Saturday, October 15, 2016

Packing Tape Transfers

from my art journal with new tape added: Sing For Your Life

I. Making a Clear Tape Transfer

An easy way to add print and color to art journal pages is through tape transfer. In the image above I added the phrase, Sing For Your Life, using the tape transfer image. Here's how you do it.

To make the transfer you'll need:

  • clear packing tape
  • a magazine
  • a basin with warm water
  • wooden spoon to burnish the image 
  • your art journal



  1. I looked through a recent copy of The New Yorker and the most recent New York Times Magazine and found images and print I wanted to use to create transfers.
  2. I placed tape over the images and words I wanted and then ripped the taped images/words out of the magazines.
  3. Next, I burnished each using the back of a kitchen spoon.
  4. I then placed the taped images/words into a basin of warm water and let them sit for  few minutes.
  5. Using my fingers I rubbed the paper pulp off the back of each piece of tape and the set it (tape side down) on paper towels to dry. You can see in the image to the left how translucent the images are.
  6. As I am not planning on using all of the tape right away, I placed the sticky side of the tape on pieces of wax paper.

tape in the water
Sample piece of tape

Clear tape drying












Using the Tape in Art Journaling


I added the phrase, In the End, to this unfinished art journal page.

  1. Two pieces of text caught my interest and I added them to art journaling pages I had been working on. 
  2. Because I am not sure yet if where I placed the tape is where I want to keep them, I just stuck the tape on the page.  
  3. Later, if I want to adhere the tape more permanently I will use some gel medium (matte) to attach it.




Tuesday, October 11, 2016

#SOL16: Bear Hunting, Donald Trump, Chinatown, and Becoming (Other)Wise

Storm Warning (2012)

When the chesty, fierce-furred bear becomes sick he travels the mountainsides and the fields, searching for certain grasses, flowers, leaves and herbs, that hold within themselves the power of healing. He eats, he grows stronger. Could you, oh clever one, do this? Do you know anything about where you live, what it offers? Have you ever said, “Sir Bear, teach me. I am a customer of death coming, and would give you a pot of honey and my house on the western hills to know what you know.” - Mary Oliver, Upstream, p. 7.

I.

from here: http://www.state.nj.us/dep/fgw/bearseason_info.htm
In New Jersey yesterday, 206 bears were killed on the first day of bear hunting season. 206 black bears shot dead by arrows. The first bear killed this year was a 104-pound female. 74 of those 206 bears were killed nearby my home, in ZONE 3 of the bear 'harvesting' map. A prodigious day apparently. Beginning on Thursday through Saturday, eager hunters can kill bear with bow and arrows and guns (muzzleloaders).

I share woods with bears; my home situated between multiple state forests in northern New Jersey. We moved here nearly 15 years ago to be close enough to Manhattan and to still live where trees aren't something that simply line streets. I walk in the woods (not this week) a good portion of the time unless hunting is happening. Sometimes, especially in early spring, bears wander from the woods and can be seen lumbering across gravel roads and asphalt; across newly greening lawns. People come to ZONE 3 to kayak, hike and run trails, ride bikes, walk in the woods, and apparently now to use bows and arrows and guns to kill black bears.

II.

Death is so final, so absolute. There is no going back, There is no do over.  Losing my husband, seeing Rob die last March taught me that. Once dead, you remain dead. The 104-pound bear is as dead today as she was yesterday afternoon. And we are the worse for that. Perhaps my sensibilities about death are heightened given the last 15 months, but when I read about the bear killing it gutted me. When I read about the 'bear problem' in New Jersey, I thought how very foolish we are. And so it was with this on my mind that I started to read Mary Oliver's new essay collection, Upstream. I stopped two pages in when I came across the paragraph at the top of this post. It offers such a sharp contrast to killing bears--a contrast worth our notice.

Oliver situates a bear as knowing differently than us. Bears know stuff we don't.  She asks, "Have you ever said, 'Sir Bear, teach me. I am a customer of death coming, and would give you a pot of honey and my house on the western hills to know what you know.'" 

Have you?  Have I? What might we learn if we had the courage to do so?

III.

Maxine Greene wrote about the need to become otherwise.  Becoming otherwise is to consider points of view that feel foreign, not as some exotic exercise, but rather as a way of being in the world. Rather than judge it wrong--there is an interest in understanding, in not naming too quickly, too singularly. I think of this stance--this way of living in light of the presidential election that seems to have gone on for more than a epoch. Has there been in recent memory another election that has so divided a country?  That has set us against one another?  That we are more  nation of us and them, than we the people?

How do we mend what we have torn apart?  How do we gather up the courage to become wise about others who are not us? How do we resist harming more?

IV.

You may have read about the recent O'Reilly Factor debacle that found correspondent Jesse Watters loose in Chinatown (NYC). He was sent there by the show's host, Bill O'Reilly because "China" has been so often mentioned during the election.  In what has been defined as vile and racist by NYC Mayor Bill de Blasio, Watters conducted pseudo-interviews on the street. Interspersed among the interviews were video of Watters "getting a foot massage, playing with nunchucks and asking loaded questions that some residents appeared not to understand or couldn’t answer." (from here).  Watching the segment left me disheartened, my stomach clenched, and stench of fear and anger.  This was a stab at humor? How is this even possible in 2016?

I have been thinking about this a lot. Thinking about the country my 17-year-old Korean son will be claiming for in a few brief months as he sets out from home to go to college. What world will this young man find?  How safe will he be?  How loved? Misunderstood? Demeaned? How dare Watters and O'Reilly determine my son's worth by their narrow white privilege. How dare them.  And how dare anyone who laughs alongside this 'news' show.

We must demand more of ourselves and say loudly NO to such depictions of others/selves.

V.

And perhaps this demanding more our ourselves is at the center of what we must do regardless of the election outcome.  We cannot delay such actions.  To make a kinder, better, brighter and more humane life in this country, we need to cozy-up to other. Learn to love what we don't like.

That means all of us, although I need not wait for you to start.

I'm taking an inventory of what is other in my life.  At the top of the list are Trump and his supporters. I don't understand the motivation to support this candidate, but that doesn't mean that I need to hate him or his supporters--for I don't know even one of them.  It's easy to dislike a group--easy as it is foolish. It's far harder to dislike a person with whom you share a story. I know I don't need to be perfect at this embrace of other, I just need to do it.

VI.

Oliver closes the essay by reminding us that "[a]ttention is the beginning of devotion" (p. 8).  How observant she is. How wise.

And so tonight I am praying that I might practice noticing and learn how to resist the too easy naming that blinds me.  Let me take notice of what is in front of me--be it the bear in nearby woods, the voter I don't understand, the candidate I can't seem to respect.  Let me pay attention so I may better love.

Sir/Madam, teach me. I am a customer of death coming. 

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Art Journaling Resources

from my art journal, 10.8.16 (Gesso, ink, acrylic paint, tombow markers, stabilo pencil, pan pastel)



As some of you already know, I began art journaling shortly after my husband died last March.  I have made digital images and photographs for years, but felt the need to immerse myself in something more physical. Frankly, I had so much nervous energy that I needed full immersion in the work. Art journaling meets that need as it allows me to paint, draw, collage, and write. During these last seven months I have been following a few blogs, read some books, viewed online some work by other artists and thought that in this post I would share a bit of what I have been learning by listing some resources.

I recently started a meet-up for those interested in art journaling in northern NJ.  We will have our first meeting soon. This January I will be participating in Life Book 2017, an online art workshop that last the full year. I'm super excited about this.

Here are just a few resources I use or have used when art journaling.

Blogs

The Altered Page (Seth Apter)
Art Journal Everyday (Julie Fei-Fan Balzer)
The Common Denominator (Marybeth Shaw)
Creative Art Journal (Emily T)
Creativity Unleashed (Traci Bautista)
Journal Girl (Samantha Kira Harding)
Michelle Ward
Misty Mawn
Mixed Media Journal with Judy Wise
My Art Journal (Diane Salter)
Ponderings (Dina Wakely)
Serena Barton's Blog
Studio 274 Design
An Uninterrupted View (Louise Nelson)
Willowing Arts (Tamara Laporte)

Blog Post: Packing Tape Transfers

Books

page from A world of Artist Journal Pages...
Barton, Serena. (2013). Wabi-Sabi Art Workshop: Mixed Media Techniques for Embracing Imperfection and Celebrating Happy Accidents. North Light Books.
Carriker, Pam. (2015). Mixed Media Portraits with Pam Carriker: Techniques for Drawing and Painting Faces. North Light Books.
Carriker, Pam. (2013). Creating Art at the Speed of Life: 30 Days of Mixed-Media Exploration. Interweave.
Mawn, Misty. (2011). Unfurling, A Mixed-Media Workshop with Misty Mawn: Inspiration and Techniques for Self-Expression through Art. Quarry Books.
Sokol, Dawn DeVries. (2015). A World of Artist Journal Pages: 1000+ Artworks - 230 Artists - 30 Countries. New York: Stewart, Tabori and Chang - An Imprint of Abrams.
Sokol, Dawn DeVries. (2013). Art Doodle Love: A Journal of Self-Discovery.  New York: Stewart, Tabori and Chang - An Imprint of Abrams.
Wakely, Dina. (2014). Art Journal Courage: Fearless Mixed Media Techniques for Journaling Bravely. North Light Books.
Wakely, Dina. (2013). Art Journal Freedom: How to Journal Creatively With Color & Composition. North Light Books.




Digital

Art Journaling blog
Art Journaling on Pininterest
Beginning Art Journaling on Pininterest
21 Secrets Tools and Techniques

How To's
How 2 Art Journal
How to create and keep an art journal: Aisling's How-To Page

Magazine

Art Journaling Magazine
Art Journal No. 2 Zine

Video

Pam Carriker video page





See more here.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

#SOL16: Sorrow at 7 Months

from my art journal Sept, 2016 (gesso, ink, acrylic paint, pan pastel, stabilo pencil)
When Rob was first diagnosed and I understood how dire it was, I would calm myself by saying, "It's okay. You can still touch him. He's here." I would repeat those words over and over, soothing myself by holding the fear that surfaced in abeyance. He was still here. I could reach out and touch him. And when the time came, when we were told that his prognosis had changed from at least another year to live to terminal in three weeks, I no longer needed a mantra. His needs consumed me and my fear was subdued by shock and answering that need. My husband was not going to his death without me holding him up as much as humanly possible. I would make the last month of his life whatever he needed. I'm uncertain if there has ever been a time in my life in which I had such clarity.

Tonight I am wishing that I would have memorized each and every encounter, gesture, touch, word we exchanged those last few months of his life. A year ago, Rob was in the hospital having been diagnosed with the first of three staph infections. He would be hospitalized for twelve days--it would mark the longest time we had ever been apart in 28 years. He would be home for less than four weeks before returning to the hospital because an abscess had formed in his chest from the staph that had not been treated correctly.  Then he would be in the hospital for another fourteen days. He wouldn't come home this time until the night before his birthday. He would stay home through Thanksgiving, Christmas, and our 25th wedding anniversary before being rushed to the hospital the morning of December 30 because he could no longer walk. As we waited for the ambulance to arrive he told me he feared he would not be coming home again. Fifty days later he would come home and one day shy of three weeks, he would die.

I know these dates like I know my name. And now it is another fall and I think of all that my husband will not experience. I'm wishing that I could replay, like a film, each moment during the last six months of his life so I might savor what has been lost--substitute the film for the emptiness I know now.

I miss my husband's touch, his voice, the weight of his arm wrapped around my shoulder. I miss the certainty that came when he would lightly grip the back of my neck and pull me closer for a kiss. I miss the smell of him, his feet touching mine in bed, his boisterous laugh, and our late night talks. I miss our shared love for our son, how we knew the other's thoughts, the times he played guitar. I miss getting dinner ready together, dancing together, coming downstairs in the morning and finding him at the kitchen table with The Times spread out before him and his hand wrapped around the Black Dog Cafe mug--the same one we bought when Dev had just turned three and we had spent a week on holiday on Martha's Vineyard. I miss talking shop, commuting together, trying out a new theory, reading aloud the rough draft of an article, and hearing him read a poem aloud. I miss seeing him through the viewfinder of my camera tangled up with Dev or years earlier our dog, Max. I miss our many road trips, our travel around the world. I miss watching him with Devon, how they would lean heads together and talk. I miss our future and how we planned to travel across the country making art and writing. He was always after me to make a photography book about learning at school.

This afternoon Dev and I were at a diner when I looked up at a TV and realized for the first time that it is football season. The only time our television was on was when Rob would try to convince me and Dev how great the Giants were going to be that year. I'd sit next to him during the games and read-watch and he'd shout at the TV and cheer. Usually Sunday dinner would be cooking and I'd time it so that we could eat at halftime or after the first game. When his dad was alive Rob would call down to Florida and they'd rehash the game.

This past weekend, Devon submitted an application to the college he hopes to attend next year. His college essay about a critical incident that helped him to mature brought laughter and tears.  Next week Dev will take his driver's test. This past weekend Dev and friends went to Brooklyn for a gaming tournament--just a few blocks from Brooklyn Tech, Rob's old high school. So many firsts that Rob is not here to see. I mourn not only my loss, but my son's loss and as time moves on, all that my sweet husband is no longer here to experience.

How do I carry on knowing the loss is so immense? An ocean of sorrow that does not end. Where might I tuck such grief?  In whose pocket might sorrow reside? Seven months have past since Rob's death and the world is no less certain than it was when he was alive, it just feels that way.





Monday, October 3, 2016

#SOL16: Prayered Up


Crosses (M.A. Reilly, Tuscany, 2009)

In response to the recent bombings in NJ and NYC, a woman from Linden, NJ who was interviewed on the radio last week said, "It's scary. We just have to stay prayered up."

Stay prayered up.
Prayered.

Sometimes it is that simple. Sometimes.




Sunday, October 2, 2016

#SOL16: Seek Its Name


from my art journal, 9.28.16  (acrylic paint, pan pastel, marker, stabilo pencil) 

"...weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).

I. 

"Would you have a silver Sharpie?" a friend of my son's asks this morning. It's not quite 7:30 and soon Devon and some friends will be off to Brooklyn for a gaming tournament. Apparently silver Sharpies work best for signing the oversized badge each wears. 

"Silver?  I'm not sure," I say as I head downstairs to check a supply of materials we have for workshops. Instead of heading into the garage though, for reasons I don't know, I stop at Rob's desk. And there, right in view, is an oversized pencil case--unzipped--and I can see it is stuffed with Sharpies. Just Sharpies. I carry it upstairs and as I do I begin to look through, finding the silver-inked pen. 

Early in the summer, I began to go through some of Rob's things in his office and so overwhelmed, I stopped.  It simply was too hard to do. So much of our lives were entwined and work was certainly not an exception. His desk is largely as he left it nearly 14 months ago and now I'm grateful that I waited--for finding the pens this morning was a small, pleasant gift--almost as if he had been here, helping out. 

II. 

Today is a better day and I'm not sure why. Today, reminders of Rob don't blindside me, but rather offer comfort. I wish I knew how this all works--how one day's reminder is a wave that nearly drowns me and the next may be nothing more than a slight pull, an undertow that reveals what I did not know had been hidden years before. A love note unexpectedly found on a rainy afternoon.

Perhaps sorrow and grace are more kin than not--allowing what is deep in us to rise up, seek its name. And naming is what these last 14 months have largely been. A rising up of that which I did not know, but intuited. 

And I do know things now. Dark things and light. Each present in the breath I take and exhale, in the memories that undulate shaped by tremor and joy. I know what comes only when the heart is shattered, when loss is bone deep, when you are compelled to watch your own son's delicate heart take shape. And what I am learning is not mired in grief and sorrow, even if these sourced it, even if these seem to have replace the very blood in my veins. 

III.

On that last day, I grasped Rob's right hand between both of mine, watching as his jaw unhinged, grew slack. He was a too wild bird seeking flight, finding it in that last moment of breath, defining wholeness in a way I simply had not known.

"There is in all things...a hidden wholeness," Thomas Merton tells us and that is what I am learning this last year--how to discern that hidden wholeness within.  Nothing has been as profound.  Even in, or perhaps especially in the mundaneness of our common lives, we too are wild birds seeking flight, compelled to live, to seek a wholeness to heal our divided selves.

Yeats was right. Things do fall apart; centers do not hold and out of that "twenty centuries of stony sleep" are loss and an occasion to seek wholeness.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

#SOL16: Knife

form my art journal (Gesso, acrylic paint, pan pastel, stabilo pencil)
I.

The knife is dull.

Too dull to slice through the lemon peel. Lemon in water, my start to the day and this morning it was more like sawing than slicing. I never learned how to sharpen a knife. That was always relegated to Rob--something he did religiously.  For nearly thirty years each time he used a knife, he would first sharpen it. Love lets us remain complacent, uninitiated. I never learned, regardless of the times he attempted to show me.

You want to put an edge on the knife. Watch. Like this.

And then he would draw the knife down, applying steady pressure against the sharpening stone, holding the knife almost perpendicular to the stone.

Always away from your body. Yeah? Okay you try.

I'd give it a go and quickly slide the knife back into the block, pleased to be done with it. Who knew I would need to know this and know this so early?

Four seasons have come and gone and the knives are now dull.


II.

Grief is insidious. It stalks, not like a wild beast trampling through brush announcing itself, but rather it slithers unnoticed until it's too late to safeguard a heart.

This morning, the house was filled with the laughter of Devon and his friends who were sitting at the kitchen table while I was standing at the cutting board ready to quarter that yellow fruit. And quicker than it takes to read this sentence the memory of Rob's death punctured me; the room tinged with such yellow sadness.

It is these small matters, things hardly worth the notice, that cut--not too deeply, but enough to slice open.