My Shopping List of Art Supplies

I get to go shopping for new art supplies next week and I would like to know what kind of colored penciles art the best.  I have used prisims, are there better ones out there?  What is the best kind of markers?  Where is the best place to buy these? I do mostly odd, unusual type stuff, especially faces, but not real-looking,  more cartoony.  I mostly have sharpies and cheap markers.  What else can you not live without for drawing supplies?  What about watercolor penciles.?

Thanks for the help,

Carolyn H.

One of the ladies from Soul Food sent out these questions earlier today, and I thought the wisest answer would be on my blog, so she can add it to her favourites amd refer to it at any time.

First, I am partial to the Prismacolors for sharp-edged colouring, they hold the point well, and the colour can be applied evenly, and will blend a bit with application of a blending stick.  Granted the less ‘forgiving’ a medium is the more I like it.  The Crayola coloured pencils are good for laying down a base colour layer to put your details over.  And I would recommend a can of Workable fixatif, as well as some fine sandpaper to keep your Blending Sticks clean and pointed.

Markers are sadly, limited and limiting.  Because they dry so quickly, they don’t make a uniform layer without a great deal of poring over, and working in a demented degree of pointillism; there  is not much ‘blending’ that happens, just some bleary mushy-paperness.  They could work well with a dry-paper watercolour work.

I have Sharpies, and they are as good of a watercolour pen as your going buy.   They have a lovely shelf life, as well as tons of tint, and blend well with other media, i.e. watercolour and pen-and-ink.  Again we’re talking about the dry paper watercolour work.

I keep a range of charcoal and graphite pencils, there don’t seem to be too many producers of quality ones out there, I have been using  General’s ’Kimberly’  for over 30 years and I have very little problem getting what I want out of them.  I also keep a broad selection of coloured chalk, the wee pillars of charcoal in all of the  B values, lots of black and white charcoal, and the graphites in a range of H values.  Again, blending sticks, sandpaper, and Workable Fixatif is a must.  That gives you a non-smudge base for adding details.  When I do pencil work I add a spray of fixatif up to five or six times before I say, “Enough.”

My #1 tool for drawing is my Conté coloured charcoal pencils.  They are a tad delicate so I don’t consider them portable, but they can stay home and keep on doing what they’re wonderful for, detail work on a coloured chalk base.

Watercolour pencils… Watercolour is actually my favourite media.  I have played with watercolours for over 35 years and I am totally committed to Rexel Derwent watercolour pencils.  They’re pricey, but the investment shows in the quality of your finished product.  They work excellently with the tubes of watercolour paint, and have the most amazing colour, not smudgy or murky, but clear and consistently the same colour.  I have been using my present set for about 20 years, and I only need to replace two or three of them.

One thing to never skimp on, what you are putting your artwork on.  Your work won’t looks its best if it is on corasible bond typing paper.  I like a softly ‘toothed’ watercolour paper for watercolours and acrylics, and real canvases for oils.  Nothing else has the right feel for me.

I also keep an old fashioned fountain pen with a variety of nibs in sizes from Crowquill to Extra-Bold Calligraphers and a bottle of India Ink.  I enjopy the confidence one must have to work in ink.  Good ink does not erase or get covered over well, if at all.

As far as where to buy them, any art supply or crafting store should carry all of these goodies.  I have found a few gently-used goodies at second-hand stores, but not enough to count on it as a source.  I have found the drawing charcoals, charcoal pencils, and coloured charcoals at Wal-Mart, and I’m sure it could be found in most of the department Stores.

An Imaginary Room

I visited the Wandering the Halls of Soul Food page and found the prompt – Claiming Nooks at Soul Food.  This got me to thinking what my sacred space would be like if I started from scratch.

The room would be about ten feet square. Not too large nor too small. It would be positioned in the NE corner of the house allowing me plenty of light and air from windows in two walls. I’d have adjustable, wooden louvre shutters on the outside for protection from noise and weather – particularly the bone-searing summer sun.

The walls would be painted in a cool colour. A shade of either lilac, turquoise or blue, or maybe all three. Life’s too short for beige!! The floor would be tiled. I’m all for ease of cleaning, and you can get paint off a tile floor; you have more trouble getting it out of carpet. I like hard floors, and tile rather than wood. Wood scratches. I live in a ‘sandy soil’ place and it blows and tracks in constantly, and you can never get it all out of carpet.

I would have ONE large, comfortable chair; one that I can curl up in. I’m not very tall and find that chairs were not designed with me in mind. I can’t slouch in a chair and if I put my feet on the floor my back is nowhere near the back of the chair. If I sit back in a chair, my legs stick out like barrow handles. Therefore, I have to have a chair which will accommodate my legs as well.

There would be two (at least) bookcases. One for fiction and one for non-fiction. An adjustable lamp with a decent wattage globe. I find that I need more light on things these days to make reading easier. That’s the one thing that bugs me about getting older – my eyesight is not what it was and I need glasses to read these days, and to watch TV. Sometimes a pair of glasses would be good in order to look for my glasses!

A trestle table would hold my arty-farty stuff (some of it, anyway). I suppose a cupboard would be good, too, to store the overflow. I’d keep my sewing machine in there too.

A clock! Yes, definitely a clock. Not because I’m preoccupied with time – I haven’t worn a watch in years – but for the soothing sound of a ticking clock. None of your digital rubbish. I want a proper clock with cogs and springs. Possibly one that chimes gently on the hour. It resonates with times gone by when life was less rushed.

I think I might like one of those table water features too. Something tasteful, not tacky. The sound of water trickling is very relaxing – provided you don’t have a full bladder!

A large cork-board is a necessity for displaying items of interest, which would change frequently, and notes to myself. Something else which is useful now too.

One wall would display the works of art by my children and grandchildren. I have some lovely pieces they’ve given me from time to time. Some framed ones are on the wall and unframed ones are displayed on the fridge. The latest one is a red scribble by Lincoln, aged two.

My Buddha collection would be displayed on a shelf. It’s not a huge collection, and will get no bigger. Only eleven and one is too big for a shelf, so only ten would go in there. I have a Quan Yin which would also go into the room.

Oh, yes. An adjustable office chair to use at the table. Maybe a small rug, but I’m not sure about that. No phone; no radio.

The finishing touch would be a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign to hang on the door.

Sue - Toasted Knees

In the dunes

http://www.dailywriting.net/RearMirror.htm

I looked into the rear view mirror at my life.   Kaleidoscopic images of past moments swirled around me.  Outside the summer air was heavy with dusty scent of melaleucas.  Ocean sounds on a relaxation CD swished through my mind.  A memory of a sea breeze seemed to caress my face and I felt myself to be sitting beside my oldest daughter on an aboriginal midden on Australia’s south east coast.

We had walked out along a wild surf beach late one afternoon.  She dawdled through the shallows while I rambled along on the sand stopping every so often to examine sea shells and fragments of driftwood.  The light was golden.  Suddenly I swerved off into the dunes obeying some instinct that didn’t have a name.  My daughter followed.

I led us up over the first line of dunes that lined the coast, wandered along a hollow between the sand ridges and then climbed up to the crest of a wide dune.  I sat down and looked around.  “It’s a midden,” said my daughter and squatted down beside me.  Sure enough there were the tell tale signs.  Circular areas of blackened sand and charcoal indicated still the places where fires had last burned over a hundred and fifty years ago.  Scattered all around were fragments of whitened bone fragments and scraps of shells.  Perhaps it was our imagination but we both felt we heard the low murmur of women’s voices burbling in some tongue we did not know.  Gentle laughter seemed to wash around us.  Looking out from that spot we could see how the rocks formed a low platform that acted as a breakwater.  Inside this barrier the water was calm and shallow – a perfect spot to hunt for shellfish and go spear fishing at low tide.

The midden would have been used by the Bunurong people, a small tribe of coastal aboriginals who had inhabited that part of the coast before white people arrived.   The tribe was all but wiped out by smallpox carried by the sealers and whalers who visited those shores  early in the nineteenth century.  Middens are scattered through the dunes right along that shore line but they are hard to find.  Unlike the surfers and boating enthusiasts who now frequent the area, the aboriginals did not congregate around the harbours, safe swimming spots and the places where the waves break in long, rolling, predictable swells.  Instead they sought out the shallow lagoons behind the dunes and the spots where the rock formations created natural fishing holes.

As we sat there, my daughter and I, we talked about how we both felt the deep calm that seemed always to pervade the middens we had discovered.  The time that rolled around us was counted in millennia not decades and the stories that whispered in the wind told of endless comings and goings, goings and comings back and back and back to the very dawn of human life.

Now as I look to back to see my daughter and I sitting there I realise it must have been a year or two before she went to away to university, then overseas to marriage and her own time of mothering in a foreign land on the other side of the globe.  If I’d known then that I was to see her so rarely in the future, would I have hung onto the moment tighter? Would my experience be better because I had clutched at it?  No, I don’t think so.  It was perfect just how it was.  We were both fully inside the experience.  There was no part of my mind that was not fully involved in the moment.  Time  winding back and back and back enfolded us and we became part of the comings and goings, the goings and comings of humanity.

posted by Suzanne

Magic Cottage

Firstly, I want to apologize for not posting as much this month. Things have finally started to settle down, so hopefully I can get back on track. I’ve missed posting & reading the wonderful post from everyone.

Tonight I ventured to the Magic Cottage. Like the posts I’ve read this week, it seemed I wandered exactly where I needed to.  The quote below is from there:

“I now challenge you to create abundant magic in your own life, small changes in your surroundings help to shift your perspective and create new meaning.”

I cannot explain why but those words seemed to really stir something within me. Perhaps, it because I also recently reread The Secret Garden, which is one my favorite childhood books.  Whatever the reason, as I pondered  while cleaning, I tried to look at around me with different eyes.  What little things could I do, that would stir wonder and create that sense of new meaning for me? In my life in general?

Here is  a brief list of things I thought of:

I love flowers, they cheer me up. I think I will buy a few potted plants (& hopefully not kill them)

It's been forever since I've bought new sheets, I think it's time for an update.

*Walk the longer route home. Before “old man winter” set up camp, I was amazed by the unique & quaint neighborhoods I discovered.

*Take, develop & frame the pictures that I take

*Create & decorate my own dishes (plates, bowls)

These are just a handful of thing I could think of off the top of my head but I want to challenge myself everyday to look for at least one thing I could do. It could be as simple as having tea at the local teashop, a picnic type lunch instead of sitting in the break room or buying a book of poetry.  Just thinking about it brings a smile to my face.

Night 17: A Morning Ritual

This journal entry is also based on the Door prompt.  The directive there is to “Sketch the front door of a home you lived in. Walk back in that door and write about your memories of that home.”  However, I inverted the directive.  I wrote my entry and made my image based on walking out my door one morning and describing what I saw.  (I did this a few days ago).

Here are some excerpts from that entry:  …I opened my front door to greet the dawn and clear my lungs of the stale night air of my tiny apartment.  It was still night for the most part…I took a lungful of air and looked at the sky…It was cobalt and lapis and near the horizon where the sun was just beginning to show, it was a gradient of teal blending to golden yellow.  Near the thin golden line of dawn was a brilliant pure white sliver of a waning crescent moon, its horns angled upward, a reclining letter “C” waiting from some heavenly night rider to stop her wanderings and take a seat there.  At that moment of clarity, I realized the possibilities of the day.  Such was this morning’s ritual.

L. Gloyd (2010)

Doors

This began with the following prompt: http://www.dailywriting.net/Doors.htm Clarissa Pinkola Estes said that “Women will draw doors where there are none, and open them and pass through into new ways and new lives.”

I awaken in my room at Riversleigh Manor. It’s early. So early that it’s still dark outside but sleep eludes me now. I pad quietly over to the small table and cozy wingback chair in front of the fireplace. Funny…Matron seems to have read my mind once again as there is a tray of freshly made scones still warm from the oven and a pot of hot tea. How did she know I would awaken so early today? No sense spending too much time pondering that – in Lemuria anything can happen! I stoke the fire and wrap a quilt around my shoulders, sinking into the chair. There’s fresh honey from the apiary behind the manor and I add some to my tea, along with a little squeeze of fresh lemon. For my scones, freshly churned butter. There’s even a bowl of the plumpest, juiciest, most delectable strawberries I have ever seen! I love how in Lemuria my allergy to strawberries is null and void. I enjoy a leisurely breakfast, content if still a little bleary-eyed from the early hour.

Just as I am finishing up my morning repast, I hear a sound. The noise is coming from the wall behind me. A mechanical sound that sort of whirs and hums and then stops with a loud “ding”! I turn around and am shocked to see, where there used to be a beautiful window overlooking the glorious gardens and ponds outside the manor, that there is now a set of elevator doors. The doors are nearly open by the time I look and as they slide apart, I see a white gloved hand pulling apart the inner doors – you know the kind I mean? The old fashioned metal ones that resemble a cage? The hand is attached to an equally old fashioned elevator operator – the type who looks like a hotel bellboy out of some old story like Madeline or Eloise in the red jacket and black pants with gold trim and brass buttons and that little black cap with the chin strap that reminds me of those monkeys that accompany organ grinders in the movies. “Going down!” he calls out to me. I blink. I blink again this time keeping my eyes closed just a little longer. The elevator and its operator were still there. “Going down,” he calls out again. I glance down, taking note of the dressing gown I am still wearing, the big fuzzy bunny slippers on my feet. “Uhhh,” I begin. “’Tis no problem,” he says brightly, wide knowing grin on his face. “It’s Lemuria. We take you as you are.” I step into the elevator and as I watch him pull the gate closed, followed by the solid elevator doors, I find myself wondering what I (or perhaps E) has gotten me into this time.

Cleaning Closets

I have an aversion to cleaning.  I can’t explain why, because I always feel so relieved and joyful anytime I finish a cleaning project.  Perhaps it comes from a childhood of a mother obsessed with clean; to a point way beyond any definition of normal.  Anytime I would clean my room, dishes, the bathroom, or any other project she assigned me to, she would come inspect my work.  It never passed her standards, regardless of how much time and elbow grease I sweated over.  It got to a point where I said to hell with it, I guess.  It’s getting better as I grow into my adult years, now that I have children I want to set an example for.  We have a very clean home; I just don’t like doing it.

I always hear how closet cleaning is therapeutic, and good for the soul.  Anytime a friend makes a statement about it, or when I read it in a book, I get a discouraged look on my face and think, “Ugh, what a chore!”  But that tiny little voice in my head is agreeing with them.

This morning I took my cup of coffee up to my bedroom, and walked into my closet to get dressed.  I stood there, frozen in my own footsteps, with a voice saying, “You need to purge and clean, girlfriend.”   A smile formed on my lips, and I got that fluttering feeling in my chest that I get when I know something satisfying and meaningful is about to happen.  I couldn’t wait to dig in, but had children to get ready and ushered to school.   I kept the family on task and started driving my youngest to school.  That’s when I heard it, my critic.  “You don’t want to clean your closets today!  It’s way too much work.  You can do it some other time.”  I recognized those voices as that little girl inside that didn’t want to clean, because it wasn’t going to be good enough anyway.  My spiritual voice stepped in, comforted my inner child for a moment, and reassured the need to clean out my closet.

I returned home and was eager to begin my project.  I started clearing shelves, and remembered the spiritual thoughts that I had drifted asleep to last night, and realized that cleaning out my closet came at the time I needed it most.

I lay in bed last night, overwhelmed with emotions and discouraged at my lack of creative drive I have been experiencing the past few weeks.  I opened myself up and asked for guidance from the higher power that I believe in.  (Most of us refer to this as the Universe, God, Heavenly Father, Mother Earth, Buddha, etc.)  I asked for guidance, peace, creativity, joy.  I prayed for the ability to be the best mother to my two daughters that I can be to allow them to find their own strength and creativity.  I said thanks for the resilience of my marriage and the power of the love that my husband and I have spent years challenging; trying to prove it wrong but finding it always wins out in the end.  I asked for the Universal voice to be heard through my writing.  And I asked for the understanding that wherever I am is exactly where I am supposed to be.

I spent three hours cleaning out my closets this morning.  I threw out things that had managed to find their ways into the deep crevices, behind shoes and our dresser.  Receipts, halves of earring sets, an old matchbox; you get the idea.  I started on one side and worked my way around to the other, clearing shelves and hangers; starting a pile of things that will soon be donated to local shelters and such.

Getting rid of so many clothes and shoes put a smile on my face and in my soul.  I knew all of these things that I no longer wanted; that had found themselves taking up space in my closet for who knows how long; would be going to someone else that desperately needed them.  Dresses that may find themselves sitting in a job interview; hoping for that income to provide for a single mother and her children.  Shoes that will replace ones with holes or worn out soles.  Jewelry that might make someone feel pretty again.

Cleaning closets is indeed, good for the soul.  Laboring over this project for three hours, with nobody’s voice to listen to but my own and gathering piles of extra ‘stuff’ that no longer suited me  made me so happy.  I looked over my closet triumphantly after hauling bags and bags of stuff out to be donated.  My closet was a clean, open space again; and so was my mind.

Time for Myself

Christmas Day was wonderful with my husband, daughter, ma-in-law, and pa-in-law. We played, we ate, we laughed and enjoyed one another staying in our hearts for the day.

 

The following day with extended family was filled with angst, tension, bitchiness, and the desire never to repeat the experience. After a short time, everyone parted and went our separate ways. With two Christmases down and two to go, we hit the road for the Salinas/Monterey area.

The tires rolling along the highway was calming. It was nice being in the passenger seat for a change and I thoroughly enjoyed looking at the passing scenery. The drone of the rubber meeting the road is a steady sound that allows me to slip into a state of meditation. I allow my thoughts to come and go.

It is strange that certain sights can evoke such strong memories. And it is even stranger that strong memories can evoke certain sights.

I see the old road broken and filled with weeds, one side fallen down the hillside. It takes me back to life as a child… when we were still a family…making the trip to the delta and our boat. I wonder how many times I got sick from the neverending twists and turns of the road rising and falling through steep hills. I actually only remember once when all that was handy was a bag of plums.

I recall the story my father told me about a Native American princess and Lover’s Leap. I imagine what it was like living in the surrounding countryside. I remember reading about Pacheco Pass’ history and supposed hauntings.

My heart starts to feel full and heavy like I’m going home. But I’m only nearing the town where I was born; the area filled with my childhood memories of my father, family, aunt, uncle, the many cousins, and times spent together.

The pain medications slips in and my mind grows fuzzy. It’s not a bad feeling.  The music is on and I know all the songs. I slump down in my seat, nestle down into a pillow against the window and sing. I sing with my true voice. I sing each and every word with a passion. I sing from my heart.

I realize that it is possible to find time for myself even when others are near… I sing!

The Canyon and The Apple Tree

My father’s house is on Canyon Road, which leads into the mountainous valleys and canyons beyond.  He has lived in that house his entire life, and he is living the end of his days there now.  An image that will always remind me of my father will be the apple tree.  He has several apple trees on his property, and they have been his pride and joy since his boyhood.  He tends to them with great care, and boasts every year on the number of bushels he picked. 

A couple months ago, I knew that I would be painting oil paintings for my sisters as Christmas presents.  I did not know what they would be, I planned on going with the flow and letting the paintings reveal themselves to me; as most of my paintings tend to do.  I started painting one of a lone apple tree against a blue blackground; recreating one I painted for her as a child as I sat with her in her art classes at the university.  Not knowing why, and not questioning, I sat that one aside and started on one a bit different. 

The following two paintings came to life.  I started on them before my father became as sick as he is; and now that he is spending what we all believe to be his last days as he endures the end stages of his heart failure; these two paintings have more meaning than I would have ever expected them to.  I cried many tears during the time I painted them, and as I would sit looking at the finished products, waiting for the paint to dry for days and days. 

They are a vision of the canyon and the apple tree.  To me, they are a symbol of my father; and I cherish that they revealed themselves to me.

WONDERINGS

Reading Heather’s writing about wonder led me to me recall childhood moments I have not thought for years.

When I was eight my family moved to a new housing estate in one of Melbourne’s south eastern suburbs.  Row after row of identical brick veneer houses stretched across the grey sandy flat land baking in the sun.   A cluster of grand old homes from an earlier, more gracious time, clustered around the railway station.  Auntie Vicky, an old aunt of my father’s lived in one.  From time to time my father would suggest that he and I go and visit her.  He would get out his clapped old bicycle and I would clamber onto a huge old three wheeler bike that was rusting out behind the shed and we’d pedal off.

Auntie Vicky was always delighted to see us when we arrived.  She was a tiny old lady who lived on her own in a two storey box like house made from red brick.  She would usher us into the sitting room.  My memories of that dusty, darkened room are fragmentary. As Dad and Auntie Vicky conversed in muted tones my eyes roamed around soaking up the visual feast.  Overstuffed armchairs covered in faded  chintz were flanked by decorative side tables where object d’art and old photographs jostled for space.  Sometimes I was permitted to peer into a large glass box that rested on a pedestal.  Inside it were giant sea shells and curios collected during the Victorian ear.  It was a true cabinet of curiosities.

My favourite objects in the room were the glass fronted wooden bookcases that lined the walls.  I loved books and would gaze into the depths of those cupboards deciphering the titles and wondering as to their contents.  Auntie Vicky must have noticed my fascination for on one visit she presented me with a book she had selected for me.  It was an 1897 copy of Alice in Wonderland that belonged to her son William who was killed in World War 1.

That book had been with me ever since.  Through all life has thrown at me I’ve clung on it.  It is always one of the first things to be packed when I move house (something I’ve done more times than I care to recall) and I don’t feel I’ve truly moved in until it, and a handful of other old books I’ve collected over the years are placed in their new home.

posted  by Suzanne