October 22, 2019

Here's Something Cool: Hobbit Holes

        Have you ever wanted your own hobbit-hole?  Of course you have, for that, as Tolkien says, means comfort.  And now you can - or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.  There’s a company in Maine (Wooden Wonders) that makes sheds with rounded roofs and round windows and doors.  They can be used as playhouses, tool sheds, chicken coops… These are already pretty cute, but what makes the possibility of really enticing a hobbit is that there is an option for a sod roof, so that you can landscape the whole thing to look like a tunnel into a hill.  And that’s Something Cool.
        There’s really nothing more to say.  How much analysis do you need?  But I include another picture that’s perhaps what you get when you cross hobbits with elves: no longer a hobbit hole, but equally magical.  How I would have loved either of these options as a playhouse when I was little!  And I would be more than happy to have either of them now as a shed or… No, who am I kidding?  I still want it as a playhouse.

[Pictures: photos of “Hobbit Holes” from Wooden Wonders.]

October 18, 2019

Cat and Dog Show

        This weekend I will be at Roslindale Open Studios, and everyone is invited!  I have spent the last two days trying to restock cards and other such bits and bobs, while doing battle with recalcitrant printers, but I think I’m in good shape now.  The car is mostly packed, and I’ll set off bright and early tomorrow to get set up before we open at eleven.
        Two weeks ago was another show, the first annual “Taste of Needham Open Studios.”  I’ve remarked before how amused I am when shows take on themes for me, and the theme of that last show was definitely Cats and Dogs.  Almost everything I sold was cats  and a few dogs: cat cards, cat bookplates, cat necklaces, my new cat magnets, and original prints of cats, dogs - and one honey bee.  Among those purchased were two of the edition of one of my pieces that had its debut there.  I had carved it over the summer during my classes, and printed it a little later, and this was the first show since.  The pattern on the paper bag was a bit of an experiment, since I was trying to get a medium value halfway between the black of the cat and the “white” of the paper.  Of course, I didn’t print on white paper, but instead used brown-paper-bag paper, to keep with the theme just for fun.  It’s not quite a mini-print, but it is quite small and inexpensive.
        We’ll see whether the strangely narrow felicentric theme continues tomorrow, or whether the love gets shared a little more widely in Roslindale!  Plus, this is the last weekend of "re/seeing HUMDRUM" a large exhibit at Gallery Twist in which I have four pieces showing.  It's a fun exhibit to see.

[Picture: Curiosity, rubber block print by AEGN, 2019.]

October 15, 2019

Rainbows and Other Obstacles

        Here are some quirky bits of SFF from Austrian graphic artist Moriz Jung (1885-1915).  At some point I’d like to share some of his wood block prints, but until I can track down a few more images for those, these are lithographs.  They were designed as post cards for the Wiener Werkstätte, and you can see that Jung had a whimsical but slightly dark sense of humor.  His images of airplanes date from 1911, when airplane flight was still a novelty and a wonder… and still quite experimental and highly dangerous.  He clearly had a grand time letting his sci fi imagination play with the possibilities of this new technology and how it might fit into the world.  Imagine the airplane inadvertently discovering that the rainbow is in fact solid (as witnessed by a comical photographer), the airplane arrogating the divine role of Pegasus (aka the Aeroplegasus), the airplane allowing a man to reach the
lofty heights of the giraffes (and note that the pilot is an ape)… 

        Jung began designing postcards while himself a student at the Wiener Werkstätte in 1907, and these next two examples date from that period.  Even cars were still quite new and exciting in 1907, and you can see that this idea of cutting-edge technologies interacting in amusing ways with the rainbow was a recurring one for Jung.  Many of his ideas seem to me in the category of “tall tales,” which I think of as stories that include fantastical elements, but presented not as if they are caused by magic but rather as “plain facts.”  Of course they’re really humorous exaggerations and embroideries on
possibilities.  This last one is an excellent example of the type: “Variety Act Number 9: Aldo Mario Brasso, Artist of the Death Leap.”  I tried to look up whether Aldo Mario Brasso was a real person, and if so what sort of actual leaping he did, but I could find nothing.  Nor could I find anything about “Variety Act Number 11: Mac Bull of Philadelphia in His Frightful Loop-the-loop Ride in His Automobile.”  The text goes on to give the car brand as Crash, tire brand Burstish, and general representation for Austria as Vienna Carinthian.  (As Vienna is far from the Carinthian region, I assume this is a further joke.)  So I suppose that Jung must have made them up entirely.  I think he’s a lot of fun.
        Sadly, Jung was killed in World War I, like so many promising young men, so we cannot see what other wonderful things he might have imagined if he had had the chance.

[Pictures: Hindernis Regenbogen (Rainbow Obstacle), lithograph by Moriz Jung, 1911;
Der Aeroplegasus, lithograph by Jung, 1911;
Unblutige Jagd auf Giraffen (Bloodless Giraffe Hunt), lithograph by Jung, 1911;
Varietenummer 11: Mac Bull aus Philadelphia…lithograph by Jung, 1907;
Varietenummer 9: Aldo Mario Brasso, Todessprungkünstler, lithograph by Jung, 1907 (Images from The Met).]

October 11, 2019

The Grand Marhoot

        As of this morning 68% of my Kickstarter rewards are delivered or consigned to the post.  I’ve been going to the post office every day or two with 10-12 packages at a time, and am getting to be best buddies with Michael and Marc at my local post office.  I should be able to get all the rest of the packages on their way next week, so if yours hasn’t arrived yet, it won’t be too much longer.  And while you wait, let me tell you a bit about one of the most special creatures in the book…
        This is the Grand Marhoot.  The Grand Marhoot is, as the note in the book explains, “a particularly gentle, thoughtful creature who loves to be surrounded by books.”  She was requested by one of my most generous backers who suggested that I invent a creature inspired by a mutual friend of ours, who is herself an inspiration.  I placed the Grand Marhoot among books, which is how the real person has lived her entire life, as far as I know, with knitted wings to represent her own knitting and the knitted gifts bestowed on her by friends.  She is also shown laughing, because one of the things I find most endearing about her is that despite her increasing forgetfulness, rather than getting frustrated or angry she just laughs gently.  The timing of this print is meaningful, too, because she’s just had to move out of her apartment into assisted living, and her books have all had to be sorted, and packed up, and given away.  She seems to be resigning herself to this, too, but there’s no doubt that it's a difficult transition.
        As an art assignment, I’ve never done anything quite like this before: inventing a mythical creature inspired by a real person.  I hope it serves as a cheerful reminder of all the real person’s most lovable traits, and that we can indeed learn from her “that gentleness and laughter bring light wherever they rest.”
        By the way, “Grand Marhoot” is an anagram of the real person’s name, so extra credit points to anyone who can guess it!

[Picture: The Grand Marhoot, rubber block print by AEGN, from On the Virtues of Beasts of the Realms of Imagination, 2017.]

October 8, 2019

Walk to a Park

        October 10 is National Walk to a Park Day (not to be confused with National Take a Walk In a Park Day on March 30).  The point of this day is to highlight the importance of having  accessible parks, as measured by being within a ten minute walk of home.  Where I live we have one wooded natural park about 10 minutes away, plus two school playgrounds and some playing fields in other directions.  It is a rare day that I don’t walk through or past one of them, and we also have about 4 larger parks within a 5 minute drive.  To highlight the importance these parks have for me, today I’m sharing just a few of the many pieces I’ve made over the years based on photos or sketches taken at parks.
        We’ll start with a fern, commemorating the fact that I learned to identify dozens of species of ferns while walking through parks, and have always loved ferns.  This is a beech fern, which can be seen in parks and natural areas throughout the US and much of Canada.  It never fails to be lovely.
        I confess that I don’t remember whether this particular dragonfly was spotted in my own yard or at our nearby park.  For years I took my camera to the park and photographed dozens and dozens of dragonflies of all colors and patterns, as well as photographing them in my garden.  One (or more?) of those photos became the basis of this wood block print.  I also photographed all manner of other bugs, birds, plants, and flowers.  That was before I had a phone with camera, and if you have a phone camera with you all the time there’s really no excuse for failing to stop and admire all the small natural happenings that are busy at even the smallest, most urban park.
        Sometimes some of the nature even follows you home -- but hopefully not ticks!  I really hate ticks, even if they are part of Nature, but I am rather fond of cockleburs, which some people consider to be just as much of a pest.  I made this print as an X for my botanical alphabet, because the cocklebur’s scientific genus is xanthium, and I enjoy seeing them growing in more overgrown, meadowy parkland.
        Finally, one of my favorite denizens of our local park, the painted turtle.  I always look for them, especially on sunny days in the spring, and they never fail to cheer me up if I see them on their log poking out of the water.  Some of the reference photos for this print were actually taken at a couple of other parks in eastern Massachusetts that we visited at various times.  I especially love the ones with boardwalk paths that go through wetlands so that I can get a little closer into the turtles’ favored habitats.
        These are far from my only pieces inspired by parks.  I’ve done many wildflowers and birds, a frog, a bee, a grasshopper, park benches, and more.  The fact is that people need parks.  We need to be able to get amongst some plants, from grass, to flowers, to trees, and to feel bedrock and dirt underfoot.  It may seem like a minor thing, but it really is important that everyone have convenient access to local parks.  Think about it, walk to your local park on the 10th (or maybe on the weekend, if that’s when you get a chance), and be sure to speak up to save the parks you have, and create new ones for those who have none.

[Pictures: Broad Beech Fern, wood block print with chine collé by AEGN, 1997;
Dragonfly, wood block print by AEGN, 2006;
Cocklebur, rubber block print by AEGN, 2007;
Ten Turtles, rubber block print by AEGN, 2013.]

October 1, 2019

Prints by Kentridge

        William Kentridge (South Africa, b. 1955) is one of South Africa’s biggest-name artists, famous for prints, drawings, and animated films.  His prints, however, are not generally relief prints, and thus I do not generally take much interest in his work!  I do have a few interesting things for you today, however.  First are two prints that are drypoint etchings, not relief prints.  The image is carved (or scratched) into the surface, but the ink is pushed down into those scratches,  wiped away from the raised areas, and then printed.  So, unlike a relief print, the lines that are carved print in black (ink) rather than white (no ink).  I find these interesting, though, because of the printing plates: old vinyl records.  This just goes to show once again that anything that can be carved can be printed.  I even snagged a couple of old records at the reuse-it shed at our town dump to experiment with what they might look like printed in relief, but I haven’t actually tried anything yet.  As for Kentridge’s prints, the cat is rather fun, and there does seem to be some sort of logical connection between a cat, scratching, a record, and making noise!  One other interesting note about these is that the record labels have printed with a sort of lithography effect, in which the ink clearly stuck to the paper of the label more than to the printed words on the label.
        While I’m at it, I will also offer you two linoleum block prints by Kentridge.  These are large scale, 7 and 8 feet tall, and must come across as quite monumental, although I have not seen them in person myself.  The man/tree is clearly uprooted, but I can’t tell you why the woman is a telephone!  They have a sort of fantasy transformation vibe, and I’m sorry to confess that I find them whimsical, although given Kentridge’s own statements about his work, they are undoubtedly intended to be about themes of loss, conflict, and oppression, and almost certainly not “whimsical”.  I like the contrast of the very bold, simple silhouettes against distant textured backgrounds.  As I mentioned, lino is an uncommon medium for Kentridge, but he clearly can use it to strong effect when he wants to!

[Pictures: Living Language (Cat), and Living Language (Panic Picnic), drypoints by William Kentridge, 1999 (photo by AEGN at the Davis Museum at Wellesley College);
Telephone Lady, linocut by Kentridge, 2000 (Image from David Krut Projects);
Walking Man, linocut by Kentridge, 2000 (Image from Art Gallery NSW).]

September 27, 2019

Words of the Month - Grawlixes and Other Maledicta

        September 24 was National Punctuation Day, in honor of which this month’s word refers to a very strange and particular sort of quasi-punctuation.  A grawlix is the series of graphical symbols used to represent swearing, as in “What the #@#% is a grawlix?”  The word was coined in 1964 by Mort Walker, the creator of the Beetle Bailey and Hi and Lois comic strips,  but he did not invent the use of symbols to bleep out cussing.  That innovation can be credited to Rudolph Dirks who created The Katzenjammer Kids, and his earliest use of the grawlix may be this strip in 1902.  When you think about it, this is really very clever, because it allows the cartoonist to depict extreme emotions, a staple of comedy, without actually using any “inappropriate” language.  Comics are both visual art and written language, and the grawlix blends the two to provide a solution in both realms.
        The question of swearing is an interesting linguistic topic in itself, and people have spent much ink and many pixels discussing what words are considered inappropriate, in what situations, why people use them anyway, and whether or not it is commendable to avoid them or to pile in as many as vocally possible.  It seems to be a universal that societies pick certain words to simultaneously forbid and embrace.  I myself generally do not use any “swear words” unless I’m quoting someone who does, because I feel that the usual cussing indicates a certain lack of creativity and linguistic precision, not to mention causing pointless offense, and I’m nothing if not a pedantic prude.  Nevertheless, I myself found occasion to embrace the grawlix in my book The Bad Advice of Grandma Hasenfuss.  Middle school student
Danny reports to his grandmother the misadventures of his days, and a running joke is the swearing proclivities of one fellow student and the school principal.  But a seventh grader clearly won’t type such language in emails to his grandmother, so he uses grawlixes to report the offending dialogue.  On a meta level, of course, it allows me as the author to keep things clean for the middle grade audience, as well.  As Grandma Hasenfuss says, “I appreciate your circumspection in the matter of rude language.  Should you ever need to report on such dialogue, you may respect my old-fashioned morals by using %$# and *@& and so on.  I never say anything else myself, no matter how extreme the provocation.”  So thank you to Dirks for inventing this graphic solution that allows cartoonists and me to have our cake and eat it, too.
        Walker actually first used the word grawlix to indicate scrawly scribbles, along with jarns, which were spirals, and nittles, which were star and asterisk shapes.  The entire category of cartoon cussing he called maledicta.  Now, however, jarn and nittle are mere footnotes, while grawlix is the word that’s become more popular.  Its meaning has also shifted.  In comics all sorts of symbol can be used to indicate swearing, and they can all be called grawlixes generally, but the word’s most specific referent is the symbols generally available for typing on a keyboard: @#$%&*!
        Grawlix is not the only contender for its definition, however.  Language columnist Ben Zimmer coined obscenicon, which has also proven popular, and of course one can always simply talk about bleeps.  Indeed, if you ever need to pronounce a grawlix (as, for example, while reading The Bad Advice of Grandma Hasenfuss aloud), strings of symbols seem to be most commonly pronounced “bleep bleep bleepity bleep,” and sometimes “blankety-blank,” or variations thereof.

[Pictures: detail from “How Uncle Heinie Puts up a Holly Wreath” from The Katzenjammer Kids by Rudolph Dirks, 1902 (Image from Barnacle Press).]

September 24, 2019

Printing Universal Knowledge

        I inherited from the respectable middle-class packrats among my ancestors a 10 volume set of Chambers’s Encyclopaedia: A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge for the People (American Revised Edition) of 1885.  William and Robert Chambers founded their publishing company in 1819 in Edinburgh and became famous for a host of reference works including various iterations of their encyclopaedia.  These were illustrated, of course, with wood blocks and wood engravings, and this summer I was tickled to see a selection of those very blocks.
        Actually, I’m not sure whether any of the specific blocks on display when I saw them were used in my particular edition of the encyclopaedia; over the years Chambers published many books, and the displayed blocks weren’t labelled with what entry they had been used to illustrate, so I couldn’t easily check.  So today I am sharing a couple of the blocks I saw, and a couple of the blocks for which I did actually track down the printed page.  For the most part these images are not particularly beautiful.  Their intention is utilitarian illustration, not Art.  Nevertheless, the diagram of a factory and the facade of an Assyrian temple struck me for their interesting geometry.  Looking at the blocks in the dimly lit case, I couldn’t see finely engraved details, or make out the effect of shading done with cross-hatching, but I could appreciate the nice, bold geometric patterns.
        These bats are part of the National Museum of Scotland’s collection, but not currently on display.  However, I was able to see that they are the actual blocks used in my actual books, which is kind of cool.  It’s also always fun to be able see both a block and how it prints.  In this case, you can see that they’re the pretty standard Victorian wood engraving style: lots of little texture lines, but not a lot of variation in line width or use of solid blacks and whites (except for white backgrounds).

        Finally I’m including one last block that I did not see at the museum and have not found printed in my encyclopaedia.  I’ve posted it here because I really wish I could see what it looks like printed, because I think it would be a really cool one.  It depicts a “vivarium,” which has water like an aquarium and earth like a terrarium, all in one.  It has water creatures, plants, and flying insects, and I just love all the details.  I think it must be a bit of a fantasy because I can’t imagine butterflies and dragonflies could really live in that small a container, but it gives an impression of an entire world contained in a wonderfully Victorian neo-Gothic case.  In fact, I can’t help suspecting that this case is actually magic!

[Pictures: The plan of a factory, woodblock carved for W. & R. Chambers, c 1830-40’s;
An Assyrian temple, woodblock carved for W. & R. Chambers, c 1830-40’s;
Skeleton of Bat, woodblock carved for W. & R. Chambers, c 1860;
Bat in Repose, woodblock carved for W. & R. Chambers, c 1860;
Entry on Bat illustrated with wood block prints, Chambers’s Encyclopaedia: A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge for the People (American Revised Edition), 1885;
Vivarium, woodblock carved for W. & R. Chambers, c 1830-40’s (Images from National Museum of Scotland, and photo by AEGN).]

September 20, 2019

A Few Thoughts on Cancel Culture

        Over the years I have featured the work of many “problematic” creators, from Nazi-sympathizing artists to sexist poets, but the rising tide now is “cancel culture,” which is the idea of boycotting the work and shunning the people whose personal behavior or opinions are considered unacceptable.  This can be a powerful way to stand up to injustice.  It can give those who feel victimized a sense of reclaiming power and agency.  It can bring larger social awareness to issues of prejudice or oppression, and to the specific crimes of specific celebrities.  It can cut down financial support for a hateful agenda.  It can  educate society about things that people find hurtful.  This is all Good.  But there are situations in which cancel culture is itself problematic.
        My first question is what we do about the work of those who are long gone?  Our cancelling of their work can’t teach them a lesson.  And what if the work itself is untainted by the sins of the creator?  With literature one might argue that it’s impossible for the writer’s prejudices not to contaminate the work (although I’m not convinced that this is in all cases true), but with visual art or, say, classical music, it’s much easier to feel that a work is beautiful, moving, and sublime, without there being any evidence of the artist or composer’s less admirable traits.  Is the art less beautiful if the artist has sins?  Does it lose its power when you remember that a mere flawed human created it?
        Then to focus in on these flawed humans (dead or living) and their less admirable traits… How bad do they have to be to be cancelled?  My belief is that there has only ever been one perfect Creator, and of course many people don’t believe even that.  So if no one is perfect, how bad is too bad?  Things may be clear at the extremes - that living artists directly profiting from their atrocities should be boycotted, while artists who simply failed to get along with their step-parents can probably still be accepted - but human behavior is a continuum, not a step function.  Do we cancel every single creator in Western Culture before, say, 1960?  Was there ever a single one who was not sexist and/or racist and/or anti-semitic and/or Islamophobic and/or homophobic and/or…?  Where do we draw the line?  And who gets to draw the line?
        And now let’s think about change.  Sometimes people change.  Sometimes people do actually learn and grow.  Cancel culture, with its instant firestorm outrage, leaves no room for this.  People are cancelled for past errors, whether or not they have since changed, and they are cancelled for present errors large and small, without the possibility of repentance.  Cancel culture’s purpose is punishment rather than rehabilitation, and scandal rather than education.  Something that can have so many positive possibilities in fighting society’s ills is all too often more of a sledge hammer than a scalpel.
        This can end up counterproductive, leaving people afraid to engage in dialogue or address thorny issues, damping creativity, and leading to a toxic environment where cancel culture is used as a justification to attack and demean anyone with whom there is disagreement.  Of course this is not how hearts and attitudes are changed.  Speaking for myself, I am quite certain that I have have not managed to get through the past almost-fifty years of speaking and writing without making statements that are offensive or hurtful to someone.  I promise you that whatever it was, unkindness and bigotry were not my intention, but I am ignorant about many things, and sometimes thoughtless, and often flippant.  If I do something wrong I would like my error to be explained to me so that I can try to avoid making the same mistake again.  I know education takes time and energy, and people get tired of having to educate ignorant idiots all the time.  I know that I don’t actually enjoy being criticized, and might be a little more prickly about criticism than I should.  But the question is simply: Which is more important to you, the grand rush of self-righteous outrage, or actually fixing the problem?
        Are there any ways to engage with problematic artists and art without either condoning the bad aspects or cancelling everything?  There’s a lot to think about, and this is just a short treatment of it.  I don’t claim to have covered all the issues or addressed all the concerns, or to be the first to have considered these questions.  If anyone has further thoughts, counterarguments, or reactions, I am open to hearing them.  I have merely laid out some of my own thoughts and reactions to this aspect of our current social environment, because it touches me closely.  Although I am small-time enough to fly under the radar of any huge backlash (I’ve never had a frontlash to begin with!) it is my job to lay myself open in many ways, and I do worry about making an inadvertent misstep, hurting someone’s feelings, and being branded as an irredeemably horrible human being.

[Picture: Desbrozando (Clearing) wood block print by Mariano Paredes, undated (Image from  Docs Populi).]

September 17, 2019

Nakayama's Horses

        Here’s another wood block print I saw in a museum this summer.  This is “Dancing Stallion” by Nakayama Tadashi (Japan, 1927-2014).  Nakayama worked with the traditional Japanese wood block printing technique of different blocks for each color, printed with a baren rather than a press.  However, unlike the traditional method, he did every stage himself, drawing, carving, and printing.  He also departed from tradition in his style, which was heavily influenced by Persian miniature paintings and Paolo Uccello’s Renaissance horse paintings.  The influence of Uccello is obvious in the subject matter of horses, but specifically in their monumental size and action, and in how richly decorated they are.  From the Persian miniatures Nakayama took the use of borders, rich colors, detailed patterns, and the use of gold and silver leaf.

        Looking at these pieces, it’s almost hard to recognize them as wood block prints because they’re so busy and detailed, not to mention quite large.  The one above which I saw was about 2x3 feet.  Some of Nakayama’s pieces have as many as 47 colors printed with 35 separate blocks!  I can’t tell how many blocks might have gone into these particular examples, but obviously it must have been incredibly laborious to build up a single piece from so many blocks, and Nakayama famously produced only a few editions of prints each year.  He was also especially famous for his horses.

        One particular recurring motif among Nakayama’s horses is the title “ema.”  The word literally means “picture-horse” and ema are wooden plaques displayed at Shinto shrines with prayers or wishes.  Horses are commonly pictured on these ema because horses are able to carry messages to the kami (spirits or gods).  The practice also spread to Japanese Buddhism.  So when Nakayama entitles his wood block prints “Ema,” he’s clearly giving the horse an extra dimension and significance.
        Although I like these pieces, in a way I don’t like them as printmaking, because it’s so hard to see the printmaking in them.  On the other hand, I can certainly stand in awe of the technical mastery required to produce them!

[Pictures: Dancing Stallion, woodblock print by Nakayama Tadashi, 1987 (This image from Azuma Gallery, as it was clearer than the photo I took in the National Museum of Scotland);
Running in the Afternoon, woodblock by Nakayama, 1974;
Blue Ema, woodblock by Nakayama, 1989;
Running Horses, woodblock by Nakayama, 1998 (Three images from Floating World Gallery).]

September 14, 2019

Dickinson's Fantasy

        Emily Dickinson (USA, 1830-1886) is an enigmatic poet, whose voice is unlike any other.  Although it’s clear that her imagination is rich, wild, and original, no one would characterize her as a fantasy poet.  She certainly does make use of fantasy images, as in
I started early, took my dog, 
And visited the sea; 
The mermaids in the basement 
Came out to look at me…

        Or this description of a storm
The creatures chuckled on the roofs 
And whistled in the air, 
And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth. 
And swung their frenzied hair. 

        But those instances are metaphorical, so for something truly out of the world of fantasy, we have to look at 
The only ghost I ever saw 
Was dressed in mechlin, -- so; 
He wore no sandal on his foot, 
And stepped like flakes of snow. 
His gait was soundless, like the bird, 
But rapid, like the roe; 
His fashions quaint, mosaic, 
Or, haply, mistletoe. 

His conversation seldom, 
His laughter like the breeze 
That dies away in dimples 
Among the pensive trees. 
Our interview was transient,-- 
Of me, himself was shy; 
And God forbid I look behind 
Since that appalling day! 

        What I find so remarkable and wonderful about this description of a ghost is its apparently benign presence -  so courtly and shy, even laughing rather than moaning or shrieking or behaving in any way scarily - and yet it nevertheless inspires utter terror.  This is a reminder that the idea of ghosts is frightening not really because they are harmful or evil, although certainly there is plenty of folklore and fantasy that portrays them as such, but because they are inexplicable, because they are from outside our own world and knowledge, and because they know and remind us of death.  And that’s enough to be appalling.  Capturing that simple truth gives this poem a serious kick.
        As for calling it “fantasy,” I don’t know how Dickinson herself viewed it.  Was it another metaphorical description, using “ghost” to get at some other idea?  Did she really see an apparition and consider this a literal description of a literal ghost encounter?  Or was she imagining what ghosts might be like in her life?

[Picture: Emily Dickinson II, wood engraving by Barry Moser (Image from R. Michelson Galleries).]

September 10, 2019

Printing Paisley

        In a bit of bonus Word of the Month, the ornamental textile design called paisley uses the Persian boteh, that curved teardrop shape, and its repeated patterns originated in India.  But in English we call it paisley after the Scottish textile-manufacturing town famous for producing such patterns (especially on shawls) in the 19th century.  (That makes the word an eponym.)  The better paisley shawls were woven, but cheaper ones, and patterns on cottons for other uses, were printed.  At the National Museum of Scotland this summer we saw some of these printing blocks.
        First of all, here’s a dress made of cotton printed in India.  This one, from c 1740-60, isn’t paisley, but is representative of the sorts of fabrics that the Scottish mills were interested in copying.  At the same time, though, this Indian design was made for export, and was thus influenced in its turn by British tastes.
        Now for the blocks.  There is a shawl in the background which is printed on silk, but not, as far as I can see, printed from the particular blocks in the foreground.  According to the caption, they are a set for a five-color design, and as there are four blocks in the set, I take the fabric background to be the fifth color.
        In a little fun with photoshop, I tried to recreate how this particular boteh might look.  The upper right block prints a solid background color.  You can see that the entire boteh shape is carved away and the entire background is left behind to print what I have made red in my recreation up above.  Next I “printed” the lower left block, in blue.  Third, the lower right in yellow.  The final block, upper left, tricked me.  When I went to add its design, it didn’t match up at all - I’ve put it off to the right, where you can see that it’s facing the wrong direction.  Then I noticed that there was another shape also on the same block, obscured behind the blocks in front, and that’s the one that matches up with the boteh I was previously building.  So I reconstructed it as well as I could and added that in white.  (I assume it has something with the little branch going off to the left, but as that’s entirely hidden, I don’t know what it might have looked like.)  Of course I could be totally off on the colors, although I tried to deduce from the stains on the blocks, but it gives you at least an idea of what those four blocks would look like when all printed together.
        I’ve never done too much with designing and printing multiple blocks for separate colors.  It just isn’t something I’ve been as enticed to work with.  Still, it’s cool to see how this design builds up.

[Pictures: Block printed cotton and linen textile from India, dress British, c 1740-60;
Set of hand printing blocks for Paisley pattern, and shawl of printed silk from Paisley, c 1870 (Photos taken by AEGN at National Museum of Scotland);
Photoshop design based on printing blocks, by AEGN.]

September 6, 2019

Another Harpist On My Theme

        A month ago children’s author and professor of literature Katherine Rundell released a book entitled Why You Should Read Children’s Books, Even Though You Are So Old and Wise.  I have not yet got my hands on it, but from the excerpts that have appeared in articles, she is most certainly singing my song - and singing it beautifully, too.
        Defy those who would tell you to be serious, those who would limit joy in the name of propriety. Cut shame off at the knees... Plunge yourself soul-forward into a children’s book: see if you do not find in them an unexpected alchemy; if they will not un-dig in you something half hidden and half forgotten…
        To miss out on something so rich, strange, varied and enticing in adulthood, just out of embarrassment or perhaps because it hasn’t occurred to you, seems such a waste. There is such joy to be had.
        So one point is simply the joy of children’s literature.  (The Good Stuff, of course!  As with anything, there's plenty of rubbish, as well.)  Some of this may be the joy that adult lit snobs sneeringly refer to as “escapism,” about which read my previous post.  A lot of it is the “wise” cynicism that believes misery is realistic while happiness is unrealistic, about which read this previous post.  There’s the puritanical suspicion that anything good and virtuous must be unpleasant, while anything you’re enjoying is probably some sort of sin.  But all of these attitudes are, quite simply, false.  As Rundell declaims, defy them!
        But there’s more than simply the potential for joy, as if that weren’t already enough.  Rundell reminds us that children’s books encourage us to long for impossible and perhaps-not-impossible things.  These things are, of course, the things worldly wise adults have all-too-often already given up on: justice, adventure, hope…
        I think there is a risk, in adulthood, through the compromises we make and the busyness of our lives, that we cease to cherish the imagination in the way we should. Because the imagination is absolutely essential for seeing the world truly.
        Writing books for children requires all the love, beauty, imagination, and hope that serious adult writers tend to leave out in the name of “sophisticated ambiguity” and “gritty realism.”  Which is precisely why adults should be reading them.

[Picture: Dingbat from Chap-Books of the Eighteenth Century, by John Ashton, 1882 (Image from Internet Archive).]
Rundell’s quotations from The Guardian, 20 April 2019.

September 3, 2019

Pape on Paper

        This summer we visited quite a few museums, including Tate Modern in London.  There weren’t many block prints on display there - in fact, I noticed only this one: Weaving, by Lygia Pape (Brazil, 1927-2004).  Maybe I wouldn’t have picked it out if I’d had whole galleries of relief prints from which to choose, but in the Tate’s world of big, bombastic, attention-seeking pieces, I hailed the sight of this small print as a welcome oasis.  The horizontal lines are restrained and restful, but imbued with enough of the natural wood grain and natural hand-carving not to seem overly mechanical or restrictive.  The way the geometric shapes fit into each other without quite blending into larger shapes gives it subtle interest and a sense of dimension.  The caption implies that each of the shapes was a separate block, and while some of the blocks could be arranged spontaneously, some must have been planned to fit together in certain ways.  I’m pretty sure that the long rectangle and pair of triangles at the top and bottom (in other words, the top three shapes and the bottom three shapes) are the same three blocks, printed twice each on the paper.  I can’t determine whether any of the other triangles are duplicates.
        Back home I looked up Pape and more of her art and found that I’m honestly not much enamored of most of it.  She was, it turns out, a member of the “concrete art” movement.  Concrete art, according to Wikipedia, “intended to defend the objectivity of art through paintings that ‘have no other significance than [themselves].’  It forbade the use of natural forms, lyricism, and sentiment.”  While I have no objection to art having no other significance than itself, I figure once you’ve left out natural forms, lyricism, and sentiment, you’ve got nothing worthwhile left.  Besides, what’s this nonsense about the “objectivity of art”?  The whole point of art is how uniquely subjective it is.
        But let’s look back at Pape’s piece once again…  Wood grain is most certainly a natural form.  The idea of weaving certainly has some lyricism.  The suggestion of textiles, with their human creation and intimate human use, can’t help but at least hint of sentiment.  So Pape, though a card-carrying concretist in the 1950s, was clearly not following their ideals as deeply and wholly as she might.  And indeed in 1959 Pape signed the Neo-Concrete Manifesto, which remained wedded to abstract, non-representational geometry, but embraced art’s relationship with the organic, the human, the meditative, and the importance of its relationship with the active viewer.
        All this sounds rather artificially intellectual to me, and indeed downright dreary. I want to cry, “Stop pontificating and justifying and posturing, and just make something you enjoy, to share with others so that they’ll enjoy it, too!  Is that so hard?”  But Pape said, “To me, art is a way of knowing the world… to see how the world is… of getting to know the world.”  And I guess when it comes right down to it, if that’s really what she was doing, and if for her the way to do it was through concrete art and neo-concrete art, then I’m not going to complain.  So here are a couple more I like, as well.

[Pictures: Tecelar (Weaving), woodcut by Lygia Pape, 1957 (Image from Tate);
Tecelar (Weaving), woodcut by Pape, 1958 (Image from artbook);
unknown woodcut by Pape, unknown date (Image from Artwell Guide).]

August 28, 2019

Words of the Month - Disease-Written

        Nowadays we tend to think of words for diseases as being quite clinical and precise, but before medical science had come that far, names for various illnesses and conditions gained much more colloquial use.  In fact, many adjectives we use today had their origins in the names of diseases.  I hope you’re feeling healthy as we enter the disease-ridden corridors of the English language…

poxy - an adjective of general insult.  The word pox covers a variety of diseases that cause sores or pustules, such as chicken pox and smallpox as well as syphilis.  The adjectival form started with the literal sense of having pox, and within 50 years had become a more general insult.  Presumably the negative social implications of syphilis added to its insulting connotation, but also the fact that pox can also mean any plague or curse more generally.

mangy - scabby; squalid, shabbyMange is a skin disease which causes poor condition of the fur.  The word may have been applied to humans more commonly in earlier centuries, but now is used only of animals.  The use of the adjectival form would seem to be quite obvious, but apparently took over a century to develop in English.

scurvy - contemptible, despicable.  The disease scurvy is caused by deficiency of vitamin C, causing a whole host of unpleasant symptoms.  Apparently in this case the adjective came first, meaning scabby and generally ill and disgusting, and was adopted as a name for the disease about half a century later.  It is no mere coincidence that we tend to hear the word now primarily in Pirate Speak, because scurvy was notoriously a disease of sailors, and a sailor with scurvy was notoriously useless.

rickety - unsteady, likely to collapse.  This is the adjectival form of the disease rickets, a vitamin D deficiency that became especially common among children during the Industrial Revolution.  Its effect is failure of bones to develop properly, meaning that a rickey person is indeed unsteady.  Nowadays it is used only of objects such as furniture, and no longer applied to people.  The disease itself is no longer common except in conjunction with areas of general malnutrition, so the disease is much less known than the adjective, and the figurative use is the only one that remains.

measly - contemptibly small.  The measles is a disease which causes little spots all over, and perhaps the adjective comes from the size of the spots.  On the other hand, it may just come from the general pattern of disease adjectives to become insults indicating little worth.  What’s interesting here is that the adjective’s connection to the noun seems to have entirely disappeared as far as common usage goes.  How many people complaining of a measly serving of food have any idea of the word’s origins?

jaundiced - affected with bitterness or envy, with a distorted or cynical view.  The disease jaundice is caused by an excess of bile in the blood, which gives skin and the whites of eyes a yellowish color.  The color yellow as well as the humor “yellow bile” were associated in classical and medieval medicine with anger, aggression, and envy, although the figurative use of the adjective is not recorded until about 1620.

myopic - shortsighted, lacking foresight or insight.  The medical condition of myopia is simply near-sightedness.  The figurative sense presumably had to wait until the neo-Latin medical coining of the eighteenth century had made its way into common usage.  What’s interesting about this one, as opposed to, say, rickety, is that when you call something or someone myopic meaning “narrow-minded” you are very conscious that this is a metaphoric use.  

        There are a couple of general themes here.  The first is how easily suffering from a disease or medical condition makes one an object of contempt.  Clearly it is not desirable to have a disease, and having unpleasant symptoms is a bad thing, however it is interesting to note that a “scurvy dog” is not simply an innocent sufferer deprived of necessary vitamin C.  To call someone scurvy is to say they are worthless.  A second note is that before hospitals and quarantines and modern privacy, people lived cheek by jowl with diseases of all sorts, were all too familiar with their symptoms, and were quite understandably horrified by the victims.  Under those conditions it isn’t surprising that people would more readily use words for diseases in colorful figurative ways, and I suspect that we will not be seeing much in the way of new adjectives coming from new medical terms taking on metaphorical meanings.  And finally, adjectives are more likely to take on an independent life, no longer tied to their original diseases, when the diseases become less common and/or when the older words for the diseases are replaced with more precise clinical jargon, leaving the older words alone with their colloquial meanings.

[Pictures: Aztec smallpox victims, drawing by anonymous artist, 16th century (Image from Wikimedia Commons);
Rickets, wood engraving by Albert Abramowitz, 1935-43 (Image from The Met).]

August 21, 2019

Bestiary Progress Report

        The Kickstarter campaign for my mythical bestiary ended three and a half months ago, so here’s an update on what’s been happening since then:
        1. I completed the last few block prints, including the custom creatures designed for the highest-tier backers, and I worked on the writing, editing, proof-reading, finalizing, tweaking, and re-tweaking, as well as converting all the files to the CMYK color profile the printer requires.  So I was all finished with the content of the bestiary… until…
        2. I decided that I needed to add another creature (the wapaloosie), make a new author portrait, and sprinkle yet a few more little critters here and there (including this pyrallis.  What’s a pyrallis?  More here.)  So I finished up those blocks, and got them integrated into the layout, which required the writing of some new text and a certain amount of pushing and shoving in the notes pages.
        3. The next task was producing a pdf to the specifications required by the printer.  This was a new one for me.  I thought the whole point of a pdf was that it was a pdf, but no, only certain pdf formats will do for these guys.  Much frustration ensued, including calling in help from a couple of generous neighbors, and the third attempt was the charm.
        4. Once the cover and interior pdfs were uploaded and passed the automated check, there was a more in-depth check by the printer, followed by a digital proof for me to check.  I looked it over this morning and it seems good, so all that remains is to order a physical proof copy.  This will be when I confirm that colors are accurate and printing is sharp.  (Or, of course, discover that they are not okay, at which point I will have to redo some percentage of everything.  Needless to say, I hope it will not come to that.)
        5. Meanwhile, the magnets have arrived!  (Sets of mythical creature magnets were one of the pledge prizes in the Kickstarter campaign.  I’ll also be selling them at my upcoming shows.)  In order to keep the cost down, I ordered them in large sheets and have to cut them apart myself.  I’ve been doing a few at a time for a couple of weeks and I now have about 50 sheets cut, so I’m making progress.  I think they look good, and so does my daughter as an independent witness.
        I also need to start work on the calendars (another pledge prize) while I await my proof copy of the bestiary.  And to help educate and entertain you in the meantime, here’s a map of where the bestiary’s featured creatures hail from.  This map won't appear in the book, primarily because of the ambiguity of assigning locations to some of the beasts.  Should they be put in the place that tells stories about them, or in the place where the stories say they reside?  (Lots of cultures have stories of exotic creatures that live in other lands far distant.)  Where should they be pinpointed when their legends are widespread, or shifted over time?  What about creatures that don't come from this Earth at all?  Still, this map gives a general idea of their diversity: heavy on Europe and the Middle East, but a sprinkling across the rest of the globe.
        The beasts and I have been busy!

[Pictures: Dragonfly (Pyrallis), rubber block print by AEGN, 2019;
Mythical creature magnets;
Map of creature locations.]

August 14, 2019

First Impressions of London

        William Caxton set up the first printing press in England in 1476 and got right to work with this edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.  This leaf is displayed in the Museum of London (which, by the way, I highly recommend to anyone who gets a chance to visit).  The typeface, while not particularly legible to my modern eyes, is modelled on contemporary handwriting, and is quite beautiful.  For this piece, as the others featured today, I have no way of knowing who might have been responsible for the actual design and carving of any blocks.

        Four years later Caxton published The Chronicles of England, with this illustration of London.  Practices of the day being what they were, I suspect it is merely a generic city, rather than an attempt at accuracy.  The towers do not particularly resemble those of the White Tower of London, which would have been a major icon at the time, but perhaps they were considered close enough.  The image illustrates the mythical story of the founding of London by Brutus of Troy, and of course the city doesn’t look very Trojan or Roman in this picture, either.  Nevertheless, it’s a very pleasing little wood block print with its crowd of walls and windows and spires.  This particular sheet comes from an edition of 1497, printed by Caxton’s successor Wynkyn de Worde.
        This seventeenth century view of London is not any more recognizable, but to be fair, most of the London it depicts was wiped away by the fire it depicts.  The Great Fire of London was in 1666 and this image comes from 1651, courtesy of astrologer William Lilly and his book of predictions about the future of England.  He was far from the only one predicting a great fire, and I suspect that any reasonable person looking at the great heap of flammable material that was the City of London could surmise that it was only a matter of time.  Lilly, however, was famous enough for his prediction that after the Great Fire the Commons Committee investigating it called him in for questioning.  Pleading that he really had not known any details, he was released.  Far better to be deemed a poor astrologer than a successful arsonist.  All that’s tangential, however, to the charm of the wood block print, which really has
wonderful details, especially the ships on the Thames.  I include also my photo of the book as it’s displayed  in the Museum of London because I really like the pictures on the facing page, as well.  I have no information as to what they might foretell, although I’d guess that the dragon could represent Wales and the lion England.  Taking it at face value, however, it appears that a dragon once upon a time encountered a mole, and for reasons unknown they tied their tails together.  They subsequently separated, a lion came along, and they all lived happily ever after?  The picture of London burning seems a lot more literal of interpretation.
        I ran into plenty of other relief block prints in the various museums we visited, so it doesn't take an astrologer to foretell that more will appear here in time.

[Pictures: Page from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (“The Clerk’s Tale”), William Caxton, 1476;
London, wood block print from The Chronicles of England published by Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde, 1497 edition;
Predicting the Great Fire, wood block print from Monarchy or No Monarchy by William Lilly, 1651 (Image from Museum of London; other photos taken by AEGN at the Museum of London).]

August 7, 2019

Impressions of London

        Today’s theme is block prints of London, and I’m sticking with the iconic sights.  This first one, by Abigail Daker, covers all the bases with all the famous skyline elements from St Pauls and Big Ben to the Gherkin and London Eye.  Everything’s stacked up cheek by jowl, not laid out the way it is in real life or any way you could possibly see it; it’s a London sundae.  I especially love the way the background is patterned.

        Big Ben returns in this second piece, by Katie Jo Heiner Shupe, along with some of London’s smaller icons: a telephone box and a double decker bus.  This one is capturing a particular specific scene.  I like the details of every stone of the sidewalk and the building framing the picture on the left, and the textured clouds in the sky.
        By contrast, here’s a piece with sparser lines and lots of white space depicting the Tower of London by Lance Duffin.  It may be simple, but it captures all the necessary details so that its subject is instantly recognizable.
        We couldn’t possibly depict London without the Underground, so here’s the Piccadilly Station entrance with its iconic round symbol, and the statue on the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain in the background.  Fun fact: although usually called Eros, the statue was originally intended to depict Anteros, Eros’s little brother and god of requited love.  As for the block print,  by John Gledhill, it’s especially interesting in not putting white outlines around the various black objects, including the posts flanking the underground entrance and the man’s suit and briefcase.

        And finally, a juxtaposition of old and new: St Paul’s Cathedral and the Millenium Bridge, by Susan Short.  This one has an interesting depiction of the shadow of the bridge’s cables falling across its pier and the Thames below, but perhaps the most interesting thing is that it’s printed on paper that has a subtle wood grain pattern.  This makes a lovely, pale, slightly rosy sky in the large blank area that emphasizes our low viewpoint.
        So, five cool views of the city of London, five artists, five different icons on which to focus, with different styles, different levels of detail and texture.  (It's also interesting that 4/5 are in vertical rather than "landscape" format.)  What fun!

[Pictures: Central London Skyline and Landmarks, linocut print by Abigail Daker (Image from the artist’s Etsy shop abidaker);
London, linocut print by Katie Jo Heiner Shupe (See the artist’s Etsy Shop BonVoyart);
Tower of London, linocut by Lance Duffin, 2018 (Image from Flickr);
Piccadilly III, linocut by John Gledhill, c 2014 (Image from the artist’s web site.)
St Pauls & Millenium Bridge, woodcut by Susan Short (Image from the artist’s web site.)]