I love making things for people I love. After making gifts and projects over the years, I've discovered that the best gifts seem to be produced when you see the person it is being made for in your mind's eye (as opposed with you real eyes 'cos then you'd be creating a real mess of work, right?). Or rather, with the thought of who that gift is going to always in mind. Color choices, flourishes, ornament, and everything else that goes into the crafting of an item all come from that innermost self where your feelings for the individual are intermingled with all the doubts, fears, memories, and hopes and dreams for the future with them.
A gift to good friends. "There is nothing nobler or more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends." A pangram: a sentence containing all the letters of the alphabet: The most common:
A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. “You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt, Sing like there's nobody listening, And live like it's heaven on earth.” ― William W. Purkey Lupercalia
by Ted Hughes I The dog loved its churlish life, Scraps, thefts. Itsdeclined blood An anarchy of mindless pride. Nobody's pet, but good enough To double with a bitch as poor. It had bitten ears and little stone eyes, A mouth like an incinerator. It held man's reasonable ways Between its teeth. Received death Closed eyes and grinning mouth. II This woman's as from death's touch: a surviving Barrenness: she abides; perfect, But flung from the wheel of the living, The past killed in her, the future plucked out. The dead are indifferent underground. Little the live may learn fromthem— A sort of hair and bone wisdom, A worn witchcraft accoutrement Of proverbs. Now the brute's quick Be tinder: old spark of the blood-heat And not death's touch engross her bed, Though that has stripped her stark indeed. III Goats, black, not angels but Bellies round as filled wine-skins Slung under carcase bones. Yet that's not brute light And no merely mountain light-- Their eyes' golden element. Rustle of their dry hooves, dry patter, Wind in the oak-leaves; and their bent Horns, stamp, sudden reared stare Startle women. Spirit of the ivy, Stink of goat, of a rank thriving, O mountain-listener. IV Over sand that the sun's burned out Thudding feet of the powerful, Their oiled bodies brass-bright In a drift of dust. The earth's crammed full, Its baked red bellying to the sky's Electric blue. Their attitudes— A theorem of flung effort, blades: Nothing mortal falters their poise Though wet with blood: the dog has blessed Their fury. Freshthongs of goat-skin In their hands they go bounding past, And deliberate welts have snatched her in To the figure of racers. Maker of the world, Hurrying the litghost of man Age to age while the body hold, Touch this frozenone. |
ArtistErma has been drawing she was a small child. She received lessons in chalk pastels at age 7, taught herself calligraphy at age 11, and learned the basics of figure drawing at age 13. She became a professional calligrapher in 1995. Archives
June 2023
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