journaling + mail art, stuff i've made

Object Enclosed: one (1) pc. “Ear”

fat ear

Paintings are not going too well. Reached a point yesterday when I thought I would explode…some unnameable despair filling me up, making everything I do hateful and wholly despicable.

Finally I squeezed noodles of paint over the problem canvas, and spread the quinacridone magenta around wildly with my hands, obliterating everything I’d done so far…I cried a little, but the rage subsided, and I felt heaps better for having done it. A feeling of calm filled me, but I also felt tired.

To take a break from all this pathetic, anguished (only happens in movies, surely?) painting, I set about making some mail art  for a friend who is also a painter (probably a less angry painter than I am, but who knows, really, what lurks in the hearts of women who paint?) and I started the epistle with this hilarious first page. I should have attached a small magnet to the stapled ear, so that it could be used as a fridge magnet…what a fun idea! Oh well, maybe next time (there’s always the other ear). ;)

I quite like how I’ve managed to bring the two options together harmoniously by “cutting the painting’s ear off”.

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aboard the M/V sonofagun, food, journaling + mail art

Defrost in translation…

sunday's sketches
I was on deck with my sketchbook, supposedly drawing ideas for a group exhibit that I’ll be joining in September (but really I was distractedly doodling, as usual, and had made a few attempts to draw Kris, who was sitting on the other end of the deck) when sailor, friend, and all-around lovely French guy Christophe dropped in on the (reasonably) good ship Sonofagun this morning to lend me his 6 liter pressure cooker as well as a small recipe book that used to belong to his mother.

All of this came about because I told him, over some vodka at the Dinah Beach Yacht Pub, that I didn’t know what to make for Kris’ birthday dinner that would be easy for me to prepare on our very low-tech boat, yet still a respectable dish, and in quantities that would feed 15-20 adults, without shackling me to the kitchen stove all night.

He suggested I make coq au vin (rooster with wine) in a pressure cooker, and I thought Hmm, that’s really not a bad idea…throw everything into the autocuiseur, walk away and, an hour later, come back to reveal tender chicken pieces in a rich sauce of cognac and red wine.

Add to this dish some mashed potato and a hearty pumpkin or a lentil and garlic soup (don’t forget, it’s winter in Oz, and even tropical Darwin gets chilly when the sun goes down…especially on the open deck of a boat in the harbour!), preceded by little bowls of homemade hommus, bagna cauda, this award-winning recipe for borani esfanaaj (“yoghurt and spinach dip in the Persian manner”), vegetable crudites, a couple of decent cheeses, some salami and smoked salmon, and loads of fresh, crusty Turkish bread and baguettes…

I gazed into the middle distance and my eyes took on a faraway, concentrated look as the entire evening’s menu sort of just wrote itself, in my head, while I methodically imagined every taste and texture to see what a meal like that would be like. I even sipped an after-dinner glass of frosty eggnog for a moment, before discarding the imaginary drink and replacing it with a mug of hot homemade mocha chocolate, instead. I gave a contented sigh and beamed at him. Christophe probably thought to himself “Ah, she only drink two shots of this vodka, but already she is drunk!”

I have only ever made coq au vin using an old Cordon Bleu cookbook…if my memory serves me, it involved several cast iron pans, many hours of stirring and thickening, as well as handfuls of perfectly good carrots that you simmered for ages until very soft…only to squeeze them for their juices and throw away the rest. Also, there was blood, and a Dutch oven involved.

It hadn’t been an easy dish to cook in my mother’s modern, gadget-packed kitchen—and it left a small trail of dirty cookware—so there’s no way I would manage it on a solar powered boat with a single-burner camping stove and a Coleman cooler for refrigeration, but Christophe’s recipe looked promisingly short, so maybe it would be simple, too?

I wouldn’t know until I translated it from the French.

“Gild the cockerel pieces…halfway through the operation, add the onion roundels…. Add the cognac (the recipe gives you a choice of cognac or coffee grounds…can’t be right…) and quickly ignite. Cover with red wine…cut the sandy feet off the champignons and wash the latter…simmer for 30-40 minutes from the time the pressure cooker starts whispering, depending on the age of the cockerel (a fork will easily penetrate the thigh when it is the appropriate time)…”

It was pretty easy, after the literal translation, to go over the instructions with the logic of recipes in mind, and smooth it all out so it made sense…only that bit that my dictionary said meant “coffee grounds,” and a word that wasn’t in my dictionary: couenne, that I first mistook for cayenne pepper (but turned out to be pork rind, yuck, wouldn’t use it, anyway!)

There’s no point writing the recipe here until I’ve tried it myself. If everything goes well, I’ll be sure to let you know and share it! In the meantime, thought I’d share the doodle I made next to my rough translation of the recipe (which I wrote in my sketchbook, because it was the closest bit of blank paper)

coq au vin

Although a capon or chicken is usually used, the recipe was originally recommended as a way to tenderise tough old sinewy roosters, like this potty-mouthed old fella.

  • Potetto something (DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!) (gmbcooking.wordpress.com) A hilarious article about, among other things, how letting your pressure cooker get all scungy and disgusting can cause cancer… also, a recipe for “Potato something” about which the author writes: “Divine, heavenly, uplifting, subliminal, subtle are all words that I will NOT use to describe this dish. It was crap and I will never do it again.”
  • National coq au vin day (eatocracy.cnn.com)
  • Lock the Lid, Embrace the Green (miamiherald.com)
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journaling + mail art, life, philosophy, stuff i've made

A quiet spell

Solitude shows us what we should be; society shows us what we are.
—Robert Cecil

journal page

Well, I’m back…

When I said it would be quiet around here for a while, I had no idea just how quiet it would get. Not only have I not been able to use my laptop or get online because I can’t power my laptop, but during the Easter weekend my registered domain name expired, and my blog was replaced by one of those scary generic pages that are the internet equivalent of a tombstone…

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here to see if the earthly remains of smallestforest.net will be available for purchase soon… (Dies iræ! Dies illa!)”

It was a bit chilling.

But this has actually been a welcome hiatus. Like a detox for the spirit. I never really realized how much time I spent on my laptop, how much of what I do is subconsciously being auditioned as ‘material’ for this blog, nor how much of my week is spent taking and fixing up the photos, or  putting the words together for it. The biggest revelation of all, during the past weeks’ internet abstinence, is that around 90% of what I do online is expendable…in real terms, my life gains so little from all these activities, that it’s not such a big loss when the whole system drops out.

Not only did life go on—minus the internet, minus smallestforest.net, minus e-mails, minus desktop applications and my entire music collection—but it seemed to get more real. I went to a smattering of exhibition openings (I even bought a small illustrated tattoo at Emily Hearn’s Taste of Ink exhibition…Yay!), ferried a new friend over to the boat for an afternoon of art talk, took long aimless walks from Dinah Beach to the esplanade in Fannie Bay just to sit and gaze at the boats in the harbour for half an hour, did stuff in my art journal, worked on embroidery projects, did a couple of paintings, made some air-hardening clay figures on which to draft patterns for some softies I want to make, wrote an amazing 38 pages (!) in my journal, and scribbled so many creative ideas down in my seedbook that I would need to hire a small team of people to carry them all out in this lifetime.

The internet can inspire, no doubt about that; there is so much wonderful stuff on here to fuel the fires of making and doing. But it can also overwhelm me to the point where I am paralyzed, addicted to looking and bookmarking, and if I didn’t regulate it, I might spend more time looking for inspiration, and not enough time alone with my own creativity and a tool in my hand! One of the most productive periods of my life was when we were living in a shack on a remote beach in a very undeveloped part of the Philippines. We had no electricity, didn’t own a laptop, there was no internet, no mobile phone, not even a small crappy camera! Yet Kris and I could barely keep up with all the ideas we were getting for things to build, make, design, paint, or do. It seemed that the more we drew from the well, the faster it filled.

And while I enjoy my laptop, camera, the internet, and a hot shower (!) now that I have all these things, it is really comforting, and empowering, to know that I didn’t need it to have ideas or make beautiful things, didn’t need it to feel like I was among the happiest people on earth, and that everything could be taken away from me, tomorrow, and life would go on, as vivid and rich as ever.

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embroidery and textiles, journaling + mail art

My perforated heart…a love letter

perforated love letter WIP

Here’s a sneak peek of a project I’m doing in collaboration with my friend Katerina Bona Vora of Zero the One

✕✕✕ ✕✕✕ ✕✕✕ ✕✕✕  ♡  ✕✕✕ ✕✕✕ ✕✕✕ ✕✕✕

I drew the design on 2mm. graphing paper, and then used the same as a guide to perforate a sheet of 220 gsm. watercolor paper. I’m working the stitching using a single thread of DMC embroidery floss, in a shades-of-fresh-to-dried-blood variegated red…

perforated love letter WIP

perforated love letter WIP

perforated love letter WIP

Come to think of it, this piece has the same feel of this other ‘love letter’ that I made 3 years ago, using the same variegated skein of thread…

The Midnight Velada

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embroidery and textiles, food, journaling + mail art, travel

It’s not over yet…

Kek Lok Si wooden fan

You didn’t really believe I was done writing about Malaysia, did you?

You did? What, and not even one long, raving, ecstatic post about all the fabulous Penang street food—the primary purpose of my visit—that I tried? Are you kidding?

I’ve only been so quiet about it because I’ve been sorting through my notes—doing  a bit of backstory research, tracking down the origins of some of the dishes, the recipes for others—but I am almost ready to publish a monster post or two about my gustatory pilgrimage to Pulau Pinang. In the meantime, these are a couple more postcards I stitched during the trip…

Kuala Lumpur

Teh Tarik

Now that I’m home again, my wild foodie excesses have been reined in; I am back on my Low GI diet of soaked rolled oats, cracked wheat, simple salads, and temperate-climate fruit (tropical fruits being rich in high GI sugars). Sigh. It’s better for me, and I have to confess that I’m glad I don’t live where the food is exciting…or I’d have a hard time keeping the diabetes that’s been programmed into my genes, away.

Darwin‘s everyday food scene is no temptation: the blandness, the priggishness, the uninspired phantom of WASP cooking still haunts its flavours and methods (around these parts, ‘deep-fried’ is a flavour, and covering things in breadcrumbs is a favorite method.) I wander around the malls, oppressed by slab-like, drowned things  called uninspired names like “Veggie Bake” or “Meat Pie”. Most ‘ethnic’ cuisines are represented, of course…more often than not, though, by Chinese cooks. And these places seem to have altered the flavours to suit the Aussie palate (i.e. no heat, no subtle perfumes of herbs or spices, lots of salt and LOTS of sugar.)

Don’t get me wrong, I like living here, and there’s much more to life than food. It just isn’t (nor will it ever be) a destination for food lovers. Because cuisine is such an important part of cultural identity, not having the one can easily make the place feel like it hasn’t got the other, either. Some days it can seem more tragic than on others. :)

Darwin’s a great place for crocodiles, for camping and wilderness adventures, for going pig hunting in a pickup truck, with a cooler full of beer, some ugly murderous dogs in the back, and some ugly murderous friend in the passenger’s seat. I met a Canadian who said she came to Darwin because she wanted to “visit the tropics, without having to visit the Third World.” Well, there you go, a catchy line for our tourism campaign, if we run out of crocs and want to attract the sort of people who travel around the world in search of the same things they left back home: friendly white faces, McDonald’s, and the English language.

Is it any wonder that I escape into my memories of Malaysian food, and threaten to write long, wistful posts about them? I miss Asia…the buzzing, swelling, engulfing, “if-you-are-here-then-you-are-part-of-it” liveliness of its streets. The urgency and passion with which people celebrate and pursue their cultural signposts. The way people are pushed up against one another, both physically and emotionally…brushing barriers aside, and thinning the psychological walls between individuals.

Surprisingly, it makes for higher public levels of courtesy, tolerance and equanimity than you’d find in the neat and less crowded streets of Darwin. Strangers don’t abuse each other over brief encroachments upon personal space, or snap at each other over small mistakes. An outburst of self-righteous rage or an adult tantrum in public is a rare sight, and the one who loses his cool loses his status in everyone’s eyes (even if he does get what he wants in the end.)

Being impassive and watchful is probably what earned Asians (the Chinese in particular) the label ‘inscrutable’. All it means is that they’ve managed to move past the emotional intelligence of five-year-olds, and they won’t waste time or demean themselves by slobbering insincere friendliness over a perfect stranger…which, until they get to know you, is what you are.

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embroidery and textiles, food, Inspirations, journaling + mail art, life, travel

Goodbye, Georgetown! Langkawi, here I come!

Love in the time of bananas...

Another embroidered postcard: “Love in The Time of Bananas…” of a fruit hawker’s cart and bullion-stitched bananas…and a colored pencil sketch of mangosteens. And a bowl of mee noodles; both from my journal of this trip.

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Hindu temple, Tanjong Bungah

One of many, many fabulous, theme-park gaudy Hindu shrines around Pulau Pinang. This one’s right outside my window at Tanjung Bungah.

Just some pictures, no time to write a post…taking the ferry to Pulau Langkawi tomorrow morning, to spend my remaining 5 or 6 days with a close friend who now lives over there.

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embroidery and textiles, Inspirations, journaling + mail art, life, stuff i've made, travel

A Streetcar Named Desir*

treehouse

Took this the day before I had a decent map of Georgetown, so I don’t even know where this building is—it was a Chinese school. I was just walking along (totally lost, I admit it) when this house loomed up, standing in a wide open lot. Banyan trees have grown up through the house, and there are even a few smaller trees starting up on the roof. It looked amazing. Penang is absolutely chock-full of grand 18th and 19th century buildings like this, one after the other, up and down the streets…many of them restored to their original dignity. No wonder the whole town was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site.

A Streetcar Named Desir*

I picked up a few romantic black and white postcards of old Penang at a lovely bookshop along Lebuh Chulia. Each evening I sit and stitch one of them. It’s been a nice way to make the mass-produced postcards my own. Thank you, Shaun Kardinal, for the inspiration!

This one’s for Kris, of an old fashioned trishaw in a narrow lorong (lane). I’ve written “A Streetcar Named Desir” on the back, and that’s not a typo. Desir is Bahasa Melayu for “the sound of leaves being blown by the wind.”

journal pages

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amazing people, books + poetry, embroidery and textiles, Inspirations, journaling + mail art, life, philosophy

…one went somewhere extraordinary and loved extraordinary things…

something did after all

I went browsing through my old journal entries today, looking to catch the flavour of the year just-past in its pages.

It’s become a tradition of mine to look back upon a year, and then give that year a name. Usually, the name is taken directly from the one situation, event, experience, or period that stands out—not only because it was meaningful or intense, but because it is not likely to be repeated in quite the same way again. I’ve been doing this since 1994, and I keep the slowly-growing list right up front, on the first or second page of each of my journals. When a journal is full, I copy the list into the next journal I’ll be using.

Part of the fun of reading back through the entries to review the year is stumbling upon evidence—a line here, an outburst there—of an entirely different Self. “Did I write that? How surprisingly good! Or how embarrassingly bad! I forgot that I was like that, or that I felt that way…”

It’s fun, yes, but reading through old journals can also bring on an intense longing. Time, after all—your bright days and brilliant moments, your triumphs and treasures and epic loves and personal, magical encounters—has been reduced to less than two thousand yellowing pages covered in a small, italic handwriting.

Is this it, then, my Life? A shortlist of named years—The Year of the Island, The Year of The Seagull & The Star, The Year of The Health Care Plan, and so on—and half a dozen thick, heavy, dog-eared books filled with words, words, words, some clippings, some photos, some drawings and painted pages?

your calling is calling

“How little I have managed to say of the truth. How little I have caught of all that complexity. How can this small neat thing be true when what I experienced was so rough and apparently formless and unshaped?”

asks Doris Lessing, in her Introduction to The Golden Notebook—that massive novel about a fragmented woman who obsessive-compulsively records her life in four separate journals at a time.

events of great intensity

James Hamilton Paterson, in his book about living alone on a small tropical island, Playing With Water, put it in a beautiful way (that moved me when I first met him and read his book, and that continues to move me…possibly because I, too, lived and loved on a small tropical island, once, in a golden time of my life) that I found so significant, I even embroidered bits of this last paragraph onto the covers of my current journal:

Experiences of great intensity—an especial dream, a period of concentrated work, a sudden absorption, maybe a love-affair—have in common that they are unusually real while they last. Yet it is precisely this quality which so easily vanishes. Afterwards, how unreal it all suddenly seems! We lost ourselves in that dazzling fugue whose importance to us we do not doubt and yet which now is so imaginary. Time which seemed not measurable, so endless, suddenly lapses back into the diurnal and leaves behind it disquiet and longing for a lost intensity. We observe that there is no rapture which will not later seem chimerical, no vision or intellectual fervour which will not come to feel more vaporous than that waking sleep, the dull discourse of ordinary days. It becomes a toss-up as to which is the more delusional: the higher reality or the lower. For everything shares a common insignificance in this vain pursuit, this hapless devoir of taking an accurate stock of how things are before they cease to be.

Yet there does remain a knowledge, like the pleasurable stiffness in muscles after a previous day’s unaccustomed exercise, to prove that something occurred. Something did after all take place to tax the muscles of the mind. For an unmeasurable time one went somewhere extraordinary and loved extraordinary things. One has been a traveler; and it is not a traveler’s feet which ache.

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