Kakadu wildflowers

I got very little in the way of creative work done this past weekend. I took my bicycle to town for serious repairs. From there I walked to the optometrist to get my eyesight checked (and she confirmed that my perfect vision is, alas, a thing of the past) SO I then got fitted for my very first pair of glasses…the cheapest frames they had, and still the bill came to 350 smackeroos…which stung, I tell you…OUCH!!!). On another day there were trips—on foot—to post offices, to the bank, and an all-day lunch with a friend…

Tomorrow, it’s off on foot again to pick up my bike, and another visit to the bank…don’t forget that I must take the tides into account, and this week the lowest tides are smack in the middle of the day, so if I want to be ashore anytime before 3 p.m., I have to leave the boat at 11:30 a.m., and find ways to kill all that time. *sigh* Where did my weekend go?

BUT! Look what I found in my flickr sets! Never-before-seen photos of a trip Kris and I took to Kakadu in late July, some years ago. Can’t believe I never posted about the trip, or shared these. Some gorgeous wild country out there…and lots of small wildflowers, as I discovered once I started looking for them.

a prehistoric home overlooking the wetlands





Kakadu wildflowers

Kakadu wildflowers


Darwin, Australia, Inspirations, photography, travel

Snapshots of the Northern Territory

Inspirations, journaling + mail art, paints and pens, stuff i've made, travel


wind rose
I have been making small paintings that look like collages of torn postcards and mail art…although the only real paper in these are the postage stamps…everything else is done with paint (including the “Air Mail” labels. This is a backup project for the Tactile Arts’ “Text” members’ exhibition, since there is a slight possibility that my original embroidered piece may garner disapproval for the word ‘fucking‘ that I have used in it. Fair enough, it’s a craft organization and not an art organization, and self-expression takes a back seat to tradition and execution in the world of craft. I’m going to make it, anyway, because I want it for our own boat.

The alternative project is not a lesser one…these postcard paintings are an old theme of mine, and I always did want to make more of them.

postcards from the equator

The paintings start with some text…often something lifted out of my journals from when Kris and I lived in El Nido, Palawan; sometimes just a story or description that I remember from those days—an image or experience that I treasure. I write/paint the story on the canvas (as much of it as will fit!) and then start to layer ‘torn paper’ effects, images, patterns, stuff related to the story. I pick a complementary postage stamp (I bought a beautiful antique stamp collection, from a dealer in old coins, that I keep for collage work like this), paint on a faux label, add finishing touches like gold leaf, and then varnish the piece.
WIP postcards from the equator
It’s been lovely, nostalgic work…re-reading my journals, resurrecting memories from our time among the islands, looking at our old photos, browsing through the stamp collection, digging up the poetry books that were my constant companions during those years.

Dilumacad Island
By Yusef Komunyakaa

For Derek Walcott

An island is one great eye
gazing out, a beckoning lighthouse,
searchlight, a wishbone compass,
or counterweight to the stars.
When it comes to outlook & point
of view, a figure stands on a rocky ledge
peering out toward an archipelago
of glass on the mainland, a seagull’s
wings touching the tip of a high wave,
out to where the brain may stumble.

But when a mind climbs down
from its high craggy lookout
we know it is truly a stubborn thing,
& has to leaf through pages of dust
& light, through pre-memory & folklore,
remembering fires roared down there
till they pushed up through the seafloor
& plumes of ash covered the dead
shaken awake worlds away, & silence
filled up with centuries of waiting.

Sea urchin, turtle, & crab
came with earthly know-how,
& one bird arrived with a sprig in its beak,
before everything clouded with cries,
a millennium of small deaths now topsoil
& seasons of blossoms in a single seed.
Light edged along salt-crusted stones,
across a cataract of blue water,
& lost sailors’ parrots spoke of sirens,
the last words of men buried at sea.

Someone could stand here
contemplating the future, leafing
through torn pages of St. Augustine
or the prophecies by fishermen,
translating spore & folly down to taproot.
The dreamy-eyed boy still in the man,
the girl in the woman, a sunny forecast
behind today, but tomorrow’s beyond
words. To behold a body of water
is to know pig iron & mother wit.

Whoever this figure is,
he will soon return to dancing
through the aroma of dagger’s log,
ginger lily, & bougainvillea,
between chants & strings struck
till gourds rally the healing air,
& till the church-steeple birds
fly sweet darkness home.
Whoever this friend or lover is,
he intones redemptive harmonies.

To lie down in remembrance
is to know each of us is a prodigal
son or daughter, looking out beyond land
& sky, the chemical & metaphysical
beyond falling & turning waterwheels
in the colossal brain of damnable gods,
a Eureka held up to the sun’s blinding eye,
born to gaze into fire. After conquering
frontiers, the mind comes back to rest,
stretching out over the white sand.

Darwin, Australia, travel

Rock art :: Kris goes walkabout

a pile of human bones

Kris left home last Monday to walk and hitchhike his way to some river-and-sandstone country, 600 kms. from Darwin. Rocky climbing terrain, he decided to leave his bicycle behind, this time, or he’d end up carrying it on his shoulder for most of the way.

He traveled light…a jerrycan of water, a loaf of bread, a sleeping bag, a small Canon powershot. This let him walk further into the area than if he had a heap of gear, and transportation, with him, and he found this large cave, 50 meters long, dry and well-ventilated, flooded with sunlight, and full of ancient Aboriginal rock art paintings. Some natural disaster (locals say ball lightning) had wiped out the clan that lived here, and after that the place was abandoned by those people. The bones of the ones who died there are still spread over a square patch of ground at the cave’s entrance, although they have been picked over by the odd explorer, and the ‘good bits’ like skulls and tools are gone.

Kris estimates that the last time people lived in the cave was about 200 years ago. More pictures, as well as descriptions of the cave, are on his blog.

little man with parachute?

prime real estate...floor to ceiling windows

Rock art.

amazing people, books + poetry, Inspirations, life, philosophy, travel

A hippie Christmas in India : : an excerpt from Kris’ latest book

Victoria terminus in mumbai

Victoria terminus in mumbai (Photo credit: Sofi Lundin)

Kris still hasn’t arrived from Bali, and it’s starting to look like I’ll be spending my holiday break alone on this boat: embroidering, folding origami and doing other Batty Old Lady things. I miss him; as I’ve mentioned before, it doesn’t matter how often he’s away, I never get used to it. ‘Pining’ is the word that comes to mind. I often scold myself for “putting all my eggs in one basket”, so to speak; Kris is my best friend, my most-esteemed colleague, my best teacher (and also my best student), my Belovéd, my mentor, my role-model, my solace, okay, you get the picture… :D

Where was I going with this? He’s written a fourth book, Out of Census—about his years as a student in Prague, how he ran away from Communist Czechoslovakia, and his years as a wanderer through Europe and the Indian subcontinent—and I was re-reading it tonight (it makes me feel close to him to read stories from his life, written in the same slightly-off Eastern-European English that he normally speaks with. This is my personal favorite of all his books.)

This story takes place in India in the late 70s, around Christmastime and the New Year, which I thought apt…although it isn’t a Christmas story, please be warned! It’s bleak, and very alien to what we think of as Christmastime stories…but, like all of Kris’s accounts of his life, it makes me think, it inspires me to be less afraid and to take more risks, and it opens my mind up just a little bit more.

Bedlam spread into the lofty Victoria Terminal. Whole families were living on the floor of the waiting platforms….In a quiet corner I saw a man lying on the floor by himself, fully dressed in filthy European jeans-jacket and long pants, the soles of his bare feet black as a bitumen road. As I looked at him, the destitute beggar turned over and I saw his face; he was a young, white hippie…pale, with sunken eyes the color of wilted lemons, protruding cheekbones, evidently gravely ill, abandoned by his friends, and he was sheltering from the sun and crowds on the station. With a groan he passed out, exhausted by the move. I shivered.

I wasn’t feeling well, myself. And it wasn’t the usual gastro discomfort. You get used to intestinal problems in India. Old hands ignore them, pointing out that even such luminaries as Mahatma Gandhi lived their entire lives with chronic dysentery that never improved, in spite of diets and medical attention. “Three solid shits in two years in India is good going,” we used to say. This time I had caught something more serious. I was getting weaker by the day, I had to sit down to rest every half hour; I had lost my appetite altogether. I was pissing dark brown urine, no matter how much liquid I drank…

I made it back to the hotel and went straight to bed. I was running a high fever and I was sure that I was crook as Hell. In the morning, the German girl that I had been traveling with looked into my face and her jaw dropped. “Have you looked into your eyes?” she asked. Wearily I turned my face to a little hand-mirror hanging from a nail over the washing basin. My face shocked me. Cadaverous eyes stared back at me, feverish, and instead of the usual red fever tinge they were deep yellow. The penny dropped as I reviewed my symptoms. I had hepatitis. I reached for my liver and yelped in pain. It was swollen sticking out from my side under the ribs, tender and painful. No wonder I was off food, weak as a fly, pissing blood. My liver was shot….

Generally, I am fairly resistant; my stomach is strong, but I am prone to attacks of malaria and other mosquito-borne diseases. Hep was another matter. It was a serious blow, as there was no cure for it. There still isn’t. Several dozen known causes can lead to hepatitis, which is the generic name for inflammation of the liver, but there is no medicine to combat it directly. You can strengthen your body’s immune system as it is fighting, but you have to wait, two to six weeks, until it conquers the invasion by itself.

Our gang panicked; hep was a major scarecrow on the road. Within an hour I was alone. Fools. I had been spreading germs amongst them for days, as my disease incubated, before the symptoms became manifest. It was too late to run, now. What’s more, many strains of hepatitis are not directly contagious…not by simple contact or by sharing food.

This desertion by friends hurt. We had traveled together since Quetta…we were a gang. I had known some of them since Istanbul. I did not blame them—we did not know much about hepatitis—but I resolved not to travel with Germans again.

Picking up my backpack, I focused my fuzzy mind on one task: I had to get out of Bombay, or I would die like a beggar I had seen on the street, the previous day. A picture of the unfortunate hippie in the filthy jeans jacket, lying on the platform, also danced in front of my eyes…

I dragged myself down the street, bound for the railway station. Every fifty meters I had to stop and sit down. The only place to sit down was in the dirt of the pavement. Each time, I collapsed amid the rubbish, rat shit, and sweepings of the street. Even the homeless who lined the street averted their eyes when I encroached upon their domain. One insistent tune occupied my mind like a mantra…the first two lines of a Simon and Garfunkel song: “Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme…” I only knew those two lines, and I kept stubbornly repeating them, humming them in defiance as I focused on reaching the Victoria Terminal. It wasn’t a song, anymore; it was a chant of determination. I was telling myself “I am gonna make it, I will pull through.”

Three years later I heard Simon and Garfunkel sing Scarborough Fair, live on the stage, in Wellington, New Zealand, and I wept without shame—all the crushing emotions of being alone and ill in Bombay sweeping back over me….

I did get to the station without help, and I bought a second class ticket to Madras. Still humming Scarborough Fair through clenched teeth, I boarded the train. I was powerless to argue about seats. The weak and ill have no chance of negotiating in India. I could not care less about the world around me. I took down the bags and suitcases that other passengers had stuffed into the overhead luggage rack and, with effort, crawled up there, myself—stretching in the netting, stowing my own bag under my head—just like a rough bivouac in a hammock on a rock wall. One passenger got up to complain about my behaviour. I stared in silence down into his raving face, and when he stopped for a breath I opened my eyes with my fingers to show him the yellow color, and I whispered: “I have hepatitis. And I do not give a damn.” That shut him up.

It was Christmas Day. My first Christmas away from Europe, and I spent it curled up in an overhead luggage rack on the Madras Express, for the entire 36-hour trip….By the time I slid down the two steps to the platform in Madurai, I knew that I had broken the sickness’ back, and my body was on its way to recovery.

…I took a small clean room on the ground floor of a pension around the corner from the main temple, and I settled in to wait until I felt better. Christmas I had spent curled up like a used paper bag in a luggage rack on a train. On New Year’s Eve I felt strong enough to venture into the streets, to celebrate. Indian street life continues vigorously into the late hours…not as revelry, but as ordinary activity in the cool evenings. On the last day of the year there was nothing to distinguish it from any other day. By midnight everyone was asleep, streets were dead, resonating to the snores of the homeless bedded on the pavement. Indians do not celebrate the same New Year that we do. Nobody took any notice, nobody lit fireworks, nobody cared. The central government in Delhi ran its affairs by Western calendar, but both main religions, Hinduism and Islam, counted time in their own ways, aligned with the moon.

New Year in Madurai awakened me to the fact that even basic preconceptions that we assume to be universal do not reach past Istanbul. White man, in his cultural arrogance, because he doesn’t know any other way of looking at things, thinks everyone else in the world agrees with his point of view. Sitting on the pavement that night, reflecting on the different calendars that people use today, I came to realise that what we think of as the world, or the world that counts—this essentially white, Western, Christian world view—is a minority opinion, if you take the earth’s population as a whole. Hindus…the Chinese…one billion Muslims…just these three blocks comprise more than half the world’s population. Then come smaller groups, like the Japanese, who still count years from the ascension  of the current emperor, and who only celebrate Christmas Day because it happens to be the birthday of their Emperor. Add countless smaller groups who all have their distinct ways of looking at the world, and then tell me: What makes us think that the way we see things is the world norm?

We need to be reminded that the world is a much wider place than what our teachers depicted at school, and that in many places our domineering culture is seen as invasive, immature, barbarian, and not up to the standard. Happy New Year, man.

—text excerpts from Out of Census by Kristian Larsen, 2012. All rights reserved.

I’ve been told that you have never really been to a place until you have been seriously ill there. I also know that there are few things as miserable as getting sick in a strange place..having to find your way to local doctors or pharmacies, having to explain what’s wrong or what’s needed through the language barrier, and having to look after yourself because nobody else is going to do that for you. It’s a very lonely feeling. But if you pull through, something about your relationship with that place is changed. You have been tested, and triumphed. The unfamiliar surroundings hold little terror or fear for you, after the ordeal, and, strangely enough, you feel as though you finally fit in…belong there, just a bit more. A price has been paid, a part of you has been taken, and the place cracks open like a nut, in return.

Often, the only way out of the terror is through the terror. Have you ever taken that path? It can be an amazing experience, and no words can describe the personal power and strength that washes over you when you emerge on the other side.

bookbinding, classes + workshops, Creative Travel Journal, embroidery and textiles, projects, travel

Week 7 of Designing a Creative Travel Journal

This entire post was copied and pasted from my assignment submission page on Coursera.org…just to let you know where I am at with this project. This was the last assignment of the course…supposed to be the ‘Beta’ of my product, though it’s clearly nowhere near the beta stage yet! But this was all I could do in the one day I had to finish it all.
It’s midnight, I’ve work tomorrow, so this has to go up on the course site tonight…hence the hastily chosen “brand name” and the lousy photos taken with camera flash because it was long past sunset when I took most of these.
Travel Journal and JacketREISE is German for “journey”

The journal is bound using Longstitch/linkstitch (aka Limp Binding) The pages are stitched to a spine of strong leather, with plenty of space between them for the gradual inclusion of ephemera, postcards, photos, and other souvenirs of the trip. I cut slits into the leather spine to form “loops” through which the elastic strap of the jacket can be threaded.

This view of the inside of the jacket shows the elastic strap for attaching the journal, as well as three pagemarker ribbons, which are part of the jacket.

The elastic strap weaves in and out of the journal’s leather spine…

and is held down by a snap on the outside of the jacket:

Some features of the journal itself are a 20-page fold-out photo album:

A plastic template for square petal envelopes, to make your own little pockets for small things…

using interesting papers (newspaper pages, magazines, decorative papers) that you collect along the way.

Stick these petal envelopes down wherever you need them.

Also, you can rate your travel experiences and flag your entries using the three stamps that are attached to the ends of the page marker ribbons.

When your journal is full, undo it from the jacket, and strap down a new one.

IWWMW design a travel journal (and case) that conveniently combines an artistic/creative traveler’s tools and materials for collecting/recording during a trip, and the finished works of art and memory?

Primary needs:

  • Journal integrates collected souvenirs, and records (in the form of writing, art, photos)
  • Journal has storage space for art materials and journaling tools.
  • Journal is strong, hard-wearing, long-lasting and keeps contents secure.
  • Journal is customisable to a great degree.
  • Journal is convenient to carry.
  • Journal is easy to use/deploy.
  • Journal is a pleasure to use.
  • Journal is comprised of “artist’s grade” materials.
  • Journal has pages of information that is useful while travelling.

Submit a one paragraph description of what the next steps would be to further refine and develop the artifact:

I had one day in the entire week to do my journal prototype, so there are a lot of things that have been left out as I simply did not have the time. Obviously, the actual printed pages of the journal are missing—sections for foreign words & phrases, packing checklists, To-Do or Must-Visit list pages, shopping info (bought what, where, for how much) as well as cultural and foodie notes, and lots of important travel information (itinerary, time and currency conversion, contacts, and so on) It’s also missing customisable page tabs, for different sections.

I did not get around to putting a closure on the jacket. I hoped to add small D-rings for a removable bag strap. And I would have liked the final journal case to be made of very thin but strong leather, instead of linen. A range of designs for the journal jackets (or at least diferent colours) would have to be considered.

Other ideas I had at the start of this project, and which I think are still good, are:

  • a small pamphlet with 50 fun ideas for fresh, quirky, creative ways to fill your travel journal…exercises and such
  • a website where REISE users can upload pictures of their journal pages, share their drawings, photos, collages, doodles…and engage in forums with a community of other artist-travelers.

I know this isn’t “one paragraph”, but I have learned so much from this course, the journey really has been the destination, and its own reward. I don’t think I’ll even bother to find out what my final score is, now, or download some meaningless certificate of completion! What was of real value here, I have already received.

Thanks and good bye!

◊ ◊ ◊

aboard the M/V sonofagun, amazing people, craftiness, Inspirations, travel

Rumour book « Art of Kris Larsen

my Captain's Rumour Book

Kris has (once again!) shared some pictures of an amazing book on his blog. This is his own personal Captain’s Rumour Book…an intriguing, mystery-shrouded and jealously guarded secret tradition of all questing sea captains…

or  at least so Kris would have it, via the fantastic novel Railsea by China Miéville. :)

In Miéville’s work, rumour books are just that: a logbook where a captain who has devoted his/her entire life to hunting some great, elusive, near-mythical quarry (brilliantly referred to as “The Captain’s Philosophy”) jots down all the rumours—big and small— regarding his/her questing beast. Captains trade rumours of having sighted each other’s beasts, or sometimes they go to large, sprawling Rumour Markets to purchase them from reliable—and not-so-reliable—Rumour Merchants. Where does one find a Rumour Market? Well, the whereabouts of those are also just rumours, and you have to track down some Rumour Monger who might sell you that morsel of information.

Living with Kris is a big adventure. Every. Single. Day. I don’t know anyone else who could dig through a little box of knickknacks, pull out two wafer-thin, dark, small coins and nonchalantly tell this story about them:

“The upper coin is a Roman copper from the reign of Emperor Dioclecian 285-305 AD. It came from a shipwreck in the Adriatic Sea. I got it in barter from an Austrian diver I met in the Chagos Archipelago…the second coin comes from the medieval Arab city-state of Kilwa, which flourished in East Africa, today’s Tanzania. Overrun and destroyed by Portuguese in 1505 it never recovered. Coin is 500-700 years old. I bought it in Kilwa from local kids fossiking in the extensive ruins of Kilwa Kisimani…”

Emperor Dioclesian (285-305 AD

And, just to stir your imagination a bit more, from the same treasure trove that yielded the two coins, Kris pulled out and showed me a small green wine bottle—sandblasted by time and over 300 years old—that he came across while wandering the old Pirate Cemetery on Île Sainte-Marie in Madagascar. The idea is positively haunting.

What, you don’t believe me? Friends, I assure you, I paid top money for these rumours, and got them from a very reliable Rumour Monger! ;)

via Rumour book « Art of Kris Larsen.

art + design, Creative Travel Journal, Inspirations, projects, travel

Designing a creative travel journal, part 1

1-4 memento travel journal

I am doing an online course at the moment, via the coursera.org website. It’s called Design: Creation of Artifacts in Society, and is being given by Karl T. Ulrich of  the University of Pennsylvania.

Each student was asked to identify several “gaps” in personal life that seemed to cry out for some sort of design solution, and then pick one to work on for the 8-week course. We’re just about to start the third week, but I’ve already had to produce three schematic drawings, one physical prototype, and gather data via research and interviews to come up with 30+ user needs for my ‘product’! So yes, very busy, when you throw in the day job and real life! But I love the opportunity that the course gives me to work within the realm of my skills, yet provides new tools with which to expand that realm.

I decided to make some sort of journal/repository for creative travelers…an object I’d very much like for myself, but parts of which I thought might be incorporated into the hand-bound journals I sell in my shop, as well.
Travel journals need to be so much more than books with pages for writing. A traveler needs a place for important information, checklists and itineraries; needs somewhere to keep photographs, stamps and postcards, and a place for small objects like charms, seashells, pressed leaves, bottle caps, or “those bracelets from discos when you hook up with a guy,” as one of my interviewed users suggested.  There’s more than writing to be done on the pages, too—there’s sketching and art-making to take into account. Maps and travel routes. Quick access to useful foreign language phrases. Addresses and numbers of the people you meet, the shops where you found the best bargains (you think you’ll remember, but you won’t…write it down, or keep their business card!), and so on.

I’ve looked at a few commercially produced travel journals on the market…Moleskine’s Passions and City Notebooks, Nomad, Clairefontaine and Habana journals…

prototype 1.4 scaled03

Prototype 1.1 was pretty simple…after all, we hadn’t been taught anything yet in the first week! Ulrich just wanted to see what we’d come up with, initially. I used cardboard, brown paper, old magazine pages and duct tape to make a modified Limp Binding book, with pockets (mail envelopes) inside the covers, a pocket on the back of the book (for a set of aquarelle pencils or watercolours), and besides standard pages, stitched in an accordion book, some pockets with mylar ‘windows’ for photographs, and a small pamphlet-stitched notebook that can be pulled out and used separately from the main book.
prototype 1.4 scaled04

I had a hundred ideas for making the journal ever-more-fabulous as I stitched up this prototype…but anyone who’s been to uni learns NEVER to pour all of their brilliant ideas into the first prototype…what’ll you do for the rest of the 8-week course?
prototype 1.4 scaled06

Don’t go giving those professors the idea that you’re some kind of wunderkind, or they’ll expect you to build an iPad from scratch for the next prototype! Keep pace with the syllabus, pretend to make slow but steady progress under your professor’s gentle guidance—that idyllic, fairytale model of learning, so beloved of experts in education—and help create a warm and fuzzy feeling in the academe by reinforcing stereotypes of “The Mind: How It Works”. ;)
prototype 1.4 scaled07

Truth is (at least for me) that prototypes become obsolete long before I’ve finished them because while I’m waiting for things like glue to dry, my mind has raced ahead to assemble, use, disassemble, and improve the next three or four versions of the thing. You’ll often find me, coffee cup and cigarette in hands, staring into space, and you’ll think I’m spacing out, but what I’m really doing is building something, one step at a time, in my mind. Most of my design solutions are manufactured and tested in the lab behind my eyes. It’s cheap and saves time.

I’ve already put together a list of 30+ user needs for my proposed “ultimate travel journal”, but if you are the sort of person who keeps a creative journal while traveling, I’d love to hear your own ideas of what such a journal would have to include to make it your favorite. Just wondering whether I’ve overlooked anything. I’ll show you my own list of 30+ User Needs tomorrow…

Featured on Freshly Pressed by WordPress

Inspirations, travel, uber embroiderers

über embroiderer : ana teresa barboza

by ana teresa barboza | embroidery on fabric

It’s been a long time since I scoured the internet for an über embroiderer. I think it’s because I’m reluctant to have this blog turn into some kind of curatorial mirror of other people’s work…just another ‘pin board’ that raves about the same things that other blogs do, pulling in creative ideas from elsewhere and not producing anything original of its own.

But Ana Teresa Barboza’s embroidered pieces were too good to pass by. Wish I could say I found them myself, but I’m not really that keen a surfer—the hours one must devote to combing blogs and sites for ‘material’ are, to me, better spent making something with my own hands; so I was alerted to these fantastic embroideries of Barboza by The Artful Desperado, whose far more cutting-edge blog undoubtedly lives with its fingers on the pulse of art and design.

Once again, amazing work coming from South America (judging by her CV, Barboza is Peruvian)…and this really makes me wonder how many more über embroiderers (and artists of other disciplines) doing really fresh, incredible things, are missed because they don’t turn up in, say, the first 20 search results of an english-language search engine. There must be hundreds. South America is really starting to look like a kind of petri dish for creativity and new approaches to art, craft, design. But one almost has to be there, immersed in the cities where they work, as well as in the language, to discover them.

Kris and I are moving to S.America in two years’ time, and I have been making notes of all these artists and projects and places that I would like to meet/visit in preparation for that time. It’s getting so that I can hardly contain myself, I want to go now, now, NOW! (But wait, need to earn some money, first, so maybe it’s time to wrap up this post and get back to work!)

by ana teresa barboza | embroidery and fabrics

by ana teresa barboza | graphite and embroidery on cloth

Much more to see on her blog so be sure to pay a visit. I only went two or three pages deep…who knows what treasures hide in the archives of Barboza’s posts!