Every time I print a small project I get out two tools which continually amaze me. So simple, so direct, so perfect for their purpose AND they are Thrift Store finds which cost next to nothing.
Wonderful Things
Posted by Surfbunny Monday, February 9, 2015 at 12:58 PM
Every time I print a small project I get out two tools which continually amaze me. So simple, so direct, so perfect for their purpose AND they are Thrift Store finds which cost next to nothing.
Posted by Surfbunny at 12:46 PM
Printing up the various textual portions of my Winter Postcard Swap I think I managed to keep Titivillus frustrated. I don't think any misplaced letters or misspelled words managed to sneak in. That doesn't mean that no Printer's Devils were at work though. It seems that no matter what I have the habit of leaving ink traces where they don't belong. Try as I might, ink seemed to creep onto my fingers and migrate its way around to the non printed side of the pieces. Some of course were worse than others. I hope the recipients will accept these stray marks as proof of the hand made nature of the cards.
You can see in the picture that the work surface took the brunt of the slung ink. Why is it that a brayer always wants to first off roll backwards off the block and onto the table? Arghhhhh........
Posted by Surfbunny Sunday, February 8, 2015 at 1:09 PM
I'm participating in the Carving Consortium Winter Post Card Swap. There are 14 carvers creating a winter based image. We'll then print our pieces and mail them to each participant.
Posted by Surfbunny at 12:50 PM
I've been on a terror this past month sketching and painting rabbits and cats. My family are probably getting tired of them popping up in their mailboxes, but that is the joy of painting. Good or bad, I get to inflict them on those dearest to me.
I'm an Urban Sketcher in Rural America
Simonides calls painting silent poetry, and poetry speaking painting. Plutarch (A.D. 46?–A.D. c. 120)
A book is a part of life, a manifestation of life, just as much as a tree or a horse or a star. It obeys its own rhythms, its own laws, whether it be a novel, a play, or a diary. The deep, hidden rhythm of life is always there—that of the pulse, the heart beat.
Henry Miller, (1891-1980)