by lorigreenberg on June 21, 2010
These are the guys that keep me company while I’m working in the studio. They sit in front of my torch.
I wish I wouldn’t have gotten rid of my Austin Powers action figure. He would have fit in nicely. Yeah, baby.
These are the guys who hang out in the office with me:
An Obama bobble head, Mikey bobble head from Orange County Choppers, Van Gogh and Edgar Alan Poe. They all help me to remember to think outside the box.
What more could a girl want to make her smile? Maybe a life size Sugah Daddy cardboard cut-out?
by lorigreenberg on June 18, 2010
I don’t get it. I was never a stuffed animal kind of kid. But somehow, my six year old is stuffed animal obsessed. She doesn’t just like them, she actually plays with them. Takes care of them. She gives them to the rest of the family as if we want and care for them too. I find them everywhere.
On my messy desk:
And they’re not just randomly thrown about. When I find them, I know that they’ve had some purpose in some little game. I know that they’ve been talking in their little voices from her and have had some type of interaction. I find them in the middle of the living room floor:
On the couch. This is Teddy and Curly…Curly is the newest, I believe, and he was acquired online because the 8 year old won some legos on eBay, the 6 year old needed to be equally compensated:
I find them on the kitchen counter, longing for my Starbucks:
I often collect them from my bedroom and deposit them onto the 6 year old’s desk…I’m getting tired of always putting them away so this is the first stop before I start the process of, “Six year old, put your toys in your room.” Those crayons shown below end up in interesting places too.
These big bunnies were waiting in my bed when I got home from the Bead and Button Show:
And this one, actually a pillow, doesn’t bother me as much because he’s pretty comfy. Still, he doesn’t go with my decor and goes much better with the monkey theme in the 6 year olds bedroom.
The most disconcerting one is the one below. An opossum. Or is it possum. Now, why would one buy this? Why would one WANT this? and moreover, why does the 6 year old think I’d want to sleep with it? It’s a bit creepy to wake up in the morning with an (o)possum on your pillow. Yick.
by lorigreenberg on June 5, 2010
Yesterday I came across a blog post that led me to an interesting article on the paint palettes of some of the masters. Not the palette of colors they used, but the actual palettes they used when mixing and using their colors. Why Preserve Van Gogh’s Palette? As is common when I’m reading something, one line jumped out and prodded me forward in self-examination:
“The whole value of what you are about” wrote John Ruskin in his Elements of Drawing, first published in 1857 “depends on colour. If the colour is wrong, everything is wrong: just as, if you are singing, and sing false notes, it does not matter how true your words are.”
(the bold one is the line that strikes me). While that can seem obvious to some, to me, it highlights something that feels like a curse. If the color is wrong, everything is wrong. I just can’t get past it. It is a terrible feeling to create something, and upon retrieving it from the kiln, see that something is off. Even the slightest clash in color ruins it for me, whereas it might be just fine for someone else.
Like these beads. Love the design, love the process, love the individual colors. But together? They do nothing for me. In fact, they turn me away from making more of this style for a while because of discouragement. That’s the curse. I can’t just accept them and move on. It haunts me that I could have made such a poor choice…which actually makes me laugh because they’re not THAT bad. Maybe it’s the perfectionist in me? Maybe it’s just the big baby in me that is throwing a tantrum because I didn’t get my way with the result and it’s laughing at me. Dramatic? Yes. I have an inner drama queen.
Above is another series of experiments that make me sad. Can you believe than anything with that bold of color could make one sad?
As a former art student, I don’t recall learning about color, if you can believe that. It is not the fault of my educators, but perhaps the fact that I went to a “party school” and didn’t focus where I should have. Yet, I have a sense inside of me that just knows when something isn’t right. The dilemma in that is that I can tell you something is off but I can’t tell you what would make it right. Frustrating.
