Monday, 29 October 2012


Since I was a wee lass, I've had a thing for pointillism. I read about it in a book. The big book of "Things Your Parents Have No Time to do With You". . ..I think it was formally titled "365 Fun Things to do With Your Kids". All bitterness aside, this book had some pretty neat (and some very lame) activities, many of which I inflicted upon my younger sister.

Off topic. One of the activities in this book was teaching your kid about pointillism (a style of drawing in which you create an image using only dots), and having them attempt it for kicks and giggles. I was fascinated by the artistic form, but I've never been very good at it. I can do a mean pointillism tree. I can sorta do a face (though its less pointillism and more sloppy-dash-illism). Maybe someday I'll dig up and post for you some of my attempts. Cuz I know you're all SOOPER interested.

But in the meantime, let me post some examples from the master of pointillism himself: Georges Seurat (who may or may not have made it into this blog before. I don't know. Sometimes I get the feeling that my interests have become so narrow that I'm repeating myself. Sometimes I get the feeling that my interests have become so narrow that I'm repeating myself.) I first encountered this fella in my undergraduate Art History class, and promptly stuck the blame for my obsession with pointillism on him, and his pretty, dreamy pastel pictures.

The Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, 1884–1886, at The Art Institute of Chicago
And these other two which I don't have the titles for, but which the internet credits to Seurat and which I like:

Saturday, 27 October 2012

Wednesday, 24 October 2012


I'd forgotten how pretty monarchs were. Here's a wallpaper, or something \o/ Sort of sad feeling. Beauty fades?

Thursday, 18 October 2012

Pierre de Rigaud, Marquis de Vaudreuil-Cavagnal

Bit of Canadian history for you, in unfunny meme form:


Further evidence that fits of nostalgia are never a good thing. I have been having fragmented memories of a movie from my childhood involving an elvis-like rooster, and a flood. So, I googled "rock rooster movie" and immediately found Rock-a-Doodle.

As with many things from childhood, this movie, when viewed from the eyes of adulthood is TERRIBLE. More than that, its DISTURBING.

The movie features a cast consisting of:

* A neurotic pig
* A crack-head magpie with a lasagna fetish, and claustrophobia.
* A dog who can't tie his damn shoes.
* An evil overlord Owl who does cross-stitch in his spare time
* A slutty pheasant who subsists on valium
* An Elvis impersonating Rooster.
* Owls of varying sizes (they get large and shrink for no real reason).
*A bad mother: *shakes fever stricken son* EDMOND, EDMOND SWEETIE WAKE UP
*An abused and mentally unstable owl nephew
*A main character who gets turned into a kitten for no real reason, wears a davey jones cap, has a horrible speech impediment, and dies from it.
And a mouse. . .there was a mouse.

Moral of the story? Don't walk down memory lane.

Friday, 12 October 2012


 Excerpts from Jaroslav Seifert's "a Wreath of Sonnets"

And were she soaked with blood - no braver -
as when the steel belts crushed the palm
of Old Town Square and brought great harm
to Tyne Church Lanes, thus to enslave her,
And cannon from the Letná, roaring,
cut down the branches in their pride;
the ancient tow'r they'd helped to hide,
when May its bloom of smoke was pouring.
She signed her forehead with the mark,
symbol of hope for those still living,
the mark a cross of ash, so dark.
Yet there's the river, lock of hair
around her neck it glistens, fair:
I won't be one of those who're leaving.

If the old owl our Death were calling
and we were looking for the stairs
to church, in darkness, with the flares
of feeble oil lamps, feeling, crawling.
And then, when thus compelled, now humble,
to cry to silent heavens, here
much nearer to cold stone and bier
and His nailed feet, oh how we'd mumble:
may She who smiles on maidens' graces
and shades them with her mighty wing,
when here in May lights up their faces,
persuade the One we irritated.
We'd be like chaff, annihilated,
if God His wrath on us did bring.

It was for you I wished to sing
when in the night the wind was romping,
for the last time and without prompting,
so dark, you couldn't see a thing.
And in her name I do confide,
just like a child for I am human.
I've always loved her like a woman,
and in her gowns I've wished to hide.
That capricious, elsuive bard
playing the lunar lute; and graver
the one who stands there like a guard,
the horologe is in her hand,
Time hurries on and will not stand.
Prague! That's a sip of wine with flavour

Prague ! That's a sip of wine with flavour,
and were she levelled with the ground
and my own home could not be found,
and were she soaked with blood, no braver,
I won't be one of those who're leaving,
I shall be waiting with the dead,
from spring to winter, without dread
till the locked gates at last will swing in.
If the old owl our Death were calling,
if God His wrath on us did bring,
a single tear from Her eye falling
would break the curse above the spires.
Of all my hopes and heart's desires
it was for you I wished to sing

poem inspired me to make weird art

Monday, 1 October 2012

trying to be artistic. . .possibly just being culturally insensitive

Mostly I wanted to learn how to tie a turban, so I did. Then I took pictures. Is this wrong? I dunno. What's your opinion?