Spur of the Moment

Yesterday, I was packaging up some prints as "I'm sorry I'm a ponce and have taken so long to send out things I owe you" bits; I had these outlined and such for my Etsy shop, but being sick, I wasn't able to open my shop in time. So, gifts they become! 

But while I was doing this, I realized I had an extra one. And had the most odd thought:

What if I brought this to my coffee shop and hung it on the wall with a little note?

It felt so....right. And so I decided, spur of the moment, that I will bring a different print with me every time I go to that shop, and hang it there to brighten someone's day. A little experiment, as it were. 

I ended up chatting with some girls as I eyed a spot for my print, and loved that they understood. "Sometimes, we want art and we can't afford it. So many people here live in the dorms and need something to hang on the walls." (Yes, I live in a college town!) Even the baristas liked the idea. That's always bolstering, when you have a crazy idea like this and others are just as excited as you. 

I love the idea of sharing art with strangers. I remember meeting a woman and showing her my cards, and seeing how moved she was by one of the paintings on the back. She was surprised I would give her one -- I'd much rather give away art to the people touched by it than hoard it all for myself in exchange for money. 

Not the best way to make a living, but a wonderful way to craft a life. 

 

It'll be interesting to see, when I go back on Saturday, if it's still there. 

{a photo trip to Sweet Salvage}

My carpel tunnel is acting up like crazy, and typing with a brace on is difficult, so why don't you wander with me through Sweet Salvage on 7th Ave? 

{art journal + inspiration book = ?}

Not that I’m happy about a certain bookstore chain biting the dust (in fact, I had a few months left of my Plus membership), but it did help to spur on this new wave of journaling juju I’m working through.

You see, Becca and I visited the nearest Borders still open, which was near her place, but 40 minutes from mine (I’ve become a huge fan of used bookstores in this Borders-less era, which works since I live across the street from one of the best-known used/new indie bookshops in the state) and wandered the very crowded store for whatever we could find. Being as I work for myself (scraping by as I continue to morph and change and figure out my place in this digital artistic landscape) and Becca is underemployed in child-care, there wasn’t much we could afford — Amazon has lower prices, anyway — but we could afford the magazines.

I haven’t really been into womens’ magazines past Bust and Bitch — two amazing publications, the later of which is a non-profit media machine funded by women all over the country — only buying, and this is fun, Japanese fashion magazines for years as I love Harajuku fashion, as it is. But my darling Florence Welch of Florence + the Machine was on the cover of Nylon, and at 40% off, I simply had to have it.

Let’s backtrack a bit. This isn’t a story that can be told linearly, rather, my mind doesn’t think in a straight line — what is that quote? Time exists so things don’t happen all at once?

"The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once." - Albert Einstein

There we go.

A month ago, I went to Art Unraveled to meet up with Dina and finally get to meet Traci in-person, and got the chance to page through the Journal Fodder Junkies journals while the other artists were speaking.

(Rice asked questions of the artists gathered, about inspiration, which you can see here. Extra credit if you can spot me for a few seconds!)

I think I’d already been thinking about how my journals had gradually moved away from where I started; a few years ago, I decided to stop using magazine images in my journals, and even did a radical experiment of creating an entire journal without any outside imagery. It wasn’t that I don’t like journals with magazine bits in them, just that I was in a different place — I, personally, didn’t like the aesthetic in my own work.

From an entry back in 2009:

So, today, I sat in the studio, turned up my iPod, and started painting. It looked great. And then, I kept going, and going, and BAM -- I could feel the teenager inside me screaming and crying, telling me to destroy it. "No, I can't do that," Older Me told her, "It is valuable in it's imperfections. It shows us what we don't like." "But we know what we DO like," she shouted back. "Why can't we just go back to that? To the way it was?" "Because how will we grow?" I said. "I was getting bored with acrylics and paintbrushes and drawings." "Then pull out the magazines," Teenage Kira advised. "You thought you were being all smart, deciding to not use them, but you really do like them sometimes." So I did. And made some awesome pages.

Oh, how clever I thought I’d been. But, in looking through those journals, with all those scraps of paper from the places they’d been, found walking around the block (Dave had a quote about this, about walking around your block and picking up the bits you find before getting started in the studio), I recognized a yearning that beforehand didn’t have a name, that I was missing that bit of journaling that more resembled a book of inspiration than a painting on each page. I knew, then, that I’d be taking a new turn by going back in the past — think of it this way; I was using something I learned in school I never thought I’d ever use. We’ve all had moments like this, that surprise at using knowledge we thought useless, that we’d never visit again.

Except now I’m a new me, which means it isn’t the same person looking at the prospect of using magazine images in her journal, so it’s turned into something new. Instead of being a journal full of only paint and artist’s pages, it is now a place where anything I find inspiring is taped or glued down right beside experiments with stencils or even the stencils themselves!

And I like this hybrid return to my roots. It coincides with some soul work I’m doing with the blog, and my identity on the internet as part of Gwen Bell’s Align Your Website. I told you last week that I’d be making changes in real-time, and you’ll soon be seeing the bare-bones as I work to figure out the content and framework for a new digital sanctuary.

As part of this, I’ll be stepping back from social media (such as Twitter & Facebook), so if you’d like to visit or keep in contact, check in here or the weekly newsletter. I’ll be posting daily, either long or short bits, and sending out the newsletter. And as True to You 2’s last lesson will be posted on Monday, I’ll be back to offering videos. I don’t know how long I’ll be taking a break from social media, but figure I’ll know the end when it happens.

{comfortable, lived in, & well-worn}

Despite having my desktop set up in my room as a “work space,” I often find myself slacking off while sitting there, projects that would have taken an hour eating up more and more time as I chat, surf, and start going through the stacks of tea cups and Diet Coke bottles that litter the “empty” half. There are some interesting things down there, including Important Papers, and then I’m distracted by them and work kind of….flitters away. 

If you’ve been following me since my move in October, you’ve heard me talk about The Cafe That I Go To. As a former Starbucks barista, I’d been conditioned to go there, or any other chain coffee house, but then I found this one, and wow, does it feel comfortable. For one, none of the chairs really match. There are little pillows on them (and my feet are up on the table’s other chair, the pillow comfy under my bare, clean feet). 

This is where people come to read a book or work on schoolwork. Being so close to Arizona State University at Tempe, there are always students leaning over tables highlighting photocopies or discussing group projects. But you’ll also find the professors in here with heaping stacks of essays to grade (or perhaps that’s just the TA?). There will be moms and children or just friends chatting. Yes, there are more MacBooks than anything else (and I feel like I’ve just been given a seat at the Big Kid’s Table with my “new” one). 

The thing is, no one is really here for a quick cup of coffee. I don’t think most people even get coffee — tea is the norm. No, here, everyone is camped out, their tables littered with all they need, books to reference, empty cups from the last time they got a refill, newspapers, cell phones, notebooks. We’re here for the Long Haul, ensconced at our tables and connected to the very walls with power cords snaking to expanded outlets. There are board games and random old books you can borrow, decks of cards, even a dictionary.

Everything is lived in, comfortable and worn away at the edges, a place where you become a regular after your first visit. 

I know the baristas here, as well as the woman who owns the place. And her sons. And grandson. And husband. It is one of those places were we’re all here to get things done, to belong and enjoy. Fridays, a jazz band plays. Saturdays, it’s game night. 

And for some reason, whenever I come here and unload my bag, put my notebook and markers and tape on the table, open my laptop, get out my cell phone, plug in my headphones to listen to classic rock, I melt into the chair and everything becomes so open and easy, I may simply give up on living in my apartment and just stay here. 

It is so rare, these days, to find a place that just flows with zen. There aren’t many ads. There’s art everywhere. No corporation breathing down your neck, just a family and a bunch of kids who are smart and kind and good at their jobs.  

Makes me wonder why the rest of the world can’t be like this. 

------

A few post-entry notes: 

1. I have added a drop-down link up in the navigation bar to the entries posted to the newsletter. I figured it would be nice to have a little archive of the essays I write (mostly) weekly and send out, as I may soon expand it to being more often (an opt-in option, rest-assured). 

2. I am currently Re-Aligning my website and have decided to do this in real-time. Which means you get to experience the changes as I make them. It may be fun. It may be difficult. But it's something I knew I was ready for (more on this tomorrow). 

{the rhythm of the mountain}

A few weeks ago, my father and brother piled me in the car for a trip to South Mountain. It stands at the southern border of Phoenix proper, a long mountain in the valley that boast cell phone and broadcast towers. I'd wanted to visit since first arriving out here, but never found anyone to go with. 

We climbed high, huffing and puffing, as my brother - 20 years old and full of energy - disappeared from view over the summit of the smaller mound we were climbing. At the top, I could see across all of Phoenix, over to the mountains on the other side, the crescent shape they create, almost cradling the city. 

A bet was made - my brother headed to climb even higher as my father and I camped out on a rock jutting over the edge, the flat, even surface making for a perfect seat. While we waited, munching on trail mix, I wandered off to create a rock tower. 

I don't know why I did it. Actually, I do. I've seen these on blogs over the years, the posts all spiritual and amazing, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. What does piling rocks have to do with anything? Why do it at all? I felt like a child building a sand castle while a bully watched -- would someone knock it down? Why make it if it wouldn't even be noticed? 

Here's the thing they don't tell you -- finding the rocks is the best part. Scattered across the top of the smaller mountain were rocks of all sizes and colors, some more precariously placed that others. I went along trying to find the right size and shape to build the next level -- would this be flat enough to hold another above it? Or would it cause the whole thing to fall over? 

And up there, atop a mountain, there's no sound but the rush of a gentle breeze. It's absolute peace. The longer I searched for rocks, the clearer my mind became. I was focused on my task. And when I finished, I sat on the ground and looked at it, thinking will someone else see this? 

That's the point, I think. That someone else will walk up this mountain and see, among the nature-scattered shapes and plants and flowers, a little bit of connection to someone else. Manmade, yes, but not in the sense we usually think of -- this wasn't a human structure, an architectural monument to all we can create. It was simply rocks, built to honor a Higher Power, to show someone they are not alone in the world, that there are others out there even when the terrain is bleak and bleaching your very bones. 

I found myself swaying to the rhythm of the mountain, reconnecting with nature, with myself, with the Divine. I sat and let myself not think before watching my brother become a dot atop a higher peak. I may not be able to make it up that high, but I can sit lower and appreciate the beauty around me and reassure those passing me on the path that imperfection is not only okay, it's the point. 

{contemplate, plan, doodle, and dream}

So, uh, hi everyone! I'm still alive. I think this may be one of the longest times I've gone without blogging. It wasn't really for any other reason than feeling I had nothing in my life worth blogging. But as I look back on my week now, I realized two things: 

1. I totally had stuff to blog about.

2. I need to take more pictures, because wordy posts can make your brain hurt. 

Not that I don't love writing. I can write for hours without a break, just letting the words flow. In fact, this morning, my mother was telling me about a book she downloaded to her Kindle. 

"There were all these errors," she said, then explained them. "Kira, you're such a gifted writer. You should be submitting your stories to the Kindle store." 

"Naw," I blushed. (I am one of those people who can't take a compliment; I get really uncomfortable and shy!)

"You could just change the names and publish them!" she smiled. 

And I love that my mother knows the stories I spend my nights writing aren't original pieces of fiction (sidenote: I've been working on the same fan story for about two months, now, and it's at 35,000 words. I'm a wordy girl!). But her comment got me to thinking: Why not try to write something original and submit it? There's something that tells me I'm GOOD at this -- that I can put together words in an eye-pleasing way. That I can pull you into a story. So why haven't I done this, yet? Why haven't I gone ahead and tried? 

Anyway, there's one thought rattling around in my head! 

--

I also headed over to Glendale with Tina for the area's mixed-media meetup group thingy (collective, right?). We always get there early because it's either get there an hour early and wander around the shop, or get there late because of rush-hour. I'm pretty sure everyone else in the group is from the west valley, but I've never been one to shy away from something fun just because of a little drive. 

As always, it was fun to hang out with all the gals. Tina has some photos on her blog, as do Dina and Julie (who was our special guest!). And remember that starburst stencil I used? I know someone asked me where I got it/who made it. Turns out it is by Crafter's Workshop, who's owner, Jamie, came to our little shindig as well and gave us stencils. YAY! How can you turn down free stencils? She's such a sweetie and her company makes the best stencils ever, so head over there and check them out! 

--

I've had a few deadlines this week, and a few more things moved around, so I never know if I'm coming or going! I did, however, get things done early (shocker!) and am now reading things over, formatting stuff, and taking many pictures to really get the best one instead of the one I quickly snapped. 

As for my journaling/art/paintings/creations:

I'm going through an awkward growth phase. I'm flipping back and forth to work on several pages at once, and my new explorations have the thick stretched and bulging so much, I can't use the elastic to keep it closed anymore! I'm trying to figure out a way to put all this newness into words I can share with you, but until I can, I shall leave you with some photos of the pages I'm working on/have recently finished. 

Maybe, tonight, I'll sit down with my notebook and try to figure this all out. I know it's something new and exciting and amazing, but haven't been able to do words -- just images and little doodles and things here and there. A painting is taking shape in my mind, an idea, a bit of wonder. I just need to be open to it all. 

--

Here are two final bits of stuff! (can you tell how cluttered my head has become?)

1. I've put up the button journal I made as the example for my Button Journal Workshop on Etsy. It's such a darling little thing, and when I made it, I was originally going to use it, but then I found some things to make a new journal and am going through this odd patch, so it needs a home!
Sold before I could post this!

2. I've started a side-project called Born Brave. It's a newsletter of sorts -- more letters & essays. A diary of possibility & living with chronic illness. I've gotten tons of emails and comments over the years about how, by sharing my story, I've inspired others to try. And I've written essays on creativity and chronic illness for years, just never knew where to put them. Why is it paid? For two reasons. A. Because I get really personally -- more so than I ever have in public before. A letter system like this keeps the actual content off the internet. B. Chronic illness means no insurance, tons of doctor's appointments, and meds. And I'll be honest, I'm struggling on that point. I'm hoping to get guests to write essays and letters, too, and if this grows large enough, be able to pay them for their help (right now, they will get a month free). 

Have I talked your ear off? Or your eyes, since you're reading? What do I sound like when you read my words in your head? 

Ahem. I'm going off to contemplate, plan, doodle, and dream. I'll catch y'all tomorrow. 

with love, 
Samie Kira 

{two amazing lessons on one adventurous night}

The cover for my new (next) journal is drying, and the sun’s casting a warm glow over my little area, so I thought I’d pause from picking the PVA from my fingers and finally sit down to write this post.

It’s a week late, as in the events in it happened a week ago, about 30 minutes from now, but I haven’t really been in the mood to write it until now. Forgive me if I ramble, or get deep; I’m writing this as I think, more like telling a story to a friend rather than writing a concise blog post.

Then again, I treat this blog as an open letter to a friend, or to myself, beginning with art six years ago.

There’s this thing in Phoenix called First Fridays. I heard about it pretty soon after I moved here in October, while searching for artful gatherings near me. It’s described as America’s largest self-guided art walk, with galleries and shops opening their doors to a wandering public looking for a good time and great art. There are vendors at several points along the way, and a free trolley helps you get around.

Last Thursday, I was watching Up. And you know the beginning, the part that makes you cry? It also made me realize that the way I was going, I’d have dreams painted on all my walls and never have done one of them. So I decided there and then that I was going to do First Friday. I’m usually hesitant about such things, not because I don’t like crowds or adventures, but rather know I’ll pay for a long walk and physical activity the day, or days, later. A nice little Fibromyalgia parting gift.

But I was going to do it. I had a back-up Vicodin in my pocket, and packed my purse with my journal, a handful of art prints, my wallet, and digital camera. I also packed my younger brother, K, in the car, and we drove to the Phoenix Art Museum to park and catch the trolley. I don’t really know the area, so I figured this would be the best way to go.

So we grabbed a map and stood in the crowd waiting for the East trolley. And that thing was packed as tightly as a Japanese train during rush hour (I presume; I’ve only ridden the Japanese train system during their 9pm rush hour, so the earlier ones could be lighter. Then again, I doubt that very much!). We were the first two to have to stand, and so we rode on down to Roosevelt holding onto the gold bars running above the seats that were smudged with fingerprints.
 

We didn’t really know where to get off, so I suggested the second Roosevelt stop. Why? Because it looked close to stuff. So we waited and soon were released from the trolley in a gush of human traffic, running into those collected on the corner. We were bombarded by hand-outs and fliers from all sorts of people, our hands quickly stuffed.

But it wasn’t until we began wandering down 5th Street that we really realized where we were.

A magical, awesome land.
 

I don’t really know how to describe it other than to show you photographs K took, as he lifted the camera from me sometime on the trolley (note: I wish I had the names of the artists pictured here, but since I wasn't paying attention, I didn't grab cards from all of them). Which was fine, as I was jumping after everything. There are little coffee shops (one sold coffee and crapes!) and tiny galleries where the owners sleep in the back rooms. Giant covered front lawns cluttered with mismatched picnic tables. Back lots with more art to see or bands to hear.
 

People were selling paintings and prints, jewelry and sculptures made from found objects. One woman had several hula-hoops with ribbon wrapped around them. The night was warm and all around us, conversations blended into that rich background that makes you feel more alive just through knowing there are others around you. You could close your eyes or look up at the stars and just feel the creative energy saturating your clothes, your very bones.

I quickly reconized the need to carry a water bottle, and bought one at the coffee and crepes place. K declined. And then, suddenly, we came upon a table covered in cupcakes, water bottles, and --

“Or any of this stuff!” the girl said. “We don’t take money, only trades.”

“And no cell phones,” the second one added.

K laughed. “People have offered you their cell phones?”

“Yep!”

“What’s all that?” I asked. The first girl had a flashlight pointed at a pile of seemingly unconnected junk, random bits you’d find at the bottom of your purse.

“Things people have traded us.”

“Well,” I said, “Those cupcakes look delicious.” I quickly balanced my purse on the table and began digging through all the papers and fliers we’d already collected out of wanting to avoid confrontation, looking for the pile of prints I’d shoved in ‘just in case.’ I pulled out You Can Fly and handed it to the second girl. “Here. K, do you want something?”

“That bottle of water,” he replied.

“This is so cool!” the second girl said, once her friend shined the flashlight on the print. I smiled, K opened the bottle of water, and we continued on.

“I can’t believe my art just bought you that bottle of water,” I told K.

“I know. It’s awesome.”

And he drank half the damn bottle right there.

--

We stepped up onto the high patio of a print shop, where K looked through screenprinted t-shirts. I eyed the decorated flasks in the corner. Outside, on the patio, a DJ changed songs, the beat vibrating through the brick shop.

“These are cool,” he said.

“They’re screenprinted.”

We walked back out into the heat of April in the desert. As we hopped down, K said, “You should do that, Sam.”

“Right. With my little Yudu.”

“It would be really cool.”

I laughed into the night air.

We walked back towards the corner where a company was handing out free cans of something called Sun Drop. I took the offered drink, and so did K. As we neared the corner and the amber light of a streetlight, he held his out.

“I got diet.”

“Good,” I smiled.

We switched drinks and popped open the tabs. It wasn’t half-bad.

--

We entered a white building with chipping paint, deep red showing through the cracks. A fence inside guided us around to a gallery area, where paintings and pieces from all sorts of mediums stood freely or hung on the walls. Right next to the entrance sat a grey box with

THIS WAY TOWARD ENEMY

stenciled on it. It was painted on all visible surfaces.

K laughed at the mirror and camera installation that showed your image over the word SUSPECT.

We went up a staircase to nowhere, descended, and headed back out.

--

Across the way, an open field boasted tented stalls of all sorts of things. K pulled out the camera while I explored one covered in pink. Another had hand-made jewelry that took my breath away and made me regret not pulling any cash out of an ATM before driving down. A display of brass stencils caught my eye, and as I went through them, I remarked,

“Wow. I had about 500 of these in Illinois.”

The owner sighed. “You should have put them on eBay!”

“They might still be in the garage,” I replied.

I grabbed a card after running my fingers over darling earrings, the pang of not being able to bring them home with me a pain that would remind me for next month.

--

We crossed the street to where a band was playing in front of a record shop.

As I walked through the latticed walls covered in paintings, I couldn’t help but feel small. Not in stature, but talent. And here’s where the first amazing thing of the night happened.

Instead of feeling hopeless and depressed, I felt empowered.

Why? Because seeing the work there, being in front of the paintings and saying hello to the tattooed artists who probably have jobs during the day and do this on the side, or struggle by on sales alone, showed me what is possible. I remember reading an interview with Pam Carriker, and the intro said, “She has 20 years experience in art.”

20 years? How can I possible think my art now can be compared to anything like that after only 6? Yes, some people succeed overnight. Others need practice and passion. I was wailing to Lia one night a year ago and she told me, “You know, it took Sabrina [Ward Harrison] 10 years to make any money off her books.”

And walking around, seeing those pieces, I realized I’m only in my artistic infancy. I’m just starting, drawing stick figures with my fingers in kindergarten. I have so much yet to discover and uncover in myself. There’s so many things I need to go through in order to get the rich stuff out. And I’m doing the best anyone wanting to be an artist can -- I am making art every day. A sketch here, watercolors there. Maybe some writing in my Harajuku Lovers composition book Lia sent me to fill with new Arizona dreams. Other days, I’m experimenting with the laugh and disregard of rules of a mad scientist.

Maybe it won’t happen today or tomorrow, but it will as long as I keep showing up. I love the paintings I do now. I love the paintings I did last year. And I can see, when looking between them, how much I’ve grown and learned. There’s a adage in the TV business that goes like this -- in order to get a writing gig in TV, you have to submit a spec script (a script of an episode of an established show in the genre you want to write for). And everyone tells you you don’t submit your first or second or even your fifth. You submit that sixth one, because every one before that was just for practice.

I’m pretty sure it’s the same for art.

--

Our finale for the night was the Firehouse, where artists from all over sell their artwork, jewelery, clothes, and other odds and ends. I walked around and felt like I had to do something. Like this was one of those moments I could either grab for or paint on my walls.

“How does one get to sell stuff here?” I asked.

I got a card. And an enthusiastic, “We’re always looking for new artists!” before we left.

And we were just about to turn and walk to the trolley stop when I noticed there was something pointing to the back lot. Hugging the side of the building was a path lined with roses and bushes growing over a lattice fence. We came out into an area with a stage and chairs and couches set out for the audience. Not knowing what we walked into, K and I took a seat.

Now, you know that feeling I had earlier? That push to go outside my comfort zone and do something? Collect stories instead of pictures on the walls?

I just knew it was going to get me into trouble, because not five minutes later, I was randomly chosen to go up on stage. This wasn’t a volunteer thing -- this was a, “We’re going to pick you and you’re going to do this, damnit!” kind of deal. And I didn’t know what we were going to be doing until I climbed up onto the stage -- and I can still feel the embarrassment tingling across my skin as I write this -- and found out...

Oh, you thought I was going to tell you, didn’t you.

I will reveal this: the second amazing thing that happened that night. A piece of advice for all you afraid to do things you feel in your heart in fear of being embarrassed or laughed at. For those moments when you feel like a moron and want to shrink and hide.

I’m pretty sure -- no, positive -- it is nothing bigger than participating in an orgasmic moaning competition on stage in front of 50 strangers and your little brother recording the whole damn thing on the digital camera he lifted from you an hour ago.

So next time you’re frightened to do something in order to save face or avoid embarrassment, think to yourself, “Is this more scary that what Kira had to do?”

Yeah. Didn’t think so.

And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I didn’t come in first, but wasn’t last, either, which is a plus. And the rest of the night, I was laughing and smiling because nothing could touch me after that.

--

My brother opted to keep my door prize. And the camera. He said, “I’m so showing this to mom when we get back.”

“Uhh...just as long as it doesn’t end up on YouTube.”

He gave me a wicked smile as we reached the corner where the trolley would be picking us up.

It was across from a Light Rail station.

“Next time, we’re taking that down here,” I said with a tight smile, still wondering how I could get the camera back. “Cause we could have stayed so much later.”

--

K gave me the camera after I revealed, as we sat on the trolley back to the art museum, that I had the dongle that plugged into the computer at the bottom of my purse.

He asked for it back two hours later.

--

The next day, I walked into the bookstore and gave my number to the guy there I’d been crushing on for a few weeks. After the night before, what was a little flirting?

(And if you’re reading this, why haven’t you called? And if you did, why no voice mail?)

Perhaps that’s the final lesson. That you can have all the practice in the world, get rid of the embarrassment from your life, but in the end, you’ve gotta own it. All of it.

So stop painting pictures on your walls and get out into the world.

It’s waiting.

{artful charity, Q&A, & more!}

All right, darlings, we have a lot of ground to cover today!

First order of business…

me & meg at Ritsurin Park in Takamatsu, Japan. 2005.

I have this box in the corner of my studio space. It’s full of paintings I created between 2008 - 2010. I used to worry about not having enough pieces finished to have some sort of portfolio, and now look how many canvases I have!

The other night, I had a thought. It went something like this.

“I really want to help Japan, but have no money to give.”

“You should find the funds somewhere.”

“What about that box of paintings? Chrysti did charity work with paintings on Facebook, didn’t she?”

“OMG, I could sell the paintings and raise funds!”

(I would love to tell you there was only one speaker there, but I think we all know, at least at this point, that I’m the type of girl who has conversations with herself. ;) )

I’ve created an album on my Facebook Page and filled it with a bunch of paintings. There are pieces ranging from $10 to $150, and 70% of all the funds raised will be donated to the Red Cross. See? I can just text them a bunch of times — except I’ve read that the donations from cell phones don’t ACTUALLY get there until, and here’s the kicker, the bills are paid.

Yeah. Headdesk, anyone?

So I’ll be donating directly with the funds raised by painting sales.

I see it as a win-win-win situation: I gain more room in the studio & actually do something to help in the wake of all that’s happening, you donate money, and you get a painting to hang in your home. Oh, and add another win to that because the people in Japan affected by everything will also get some help! Win-win-win-win.

You’ve gotta like those odds!

Check out the album over on Facebook and see if there’s anything you like. Because the pieces are all kinds of sizes, I’m calculating postage after purchase so I can put in exact details to give you the best price. I can also take the paintings off the frames for a few of them, and send them rolled along with the disassembled frame. Your choice.

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Next! I’ve started using my Tumblr account again, if only to spout random inspiration and photos at you, as well as answer questions. Here’s what I’ve answered this week:


Sure could use some advice as to how to let go of my expectation of the project and just create.

How do you pick a subject to start a journal page, and how do you determine what materials to use to create that page?

What is your favorite pen and why? ^^

Do you always make your own journals? If so, what kind of paper is your favorite? And, if you buy them, what kind is your favorite and why?

Do you have a question? Head on over and ask it. I’ll get to it ASAP!

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The Button Journal workshop’s open and has it’s first few students. I’m getting GREAT feedback on the process, and hope you’ll come join us.

Won’t you? For $20, it’s a steal!

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And last but not least, Nolwenn, a dear friend and one of my blog’s sponsors has opened her Etsy shop! Go over and take a look at her darling paintings!