I don't think I will ever enjoy Christmas as much as I did when I was a child. Back then, seemingly, all I needed to do was wear a silver - as silver as Christmas tinsel - visiting dress:
Or kneel by the tree and play with the fire engine which was undoubtedly meant for my brother:
...in order to know that the very summit of the year had been reached, the time of the bright exhale.
Christmas was the decorated, fragrant tree and a house that was remarkably changed. I had nothing to do with this - I would just watch my parents bring the holiday inside to dazzle us.
Now, during the course of the years, there have come worries, disappointments, petty ugliness and cynicism: the detritus of adulthood, of living on your own. These bruises have hurt the innocence that dared to look forward to a day because it was...happy.
But there is one good thing. Now, every Christmas it is up to me to decorate some lucky tree waiting with evergreen hope beside its brethren in some orchard/hardware parking lot. It is up to me to transform my apartment with shiny things and swathe it with all the radiance of the season. And then on The Day, I will invite my parents over so I can dazzle them.
These are my entries for this Christmas e-card competition. If you like my drawings please, please vote for me. Thank you!
x
Paris trembles under many lights. Looking down on the city, it meanders like a circle of galaxies.
During the Second Empire, in the mid-19th century, Paris was a delightful gamine, overdressed with crinolines and diamond sandals. She was a shocking, immoral child - but always held back with the soft ribbons of etiquette, always wearing an extravaganza of couture.
Paris was also an epicurean state, with a history of exotic tastes, extravagant meals and wasteful, profligate menus. There is one story of a dinner that was served during this time:
Waiters stood tall and handsome as they shouldered a lengthy, silver platter. It was covered, and heavy. They were en route from the kitchen to the dinner table, only this time the kitchen wasn't below stairs, but upstairs, in milady's boudoir.
Beneath the silver cover, the feast reclined in the edible darkness. She thought luxuriously of the corsets, taffetas, crinolines and sandals left behind in her 'kitchen'. But the black pearls - product of an oyster's imagination and passion - still rested around her neck, floating atop a milky sea.
Bouquets of lilies and violets tickled her shoulders and knees - staining her skin with a layer of perfume. Petals curled in her hair, and she tapped their glossy colors with her fingers, feeling their tints run through her hands. Her veins were now a delicate cartography of blue, lavender, bronze and mint.
It was well known throughout the city that the finest chef in the country was on this lady's staff. But for this one night only, she would be the one presenting the most delicious flesh in the Empire.
"What! That girl leaning forward? Oh, that is a distinguished member of the demi-monde. She is but just arrived from Paris, where her beauty, her wit, and her profligacy were the theme of every tongue. I have met her there frequently, so, if you want an introduction I will give it to you - her name is Cora Pearl."
My last project at uni was to create book covers for Alice in Wonderland (Lewis Carroll) and Perfume (Patrick Suskind) for the 2009 Penguin Design Award. Two book covers in two weeks is a lot of work but I got it done, albeit with some blood (got to watch those craft knives) and tears.
Here's my final cover for Alice, which my second and third year tutor selected as one of their two favourites out of the year (who knows why).
Here's a discarded idea for Alice that had quite liked.
...I would invite every one of my handsome, adorable, clever neighbors to my apartment for Thanksgiving dinner.
If I could, I would expand my list of invitees, like a sparkling balloon, to include parents, children and all manner of pets. How I would love to be introduced to them all.
If I could, I would alter the design of my dinner table into something Dr. Seuss or Lewis Carroll might design - curving into space, higher and higher - until it had lengthened sufficiently so that every one of you could find a place.
If I could, I would alter the space continuum so that my kitchen would be BIG ENOUGH to accommodate the positively epic, Edwardian dinner I would plan for you.
If I could, I would alter the time continuum so that my far-flung precious ones would be able to find their way to the Aubrey domicile with ease and economy. And yet still be able to travel first-class.
If I could, I would place a glass of flower-like, art nouveau proportions at each place setting. It would be full of champagne, and glittering at the bottom would be either a diamond bracelet, or a brace of diamond cufflinks. They are for you.
If I could, I would arrange the champagne toasts thusly: they would not be to your hostess, to your family, or to your loved ones. You would not toast this innocent North American holiday. You would, instead, toast yourselves.
Because words fail me.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
When "speck" is defined as a noun, it is 'a very small mark, or amount', it is 'a bit'.
But when "Speck" is the name of a cat, it is defined as "Get out of my room":
As a future tense, it is defined as, "I don't have to tell you what will happen if you don't":
LOCATION: Lake Tahoe, California
TIME: August, 1963
SUBJECT: Mother
ACT ENGAGED BY SUBJECT: Swimming
b. Dogpaddle
IDENTIFYING MARKS: Dark Sunglasses
CURRENT CONDITION OF SUBJECT: Fabulous
I realised that if there was ever a time for me to update the shop, just before Christmas would be it.
I have new prints in a range of sizes and prices. Soon I will have Christmas cards and copies of Meow Magazine for sale as well. Watch this space. :)
The poppy is an uncomplicated creature. It has one color. It is not parasitic or solitary. It grows simply, and in groups, like schoolchildren.
But its symbolism is rich, with a magnitude that has spanned many countries, and many centuries. For such a little flower it carries meanings that are vast and weary; that are eternal and quiet in the earth.
In Greece and Rome the poppy meant sleep and death - worlds beneath the cold eyelid. Opium was extruded from its seeds and sleepy breaths colored ancient dens and palaces. Poppies decorated the tombstones of their dead, welcoming the lengthy sleep. In Persian literature, the poppy is called the eternal flower - for emotions unrelenting and without end; for loyalty without limit.
The poppy fields in The Wizard of Oz were billowing and fearsome, promising an everlasting sleep. In Egypt opium was daubed on the neck and wrists like a hypnotic perfume.
It wasn't until 1915 that the significance of the little red flower passed into Europe as well, when the ground was already red. Towards the end of the year a poem was published - a trifle sentimental, a little maudlin, as most affairs of the heart are - and its beginning is familiar:
"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row...
The fragrant drops of blood growing amongst the white purity must have been a shocking sight to the soldier; in a poem it might be less awful but no less meaningful. The poppy had become a part of their spoiled landscape.
"That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
1915 was a terrible year. Gallipoli - Ypres - Nueve Chapelle - Loos - The Battles of the Isonzo...the poppies must have shuddered in the stinging breeze.
"We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields
When the war was over, and the hardness and the bitternress had set in, the poppy had adopted another symbol - the four blasted years that had called the Edwardians in from their play, that had rubbed the gilt off the lily. Its brave, bloody image was burnt on the dying soldier's eyes.
On Veteran's Dan/Remembrance Day the popppy is worn, sewn into wreaths, displayed in houses (Aubrey does this): it is still held high.
"Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields"
Can you tell I'm a Londoner?
These are for the new issue of the zine the students on my course produce (Meow Magazine). This month's theme is I Love London so this was what I did. I'm also on the editing team this year and we have big plans for it.
