd do well here. "Good Stock," she said, "Good Stock!"

Listening In

There were two of them, walking the garden path with trowels and shovels. I'd heard one say to the other that it was harvest time. I liked to play in the garden, pretending I was the farmer. I'd stick my fingers in the dirt like they did, and in a deep voice I'd say "Good Stock" and then agree with myself, "Yes indeed, good stock!"

The Prophecy

They left. Startled, the birds left, the sound of their wings growing distant and quiet. The Sun disappeared and rough hands pushed me from one side to another. "Harvest time," it said.

Fantasies

Looking upward to the strange, sunless sky which now seems always to be covered in wooden clouds. Please move, I whisper over and over, Please move.

Reprise

I again find myself by the lake, birds playing in the sun-filled sky above, and cool earth beneath me. I hear my own breath as the wind blows through me, pages flapping like birds' wings.

Bad Dreams happen to good Vacuum Tables

I awoke this morning from a dream, in which my former landlord was hauling away all my paper making equipment like prisoners to a death camp. Now, I know it is not nice, or fair, to liken anyone to a Nazi - although, clearly, my subconscious did not get that memo - but it felt like the end of the world. So, now I'm redesigning my vacuum table with a shallower sink base, smaller holes, and (heavily sealed) marine grade plywood. I will post the plans when I'm done.

My current vacuum table (currently in storage) is a 4' x 4' x 8" monster, made of melamine covered particle board, plasti-coat, plexiglass, and (way too soft) brass screws. It (usually) sits atop saw horses with a connection for the wet/dry vac on the underside. I'd say it weighs close to 70 lbs. and has been moved from Detroit to North Carolina to Colorado and back to North Carolina & is still intact. (Thanks to Gary Venable, Cranbrook Academy of Art).