Feet Firmly Planted

Big night out. My head is still spinning from the Contra dancing I participated in last night at the Grey Eagle in Asheville. Well...participate... I use the term loosely. I danced just twice before extreme dizziness deterred me. Middle school dance syndrome kicked in immediately once I crossed the threshold. When I was approached to dance, I gave a fair warning. Poor fella hadn't the foggiest idea what a mess he was getting into. He spun and we shuffled our way through the Celtic-bluegrassy-tuned number. When it was over, I thought I would keel over before making it back to my wall-hugging seat.

While I've danced a couple of times with these good folks in Birmingham, I was ill-prepared for the expertise of the Contra crowd up here in Appalachia. They danced circles around me.

The rest of the evening had me spectating from a safe distance: close enough to see, but not near enough to actually be beckoned back onto the floor where toe-stepping and spaziness would undoubtedly ensue.

I had a big old time, regardless. Once I regained my balance, I found the music to be just divine and the regular dancers, a real treat to watch. But, I'd be deceiving myself if I said I wasn't itching to be among them.

I find myself in a similar situation here at Penland. I skim the surface of an ocean filled with talented artisans. I'd love more than anything to plumb the depths of this art. But, I'm still wearing my floaties. The idea of diving deep is both intoxicating and dizzying. I suppose the only real way to learn if it's for me is to take a step, to let Him lead me onto the dance floor, and to trust that the whole discombobulating experience will guide me back to my bearings.

I'm just past midpoint here. I'm more than a little homesick after seeing my good friends over the weekend. Their company was refreshing in the moment as it was confirmation that I've got a real home to return to. So, I will soak up the last three and a half weeks here until this season is done.

I'm in the midst of planning and printing my last projects, or as we're calling them: "Ambitious Editions." I'm hesitant to post them here, as they may be stuffing some of your stockings this holiday season. So, for now, they'll be my little secrets. I'll be sure to let you know when the remnants go up in my Etsy shop.

Lastly, a word about the honest goodness of the mountain folk of North Carolina:

Thanks for the affordable pumpkin and the hopeful trust in humanity.

Art is Life's Blood (Part 2)

Art hurts.

I'm telling you. I haven't suffered so many consecutive minor injuries in my three and a half weeks here at Penland since I was a trike-riding girl. First it was the (non-art related) mop-bucket-toe-smashing incident, then it was the killer hand eating press. Just last week, I gouged myself with the wood carving tool. And then! Today, I roly-wheeled right into my blessed index finger.

Sure, I'm inexperienced, slowly and painfully learning safe practice. But, I'm not the only one. I join the ranks of countless others who have been so consumed by their focus that they've lost themselves to the jaws of the press shop.

I made the mistake of looking up cases of printing-induced injuries. Don't do it. And by all means, don't dig too deep for any information about the dangers of working in a type foundry. Last week, our visiting artist fellow had a few wary tales that'd make you never want to leave the safe confines of your cozy armchair.

In a quick reading of some literature on woodcarving technique, I happened upon this piece of wisdom:

Stand at the entrance to the workplace with a notepad and challenge yourself to think of all the ways you could be hurt in the space in front you, including the tools and equipment.

Oh boy. You better believe I got a kick out of playing this game everywhere I went last week. Walked into the kitchen, notepad in hand. Well, shoot, in the case of a rare North Carolina earthquake, those canned vegetables could plummet from their heights and knock innocent bystanders out. Stepped into the clay studio. By golly, if I'm not careful, I could be maimed by a piece of debris from the potter's wheel. Watch out. Take notes. Danger is everywhere.

I don't mean to make light of the inherent risk of injury around some of the tools and machinery here. I'm not engaging in anything that could harm me in any serious way. I just think it's rather amusing that in making art, I'm band-aid clad like I haven't been in years. Sheesh.

[Mama, don't worry. I'm fine, really.]

Patience, My Dear

Good afternoon!

For all interested, below is detailed the slooooow process of composing and printing a simple poster. The whole rigmarole took me days bent over the table and press, thousands of wood-carving strokes, hundreds of hand cranks ... While it was a labor of love, done to prepare for the 3rd Annual Day of Fall Fun, I'm quite unsatisfied with the end result. Follow my steps to see just why:

It all begins with the hand carving of a wood block. Each tool here has to be sharpened on a "strop" of leather and/or a stone to achieve a shape and sharpness that is just-so. It can take hours to get it right.

My first block was this pattern. It doesn't look like anything fancy, but oh! just wait.

My second block is a nameplate written in Quiggley Wiggly. If you thought I was a typography nerd before... you'll scarcely recognize the girl who returns to you mid November. I. love. fonts.

My third and final block for this particular print. I like this guy.

And here is the end result. Not so fast. Allow me to let you in on the step by step. (If all of this gets too technical, scroll down, dear reader. The more introspective mush is to follow):

1. Carve blocks.
2. Print first layer of yellow.
3. Flip block in press and print the other layer of yellow to make a lovely argyle.
4. Print title in brown.
5. Print date.
6. Print pinecone.
7. Set each letter of the type by hand.
8. Print text.
9. Print"&" and stars (in two separate runs because of the multiple colors).
10. Cut down to size.
11. Proofread closely.
12. Notice TWO awesome typos: "festivites" and "donatoin."
13. Remember that step 12 should've happened after step 7.
14. Have a good laugh.

If I walk away with nothing else from this experience, I will have learned a great deal of patience. This lengthy multi-part process requires it. I'm being forced to take my foot off of the accelerator, to coast, to roll the windows down and notice the scenery. Boy, is it a real challenge for this infamous "lead foot."

This particular composition took a good long while to complete. While I don't even really like the end result, I am certain that I emerged from the whole thing a bit more confident in my printing abilities. I've got many miles to go.

Also notable from this week:
-My class was visited by Micah Currier of the Dale Guild Type Foundry in New Jersey. This guy is one of only three people in the country (world?) to know how to operate the machinery that makes new typefaces for usage in letterpress. Crazy impressive.
-I've been making special coffee drinks for my new friends here at mealtimes. I miss barista-ing.
-I got a chance to roam the streets of Asheville once again, this time with my dear friend, Faith. She's a wise and wonderful woman.

I suppose that's all for now. So, deebble deeble deep ....Reporting live from Penland, North Carolina. Until next time folks, may your days be colorful and your dreams, sweet.

* A NEW five feet small feature!
Weather: Sunny deep blue skies and falling leaves. Perfectly autumnal.
What I'm listening to: "She's Gone" by Hall and Oats (a current favorite).
What I'm reading: Cheese Monkeys by Chip Kidd.
What I'm working on in class: A seeing eye chart (in crazy fonts) and October valentines.

Another reason why English class beats Calculus.

I sometimes marvel that God chose to risk his revelation in the ambiguities of language. If he had wanted to make sure that the truth was absolutely clear, without any possibility of misunderstanding, he should have revealed his truth by means of mathematics. Mathematics is the most precise, unambiguous language that we have. But then, of course, you can’t say ‘I love you’ in algebra. --Eugene Peterson, Eat This Book

Me and math. We’re not friends.

I said my farewell as soon as I completed my final required course during the spring of my senior year of high school. I left that sorry sucker in the hallways behind as soon as my tassel was turned and didn’t look back.

I’ve had my share of ambivalent teachers over the years.* Added to that is the fact that I had/have an in-dwelling dislike for the formulas, the angles, the precision of a subject matter that has, for the most part, seemed rather impertinent to life I lead.

This week here at Penland has brought me to the stark realization that...I was wrong. Granted, I don’t believe I’ll ever hold a job where I’m required to recall the complexities of calculus. But, in the art of letterpress, there is a definite need for the geometry I’ve buried in the recesses of my mind. There is, indeed, real life application for exact line and angle measurements.

And quite frankly, I’ve forgotten how to be that accurate.

For years now, I’ve put my money in the bank of the English language. I was going to be a writer. Math smath. Who needs it?

Well, through a series of events and a little divergence from plan A, turns out I do. What I’m doing now requires the ability to slow and measure -- to get it right the first time. Because, there is a right answer. If a line of type is set into the bed of a press one pica from where it should be, it’ll throw an entire composition off when printed. If the ink rollers are set 1/8 inch too low, they can crush an alphabet of antique wooden type with one crank of the press.

So, this week, I’ve come up against my inadequacies and my need to reach back and remember. I pray that I will come away from this experience with a little more attention to the math that matters.

That said, I still hold tightly to the phantom power and mystery of our language. My belief in it is still the underlying reason thAT I’m here. My reading of ETB has impressed me again with a reverence for the intricacies of a system of letters and words that with which we’ve been given to speak, to write, to try and understand each other.

It is an untamable force. It’s endlessly perplexing.

And why God chose the written word to reign in His truth, I do not know. While it’s imperfect, it’s the best we have. If He had chosen to communicate through numbers, we might have a perfectly flat understanding, but without the enchantment.

We’d have an academic knowledge, but know not the poetry of His love.

*One particular instructor was so terrible, that her behaviors caused me to write her name into the quadratic formula in a not-so-nice fashion. I believe the particular doodle on the side of my notes said something to the effect of: the square root of -(attitude) +/- the square root of {(Mrs. X^2-(4*absolute cruelty)}/ 2(awful) = meaniehead. Yes, I was in eleventh grade. Imagine my embarrassment when I went in for some after school tutoring and forgot to erase my little formulaic insult.

Honing My Craft

Some letterpressed plaid, of course.

Step One of my woodcarving project.

Step Two: On the press.

Wa-la!

This is just a taste of what I've been working on this week hitherto. I'll be back with more!

A Thousand Pictures and Some Words

Greetings from Penland! For the first time since last weekend, I now have unencumbered hours of rest to sit in the shade of a glorious maple with a mountainscape laid out before my eyes. Sundays are my days off from work, and while the studio is open for usage during the weekends, I've come to realize that if I don't sit down to record and reflect on this experience, it will pass me by without seeping in. I desire for it all to be pressed deep into me. I want for my eyes to open wide to my surroundings, ears attuned to the whisperings around me. So, my dear reader, indulge me for a few minutes as I relay the events of this first FULL week.

(If, in fact, you're thrown off by the above image, allow for me to explain... When setting type, it's orientation has to be flipped and turned, so as to print correctly. I know, it's so confusing. A few days worth of practice has not been enough to make it come naturally to me either, but I trust that it will come inherently with time.)


This is the Craft House: my place of residence for the next seven weeks. It's neither heated nor cooled, but the mountain air has substituted the need for either. Isn't it swell?

This here is my little alcove, nestled on the top floor of the Craft House. I share the attic with about ten other young women. My little corner is so cozy. I can pull the shower curtain on my space in the evenings for a little privacy. Though teen-niny, it's really quite nice.

I am a work-study student here, which means that I have to devote about 12 or so hours/week to helping the kitchen operations run smoothly. I have mostly morning shifts, and so, round about 7 am each morning, I make my way down the rocky path from Craft House to these here Pines for breakfast set up. It's easy work, for the most part, as I prepare the dining room for students to come fuel up for the day. Part of my duty includes making coffee. Though it's nowhere close being as delicious as my beloved Urban, it'll do just fine for the time I'm here. On another note, the fare here is quite extraordinary. Fresh fruit and vegetables (some from the garden right here on-property) accompany each healthful meal. I am becoming quite spoiled.


After breakfast, I've found myself coming 'home' to the porch of Craft for some quiet reading before I head off to the studio. The porch is crowded with the most delightful row of rocking chairs, and a view I'll never tire of taking in.


I then head to the studio for the first portion of class! The letterpress building is up behind The Pines. Our building is the newest and most architecturally modern structure on campus. It's pretty jazzy. More on that in a minute.

The walk to the studio is a pretty one, with a view of the fog as it cozies into the creases of this mountainous view.


And here is the studio! Isn't it grand!? Interspersed with our work spaces are four gorgeous Vandercook presses. These hunks of metal have been around for ages-- been cranking out print pieces for countless people and projects. I'm privileged to have access to them under the instruction of Bryan Baker, formerly of Yeehaw Industries in Knoxville (and currently of the Book Arts Program in Brooklyn).

Here is one of the beauties! One day, maybe I'll have one to call my own!

This is a drawer full of wooden type. I think it's just great. In class, we've used both wood and lead type so far. While newer printers use the polymer plate technique to transfer digital designs to paper, the method we've been using here is much more traditional. Setting letters into the press one by one is tedious. It certainly requires much more careful attention. I think it's good for me, honestly. With many things, I tend to opt for quick and easy. This is a process that forces a much slower and fastidious attention.

Our first class project was to print a piece of microfiction. Following Hemingway's model, we were instructed to compose a six word story, set with lead type and then print it. This week, the other seven students and I will print an envelope to house our story-ettes.

This was assignment number two. With a partner, I printed this lovely poem by Mary Oliver about the transformation from summer to fall (sent to me this week by a kind friend). We decided that we should begin at the top with a summery green, transitioning down to a more autumnal colorscape as it drifted downwards, like leaves falling to the dirt. We then chose a few words from the text, printing them bigger and brighter. It was a fun exercise, and proved to be quite educational in the problems it presented along the way. (Here's a fun fact. For the stack of 50 prints we produced, we had to run the press 450 times. So, yes, I'm quite fond of this one.)

At the end of the day, we traded prints with another group, and were instructed to add to the existing composition. My classmate Beth and I got this here print. You can scarcely see it, but beneath our blue wash and oooo's, there lies a faint alphabetic design. We decided to bring it to completion by adding this abstract design and a column of text down the right hand side. Each word in the column contains two o's, and they kind of follow a sound association pattern down the page. It starts and ends with the word kazoo to bring it all full circle. (Get it?)

Here are some of the prints that Bryan brought as examples. They hang on the bulletin board in the studio, taunting me with their precision. I have so very much to learn. As mentioned earlier, I have the lousy tendency of being overwhelmed, rather than excited, at how far I am from my classmates and other professional printers. I am an inch deep in this ocean. I'm inspired by the endless possibilities of this art, and pray for the grace and patience I need for the process of learning it.

On Friday night, my entire class ventured into Asheville for the 5th Annual Bookopolis Show. Book artists from around the country submitted the most delicate creations of handprinted, handmade books. The details, oh the details! I cannot tell you how refreshing it was to be at an art show where it was encouraged to handle the works on display. It's touchable art. It's meant to be thumbed through, held close to the nose. I love running my fingers across the pressed pages on handmade papers. Sheer delight.

This weekend has been sunny and bright - a contrast to the wet wet week we've experienced. Check out this eye-full. I still feel like I'm dreaming. I'm sharing life with real-deal artists in an absolutely pristine environment.

Things like this teach me more and more about GRACE. I did exactly nothing to deserve this, and yet, this path was paved for me. I'm without the words I need to proclaim my gratitude in a way that would do justice to its depth.

This morning, as I took a walk through a winding wooded path, this song streamed into my earbuds. It may capture just what I'm trying to say in that ....what I'm trying to say is non-capturable.

How can I thank you, when I can't wrap my arms around You?

Let this feeble thanks be heard.

Thou Shalt Not Compare

It is said that comparison is the thief of joy. (Or in other parts, according to other liberty-taking folks, it is the "one-eyed bearded thief of joy.") I agree with both varieties, and if left to my own devices in a group of talented do-ers, quickly take to an unhealthy self-deprecation.

The first full day of class and work brought with it a hearty portion of excitement today. After our introduction to the studios last night, I was so intoxicated with ideas and inspiration that I could hardly meet with sleep. After waking this morning, I was quickly faced with my shortcomings, my inexperience and the cold hard fact that I'm years and miles behind my classmates.

According to statistics, when kids in an average American kindergarten class are asked to raise their hands if they are artists, the majority of them do. By the fifth grade, the numbers drop. When middle school hits, even fewer remain.

Isn't it a travesty? So many of us start out with confidence that we are creators, that our efforts are valid and our art, fridge-worthy. Then as the years wear on us, we become less sure of ourselves. Because we don't pursue and art degree, display our works in galleries, have an etsy shop...we cannot possibly call ourselves artists.

I can still hear my little girl answer to the age old question.* "An artist," I'd say boldly.

But, today, I'm a statistic.

It wasn't long before my own career ambitions morphed, and I was after something a little more concrete. Here's to hoping I can channel my little voice of-old, that I can drown out the others and refuse to let anything pirate the joy I have from being in this place.

*"What do you want to be when you grow up?"