The Woven Tale Press
Vol.III #10
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Sandra Tyler Author of Blue Glass, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and After Lydia, both published by Harcourt Brace; awarded BA from Amherst College and MFA in Writing from Columbia University; professor of creative writing on both the undergraduate and graduate levels, including at Columbia University, (NY), Wesleyan University (CT), and Manhattanvill College, (NY); served as assistant editor at Ploughshares and The Paris Review literary magazines, and production freelancer for Glamour, Self, and Vogue magazines; freelance editor; Stony Brook University’s national annual fiction contest judge; a 2013 BlogHer.com Voices of the Year. www.awriterweavesatale.com
ASSOCIATE EDITOR: Michael Dickel, Ph.D. A poet, fiction writer, essayist, photographer and digital artist, Dr. Dickel holds degrees in psychology, creative writing, and English literature. He has taught college, university writing and literature courses for nearly 25 years; served as the director of the Student Writing Center at the University of Minnesota and the Macalester Academic Excellence Center at Macalester College (St. Paul, MN). He co-edited Voices Israel Volume 36 (2010). His work has appeared in literary journals, anthologies, art books, and online for over 20 years, including in:THIS Literary Magazine, Eclectic Flash, Cartier Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Sketchbook, Emerging Visions Visionary Art eZine, and Poetry Midwest. His latest book of poems is Midwest / Mid-East: March 2012 Poetry Tour. www.michaeldickel.info
ARTS EDITORS: Seth Apter Mixed-media artist, instructor, author and designer. His artwork has been widely exhibited, and represented in numerous books, independent zines, and national magazines. He is the voice behind The Pulse, a series of international, collaborative projects, the basis of his two books The Pulse of Mixed Media: Secrets and Passions of 100 Artists Revealed and The Mixed-Media Artist: Art Tips, Tricks, Secrets and Dreams From Over 40 Amazing Artists, both published by North Light Books. He is the artist behind two workshop DVDs: Easy Mixed Media Surface Techniques and Easy Mixed Media Techniques for the Art Journal. www.sethapter.com Donald Kolberg Sculptor, painter, art marketer and writer. His artwork has been exhibited throughout the U.S. in museums and galleries with his current representation at the Parker Art Gallery in St. Simons, Ga. He has been featured in an NBC short documentary and numerous print and zine publications. He is founder of ArtCore an international newsletter, and continues to be active in art groups presenting classes on marketing and art techniques including workshops on creating Strappo’s, a dry transfer acrylic monotype. A graduate of California State University, Los Angeles, his master work was continued at Otis Art Institute. Additionally he produced Periscope Up an independent television production for a Pennsylvania PBS station. His artwork has been included in the publication ‘Sculpture and Design with Recycled Glass’. Additional artwork and information can be viewed at www.DonaldKolberg.com PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS: Susan Tuttle Award winning iPhoneographer and DSLR photographer. She is the author of three instruction-based books (published in the US and abroad by F+W Media, North Light Books) on digital art with Photoshop, mobile photography and DSLR photography, and mixed-media art. Her fourth book, Art of Everyday Photography: Move Toward Manual and Make Creative Photos (about DSLR photography and mobile photography) was recently released by North Light Books and has been a best-seller in its category on Amazon. She is currently the Technical Advisor for Somerset Digital Studio Magazine. www.susantuttlephotography.com Charlotte Thompson Conceptual photographer and owner of Digital Art Transparency Overlays. Besides designing book covers, her works are in individual collections both in the U.S. and abroad, including Denmark, Sweden, Australia, and Korea. She has shown her photography at Photo Contemporary, OPF Gallery One, Raleigh Studios, and in a Hollywood exhibitions. www.opfgalleryone.com/artists/charlotte-thompson
Woven Tale Publishing Š copyright 2015 Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited, except by permission of the publisher
ISSN: 2333-2387
Editor’s Note: The Woven Tale Press is a monthly culling of the creative Web, exhibiting the artful and innovative. Enjoy here an eclectic mix of the literary, visual arts, photography, humorous, and offbeat. The Woven Tale Press mission is to grow Web traffic to noteworthy writers and artists–contributors are credited with interactive Urls back to their sites. Click on a name in the bar at the top of the page to learn more about a contributor. To submit or become a Press member, go to: thewoventalepress.net
Peter Allert
Ghost in Transfer photograph
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Anatomy of Ressurection photograph
Beyond the Death photograph 2
Fragility in th photograph
Hope Space Blue photograph
“I
t’s really hard to describe in words what drives me to take up the camera and start a new project. It is not as much about motivation as pure passion– the appropriate moment has arrived! It’s all about that moment, when my my soul seems to open up.”
3
he Dark
Lost Time and Another Day photograph
In Pain of Reverence photograph
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5
Reconstruction photograph
Under My Earth photograph 6
matias sierra
Support clay 25” x 10” x 11”
“T
he sculpture ideas
are born from personal experiences or are already there, turning in my imagination, born in a tranquil moment or underground journey. I take an idea, and model it in my head to capture it in a piece of clay.”
Sisters clay 28” x 15” x 17”
Them All clay 7” x 20” x 21” 7
Two clay 15” x 5” x 13”
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After You clay 29” x 25” x 33”
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Self-Taught clay 25” x 20” x 12”
My Brain, My Cage clay 21” x 7” x 7”
Gold, Clay and Body clay 22” x 32” x 25”
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Shit and Dissimulation clay 17” x 18” x 20” 11
Untitled clay 13” x 25” x 33”
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Thomas Dodd
Hedgemistress photograph 13
Although his artwork resembles paintings, Thomas Dodd’s pieces are entirely photographic in nature, fusing many images into a cohesive whole. His larger works are often presented in a mixed media form that adds a depth and texture that complements the photography beautifully.
While You Were Sleeping photograph
Nocturne photograph
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A
s both a visual artist and
photographer, Dodd has developed a style that he calls “painterly photo montage�– a method he employs in editing software, in which he crafts elaborately textured pieces that have a very organic and decidedly nondigital look to them. His work often has mythic and quasi-religious themes that pay homage to old master art traditions, while at the same time drawing from psychological archetypes that evoke a strong emotional response from the viewer.
Emerging photograph 15
Spellbound photograph
Gearhead photograph 16
A Little Bird Told Me photograph
Undine photograph
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D
The Dream photograph
odd’s work has been exhibited in many cities across the United States and around the world. He also has work in permanent collections, in Paris, at the Galerie L’Oeil du Prince, in the United States, at the New Britain Museum of American Art, and in Sicily, at the Museo Arte Contemporaneo.
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Elementals photograph 19
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Mona Adisa Brooks
“From my point of view, we are both hilarious and tragic.”
Ernest porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 28” high
Godot porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 12” x 20” x 12” 21
“W
orking with porcelain, wood, fabric, candor and my muse, I try to illustrate our humanness in my work. This I find most challenging and uplifting, spending my time each day to bring these characters into being.”
Emergence porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 12” x 10”
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Guardian porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 20� high
Wire One porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 12� high 23
Geisha porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 36� high
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“
One thing only is needed, to laugh together to the music that is ours for the sharing. So...I’ve been creating in my studio these beings who sit around and offer humanness in their ‘fool’ishness. They are just the same as we are. Through them we can take a good look at ourselves and find a little lightness in our heads and hearts, and maybe they will bring a little spring to your step as you move through your day.”
Icarus porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 22” high 25
Mask porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 4” high
and dance
I Would Give You the Moon porcelain, wood, fabric, wire 28� high 26
Callie Valentine
E
very night after the sun went down, a bullfrog came up from the creek that ran behind our apartment building and sat by the pansies next to our front door. He was so loud that my brother and I could hear him through the thick front door, across the living room and on the other side of our bedroom wall. Chase took hours to fall asleep and I took minutes, but tried to stay awake long enough for him to feel safe with the emptiness that came with my snoring. “Why does he come up here?” Chase whispered, from the trundle bed below me one night. Mom was talking louder than she normally did on the phone, from her makeshift bedroom in the sunroom, so I didn’t whisper as I normally would have. “I don’t know,” I said, turning to my side and yawning loud. Mom’s voice rose and fell then went quiet and came back in a rise of laughter she tried but failed to stifle. Above her conversation and the hum of cars on the freeway on the other side of the woods behind our building, we heard the elastic croak of the bullfrog. “Does he want to eat us?” Chase said. I laughed and asked how he thought something smaller than his foot could eat us. He reminded me about the black widows in the shed behind Dad’s house, and I reminded him that they were poisonous and that frogs were not. “Maybe he likes looking at the flowers,” I told him. “There are prettier flowers down by the creek.” 27
“Do you want a story tonight?” I asked. On the other side of the wall Mom laughed again, then went quiet and the ice maker rumbled and dropped its contents inside the freezer. “No,” he said then changed his mind and asked me to tell him the story I’d made up about the dolls that came to life and killed their owners. “No way. You ratted me out to Mom last time.” I propped myself up on my elbow, hit him with my pillow. “Do you think the frog has a name?” he said, holding his hand up to block another blow. I climbed from my bed, knowing without asking that something more than a flesh-eating frog was bothering my brother, and I pushed him over, pulled up his blankets to cover my legs. I laid my head next to his on the pillow and spoke softer than I had before. “He can have one.” Then I thought and corrected myself, “He probably does, but we’ll never know it unless you learn to speak frog.” “Nope,” Chase said, and I laughed and told him he’d learn frog 101 next year in second grade. “We’ll call him Rrrrrobert,” I said, making a croaking sound with my voice. “Ha.Ha,” Chase said, to let me know he wasn’t
T
he
Frog
Prince
amused, then put his skinny arm across my shoulder and let it hang onto my back. In the morning, I woke up when Mom came crashing through the door in mid conversation about being late and how we didn’t have time for breakfast. I rubbed my eyes and saw that Chase was still sleeping.
turn the ‘e’ into a ‘u.’ I imitated him and he jumped on me. I pushed him off the bed and moved toward him when Mom walked past our open doorway then turned around and screamed for us to get dressed. “She’s in a mood,” Chase said after she’d gone into the bathroom to finish her makeup.
We dressed and put loose pages of unfinished homework in our backpacks. I took out two packages of Pop-Tarts and two juice boxes and hurried Chase into his shoes while Mom looked for a necklace with the phone pressed to her ear and said something about our dad to her friend Karen.
In the car, I passed Chase’s breakfast to him and Mom turned around to pat my knee. “Thanks for She was wearing a black dress that came a few making breakfast, sweetie.” She turned the radio inches up from her knees and no stockings. Her up and sang along to the theme song from Friends legs shone when she moved and I thought they while I ate my Pop-Tart edges first, then middle, looked stupid, like she’d just gotten out of the pool, then moved on to the next one. but I knew better than to say so. It was Tuesday and I knew we were going to our “Cute shoes,” I said pointing to heels so high I dad’s after school, so I reminded Chase and he couldn’t imagine playing dress up in them. Not smiled. Dad’s house meant TV during dinner and that she’d ever let me play dress up in her clothes. take out. He’d read to us before bed and wake us up in the morning for school with a warm bath She rubbed lotion in her hands on her neck and running and grits on the stove. I smiled back and protruding breasts and yelled at me to get up then saw Chase’s face go blank. turned and left the room. “Get up chuck.” I slapped Chase on the butt through the thick quilts he was buried under. He groaned and I mentioned a giant frog. He stood up fast, covering me in blankets and laughing.
“What?” I whispered. “She’ll be all alone.” He said not pointing to Mom
“Jerk,” he said causing his speech impediment to
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but looking at her checking her lipstick in the mirror while tapping on the breaks at a stop sign. “She’ll be fine.”
“
R
ight then, I wished that made up stories could become real...”
I was annoyed at him for always being such a baby about Mom. Every time we left her, he almost cried because he didn’t want her to be by herself even though I told him that she probably liked it more than when we were there. The idea that Mom was happy without us wasn’t something my brother was willing to accept, so he ignored it and concentrated on the fact that she wasn’t safe alone. We rode the last few minutes to school in silence and I spent all morning thinking about his face in that backseat and the way he sounded when he bemoaned her loneliness. I found him at lunch in the cafeteria and snuck past the teachers on lunch duty to squeeze into the seat next to his. “Guess what I thought?” I told him while he scraped his fork through cold potatoes and gravy. “Robert.” I said and he looked at me with confusion. I croaked and he nodded and smiled. “I think that’s why he’s there. To protect us because Dad can’t.” Chase looked at me, then to his friends talking about Power Rangers on his right and waited for me to keep going. I lied and said that I’d read a story once about some frogs being princes. “Yeah, I know,” he rolled his eyes. “If you kiss a frog, they turn into a prince.” I hadn’t thought of that before but I used it in my story and told him that they didn’t always have to be someone you kissed to come to life. I told him that they were also protectors of women and children, and if any harm came to our door they would rise up and their steel armor would glisten and they would kill whoever tried to do harm to the ones they guarded. I told him that Robert must
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have been an ancient prince sent to us because of our goodness and my natural beauty.
by the steady flow of children breaking free into the sunlight and fresh air.
Chase laughed then got serious and asked if it was true. I felt a little guilty when I told him it was, but the guilt washed away when I saw his face light up. He leaned in to me and broke off half of his cookie and told me that was the best news he’d heard all day.
“But I wrote it all down and I’ll tell it to you after homework.”
“What other news have you heard today?” I made my best attempt at mockery. “Subtraction.” He told me then that the gym teacher saw my tall head among the short first graders and called out from his seat two tables over for me to get back to the 6th grade section. I stood up, leaned over and kissed Chase’s head so Mr. Hadley knew I was talking to my brother not “selling crack to the babies,” like he always accused us of doing. I didn’t look at him when I walked by, but smiled tightly, hoping my face resembled the face Mom always gave Dad. I tuned out my math teacher and wrote the elaborate story I’d concocted on the margin of the worksheet we were supposed to take home for homework that night. I did the same with my next three classes, successfully avoiding any English, Science, or Social Studies, and had a full-fledged legend worked out by the time the bell rang at the end of the day. I waited for Chase in the hallway between 1st grade and 2nd grade and lied again when I told him I’d gone to the library to check the book of the frog legend out. “Did you bring it with you?” He said, so excited that he ran into a kindergartner and knocked her down. I picked her up and he said he was sorry, but only so he could get back to questioning me about the frog princes. “No,” I said, taking him by his backpack and forcing him to walk in front of me so he’d stop bumbling into people. “I couldn’t. They said it’s a resource book and you can’t check it out.”
He turned his head over his shoulder and smiled at me. We spotted Dad at almost the same moment, and we ran to the truck both hoping to get the middle seat so we could sit beside him. Dad leaned over and opened the passenger door, and Chase climbed inside first, throwing his backpack at me to put in the back. After snacks and a week’s worth of catching up, Chase and I scattered to do our homework. “Do it right,” Dad reminded me as I walked through the garage door to my usual spot on the tailgate of his truck. “Yes sir,” I said and hoped he didn’t know I meant to read Jane Eyre instead of doing math. By the time poor Jane was out of her hellish childhood, I heard Chase’s footsteps come up behind me and climb over the side. He sat down and waited for me to finish the chapter I was on. “Almost done?” He asked when a few minutes had passed and I hadn’t put the book down. I held up a finger, turned the page and dog-eared it. “Now I am.” I turned around to face him, knowing why he was there. “So it’s true?” He asked leaning forward, bony elbows resting on bony knees. “It’s true.” “Good,” Chase said leaning back .“Because I called Mom and told her.” My heart beat fast while I wondered what she’d said to him. He looked relieved, not upset so I assumed she went along with it and confirmed my thoughts when Chase said that Mom told him
“Oh.” We both looked for Dad’s old pickup when we passed through the double doors, moved along 30
she’d forgotten about that legend but that it was true. “See?” I breathed out, feeling hot for the first time since I’d been outside. “She said she has a date tonight.” Chase smiled when he said it, and I asked what he was so happy about. Normally he cried and threw up whenever she went out which was the opposite of what he did when she brought someone home after she thought we were asleep. Those nights, he wouldn’t move in his bed or say anything to me at all, so I would lie next to him and tell him made-up stories, and wonder why it mattered to him what she did and wondered why it didn’t matter to me. “Ok….” I wanted him to tell me why he was so happy but knew I’d have to ask, so I did and when he told me that he thought the frog prince would kill whoever she brought home with her that night, I looked at the house behind us and wished with all I had that Dad would come through the door in the garage and call us inside or ask if he could check over the homework I hadn’t even started yet, but the house was quiet. I looked back at Chase and said, “That isn’t how it works.” Right then I wished that made-up stories could become real and that Robert would rise up and slay whoever knocked on the door to pick my mom up for their date that night. I wished that he would change from a frog into a prince without my mom having to kiss him, knowing that she would never kiss anything ugly and slimy. I closed my eyes and even as I wished, I knew that dreams didn’t come true and that frog princes were made up, and that I was a liar breaking my best friend’s heart.
I’d spent all day working on, before bed. I looked at Dad and apologized. He laughed and reminded me that there were windows in the house, and that he could always read guilt on my face. I wondered what guilt he read when he looked at me then. We played a game of Horse, and I lost like I always lost to my dad and brother, then we ate pizza and watched John Wayne in the Green Beret for the hundredth time. Dad kneeled down by my bed that night and we both said a prayer. He asked if anything was bothering me and I said yes, but I couldn’t talk about it. “You know when you can, I’m here,” he said, and I nodded and wanted to cry. “I have to go back to work tomorrow,” he said, and I knew that was the end of the fun for another week. “Why?” I hoped I didn’t sound like I was whining, then asked if he had told Chase and if Mom knew to pick us up from school the next day. “You know, you shouldn’t act like such an adult,” Dad said leaning over to kiss me goodnight. “You only get one childhood and you shouldn’t waste yours by worrying.”
“Maybe it is,” Chase said, before Dad came outside bouncing a basketball and asked me how my book was. I put the fat paperback inside my book bag on top of the stray papers that made up a new legend and I told him I’d try, and he said he loved me before shutting the door and leaving me to the half-darkness covI reminded myself to tell Chase the detailed version ered in moonlight and the rattling of cicadas outside my window.
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“...even as I wished,
I knew that dreams didn’t come true, and that frog princes were made up, and that I was a liar breaking my best friend’s heart.”
Mom did forget Chase and me the next day at school, and we had to wait with the principal until she could get to us. Embarrassed and annoyed, she apologized to Mrs. Barnes over our heads and herded us into the car with questions about our night at Dad’s and our day in school. That night, as we lay in our beds, we heard the usual noises. The refrigerator turned on and off, the TV carried on its own conversation in an empty room, and Mom talked on the phone about how our Dad gave us pizza for dinner again but nothing called out over her voice. No rhythmic croaking let us know our prince had come. Chase sat up and looked at me. “Where is he?” I shook my head and before I could stop him Chase stood and opened the door to our bedroom. I followed him, hoping to pull him back before he got to Mom but was too late. She apologized to Karen on the phone and told her to hold on while she asked Chase to repeat what he’d said. “The bullfrog is gone!” He moved away from her toward the living room heading straight for the front door when she stopped him with her words. “Oh that thing.”
Chase turned and I prayed to the god of frog princes and made-up stories. “He wouldn’t shut up last night and Jeremy went out and got rid of him.” When Chase said nothing, I looked at Mom whose forehead wrinkled and gave her face, freshly clean of makeup, the appearance of an old lady. “We couldn’t sleep,” she said, and I closed my eyes. “Where is he?” I could hear Chase’s voice tremble, a sure sign of tears to come. “Hold on, Karen,” Mom said into the phone. “I think Jeremy threw him in the creek after he killed him.” She began talking to Karen again, then pointed her finger for us to get to bed. “Oh,” Mom called out to our backs in a voice brimming with all the excitement of Christmas morning. “You’ll meet Jeremy tomorrow, he’s coming over for dinner.” I waited for Chase to go first, careful not to touch his shoulders for fear that he would shatter as he walked in front of me down the hall. “You can sleep in your bed,” Chase said, when he’d laid down and pulled the covers to his chin. I told him alright and closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep at all.
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Mark S. Johnson
Untitled photograph
Mark S. Johnson is an Adobe Photoshop luminary, a photographer, an
author. Through the Rocky Mountain School of Photography, The Radiant Vista, and Boulder Digital Arts, he has lectured in front of and worked side by side with countless individuals, including Adobe’s Chief Executive Officers, Jane Goodall, the U.S. Ambassador to Finland, and Academy Award-winning director, Louie Psihoyos.
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J
ohnson’s tutorials appear reg the KelbyOne and Planet Pho websites, and his imagery and have been featured in Photos Photo Techniques, Nature’s B After Capture magazines. He is a cont to Dewitt Jones’ heartwarming Healin campaign and a Trey Ratcliff Flatbook
Untitled photograph
gularly on otoshop d articles shop User, Best, and tributor ng Images ks author. Untitled photograph
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Mary Freeman
“
I have kept a writing journal
for many years. In 2007 I picked up a book on visual journaling and began something new.�
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copy of two journal pages adhered to the cover of another journal.
M
ary Freeman has been published in Journaling, Somerset Studio, and Sprout magazines, as well as included in A World of Artist Journal Pages.
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“I
waver between journal pages that have lots of blank space and ones that have mostly images and words. What they both have in common is the layered background that I love.�
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Bits of journaling...
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“I see “me”in these pages –
I see the messiness, spray paint, scribbles, words...I even see a few things I have picked up along my journey, but incorporated into my style.”
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Meg Galipault
T
The
he sun is an angry little fist of gold. Mariella blames the rooster, the one tied up outside of Momma’s Café. Every morning, it crows, plucks at the dirt road, scratching at the dust, hopping on one leg, the other tethered to a frayed twine rope tied to the tilting telephone pole. Mariella sits on a wooden bench, spies the rooster out of the corner of her left eye, and notes the hard empty platter of gold rising from the sea.
of
A schoolgirl sits down next to her. “The sun is angry,” Mariella says to her.
The girl sits straight, books in her lap, a long black braid down her back. She looks toward the sunrise and says, “I think it lonely.” “No, it is angry. The rooster crows too loud. The streets smell like diesel and fish. And look at those mangy dogs,” Mariella says, pointing to three mutts on their hind legs, nosing into the battered aluminum trash cans outside of Zimbo’s Bar. The girl shakes her head. “It lonely. Nobody can get near it — muy hot. We dance around it. Señora Pierro said we go around the sun. The sun don’t go around us. That’s science.” She bobs her head and smiles, bounds for the truck that pulls up with a dozen children, straight black hair, wearing hand-me-down uniforms, seated on benches in the bed. The little girl
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L eng Leng
climbs in and shouts to Mariella, “It’s a beautiful day.”
Mariella scowls and shields her eyes with her right hand. A thin haze rises with the sun. She imagines molecules evaporating into the sky, called up, sacrificed to build clouds and weather patterns that will blanket the coastline up north. But here—here, the haze only makes the angry sun blanch, burn harder. When she was 54, she noticed the spots on her hands, like large freckles. Her husband began to find moles on his arms and chest. Neither of them belonged on this island, fair-haired and pale, under the unforgiving sun. They stayed and he died, and the widow Mariella cannot find peace in her cottage house surrounded by the sun-soaked Bougainville, hibiscus, and jasmine. Twelve years later, she plants herself on a bench without a floppy hat or sunglasses. Bare-armed and sandal-footed, she walks for miles, following the mean arc of the sun, telling time in the length of shadows. Today, she walks east to west, down the sandy road
gth gth S hadows of Shadows dotted with coconut husks until that angry fist is in front of her. She has walked ten miles already; she is tired but makes no plans to turn around and get back home. Mariella intends to sit on a boulder like an iguana. This side of the island is rocky and wild. Strands of seaweed turn brown, caught in the crevices of driftwood and stones. A single-engine plane passes overhead, the only sign of the modern world, its right wing winks and dips, sputters northeast.
It is late now, past time for supper, but Mariella waits. As the sun drops below the horizon, it opens itself, unclenches, stretches softly into the clouds. It is a gold ring glinting in the palm of a hand. Mariella does not see the life preserver, a white halo on this darkening reef, wash up beside her. She sees only the last fragments of gold scatter above the sea, aching for high tide.
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David Channon
“I enjoy taking old rusty scrap
and infusing it with personality, animation, an ed with a marble boulder, and chip by chip, l wasn’t David. Using a collage approach, I tak trans new chipp
The Great Chimpanzeeni 4 1/2’ tall, 6’ arm span
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pmetal
nd attitude. Michaelangelo startlaboriously, removed whatever ke man-made found objects and sform them by joining them in a context. No bashing, melting, ping or grinding necessary.“
La Lune 7 1/2’ tall
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Thunderhoof 7’ tall
Diana Lenape 8’ tall
Espopus Creek Monster 14’ long 53
Fidosaurus 4’ tall
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Napoleon 4 1/2’ tall
“T
hese metal sculptures are modular, consisting of sub-assemblies that can be bolted together on site. While made of almost all welded steel, some parts are iron, copper or brass. The parts are usually from very old farm equipment, tools, or are auto components like leaf or coil springs.�
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Tree Hugger 6’ tall
Golfzilla and Thunderhoof 7’ tall 56
T
Heather Day
hese paintings begin at every seam, edge, and mark. Then layers of paint overlap, revealing collected moments of interaction. Every mark creates a series of expectations similar to a conversation. When a question is asked, an answer is anticipated. Stitches and mark-making lead to energetic movement reading like handwriting stretching from one side of the painting to the other. Paintings often act as pages requiring several in a series to tell the story.
This Way 36” x 48” acrylic, soft pastel, charcoal on stretched canvas
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Backtracking #2 48” x 36” acrylic, soft pastel, charcoal, graphite on stretched canvas
Bounded 48” x 36” acrylic, soft pastel on stretched canvas
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Proximity to the Ocean #3 56” x 72” acrylic on stretched canvas
Standing Still #1 60” x 48” acrylic, graphite on stretched canvas
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Proximity to the Ocean 56” x 72” acrylic, charcoal, graphite on stretched canvas
Standing Still #2 48” x 60” acrylic, soft pastel on stretched canvas 60
D
ay creates work that involves a process of layering paint, thread and various energetic marks, ranging from complex to simple compositions. Her work suggests a dialogue between line and color. The paintings are never planned. Each piece is a product of an experience, leaving behind documentation of how an event transpired.
Detail 61
Dropbox A mural completed for the new Dropbox offices in Seattle, WA
Detail
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“I believe art is anything you happen to find beautiful. Some find it in a straight V8, for others it’s the delicate brush strokes of an old master. I happen to think it’s in the mental pictures painted by the words of a good storyteller. This is where The Woven Tale Press excels. Sandra and her hard-working team don’t try and tell us what we should like but rather extend a wide ranging net into the world of the internet, hauling aboard treasures of all kinds. With every edition of the Press, I find myself enlightened, entertained, and enhanced by the gifts held between its covers.” –Squid McFinnigan