The Babies' Books

I have good intentions. I even have waves of true inspiration. I have supplies, paper, photographs, and memories. I don't even have babies anymore. Why doesn't it get done? I'm way behind on the baby books.

I opened up the book for the "baby" today and noticed that it stops with pictures of him as a 1-week old. Oops. He turned 17 months old this week! Somewhere there must be evidence of his life so far, I just need to get it organized and begin scrapbooking again. (Is "scrapbooking" honestly a verb?) I enjoy it- I really do- it gives me a real sense of satisfaction when I finish a page and flip through the book again to see how it all fits together. I'm not a fanatic, obviously, or I wouldn't be behind in my work.

The girls' books are 8.5x11 and the boys' books are 12x12; each has a slightly different theme. My older sister made the first one with beautiful hand-lettering, colored pencils, gold paint and a sprinkling of marvelous old postage stamps throughout. It was genius as well as a form of genesis. I loved the stamps so much that I began a stamp collection for myself an my daughter. I have used them in each child's book and still have plenty left over.

As fun as the process is, however, the process is not the real point. I do it so my little ones will never forget how much I love them. Sure, I can tell them every day of their lives, but reading about it in your mother's handwriting years and years after the fact is different. Everyone desires to be loved purely, unconditionally, and as if they were totally innocent. This is the kind of love a mother has for her tiny child. Then it changes some over the years- grows bigger, stretches, takes on it's partner: discipline. And that's the kind of love a small child remembers later: the kind that has occasional conditions. She cannot recall the sweet, pure love she enjoyed as an infant- the love her parents gave her freely simply because she existed.

And it isn't possible to put it all in the pages of a book... but I can try.

Norman Rockwellesque

My friend Casey requested photographs of my holiday decorating, saying that she imagined something "Norman Rockwellesque". If that description means "everything is perfect", then that would be my photographer friend who currently resides in London. If it means "homey and slightly cluttered", then that's more like my existence.

Buyurun. ("Here you go" in Turkish. Some words are just too useful to let go.) The stockings are all handmade by me (yes, I know Torin's is backwards... um, he's left-handed), and the kilim is from Turkey, home of Saint Nicholas.

Happy Holidays!

Shameless Plug

I know one of the best graphic designers around, and this is his website! Check it out- I bet he does Christmas cards, too.

Snowflakes

In anticipation of the big snowstorm which is on its way tomorrow, here are a few of my own from Make a Flake. (See post below.)







See also this site for a slightly easier way to make flakes. You can email the link to someone or print them, but not download them directly.

Immortalized in Celluloid

I love film. Not films, film. What an odd word, when I stop to look at it... film... meaning membrane, skin, or thin coating of something.

It's been a while since I have taken pictures with my old camera, but I've rediscovered the joy of that marvelous machine. The way it reads where my eye is looking and focuses right there, the silky smoothness of the zooming lens, the speed with which the shutter makes its satisfying "kshhkkk", and the sweet pang of anxiety afterwards, wondering if the shot will look anything like the beauty that I saw.

I think it's safe to say that I have never taken a digital photograph which I felt could not have been improved by shooting it on professional negative or slide film. So why do I shoot with my digital camera at all? The common reasons: convenience, ability to see the results immediately, ability to upload photographs right away. But I rarely get around to sendng them to the printer and making real copies for the photo album- a major drawback. Why do I shoot film, then? My little digital cannot come anywhere close to the gorgeous color rendition and grain structure of professional film. There's a certain softness to film, the depth of field is more realistic, and skin tones and other colors are right on. (Of course, the images posted here look rather anemic compared to the real prints, but they're a hint to what I mean.) Besides, if I shoot negative film, I know I'm getting prints back which will become a part of our family's collective memory.

Sure, I might be able to fix most of that with a high-end SLR digital back for my nice Canon lens and a really good Olympus printer. But I'm a little bit old-fashioned, and I hate to see good things fade away into the past completely. When I say I prefer film, I don't mean a $3 roll of Konica 200 speed that you get processed at the local drug store. No, digital has definitely surpassed that. I'm talking about PRO film, with all those delicate curves and extra layers of emulsion and the fickle need to be kept in the refrigerator.

If you've never shot a landscape with Velvia, or a portrait with Fujicolor or Kodak Portra film, then you have not experienced the huge difference film can make to your everyday images. I'm not even going to get into the beauty of black & white film... not today. Nor am I going to bore you with the details of the amazing difference between 35mm, medium and large-format films. Some other time, perhaps. Today, it's enough just to gush over the old-fashioned beauty that can be captured in tiny bits of silver halides, dyes, and a plastic membrane called film.

Paintbrush

I'm scheming again. My friend just painted her living room dark navy blue with one wall a shade darker than a Granny Smith apple (and off-white trim). I wasn't sure I'd like it but I have to say it's really, really great. I have a family room that I haven't painted yet... I wonder if there's a bold color out there that would go well with my pine trim.

My choices generally have to get past The Commitee (i.e. one guy with very little design experience, no ability to envision what things might look like, a surprising lack of courage, and some veto power). I haven't had any choices vetoed yet, but there have been some serious negotiations. Mostly I stick to fairly boring choices. I'm dying to rip the wallpaper out of the dining room and paint it a vibrant cobalt blue. I had a grayish-green picked out for when I finally get around to this family room, mostly because it would go well with the kitchen colors in the next room over... I wonder what a good rusty tomato red would look like in here. Could I stand it all winter?

The Adventures of Kew and Shelley: First Installment

(An exercise in character development, which I'm not very good at. More installments to come later... maybe... if I can figure out a decent plot. Comments, questions, and suggestions welcome, especially since I know most of my readers are really, really good writers.)

Shelley put her hand to her forehead and sighed. It had been a long flight and, as usual, she hadn’t been able to sleep. She squinted at her watch and tried to do the math. “What time is it on the East Coast?” she asked.

Kew didn’t answer, though. He was busy trying to figure out which baggage carousel their luggage would be spewed out on, and his Dutch wasn’t very good. “Say what?” he responded absently.

“Never mind. Hey, Kew, while you’ve got that book out... what does ‘munt’ mean?”

“Ah... let’s see... I think that’s the way to the currency exchange. I’ll get the bags and meet you there in a minute,” Kew said as he lunged over to a carousel and grabbed his backpack before it disappeared behind the curtain and back into the Land of Oz. He had gotten plenty of sleep on the plane and was feeling ready for some good old fashioned foreign travel adventures. As he surveyed the crowd and drank in the various styles and flavors, he said to himself, “Well, Shelley, we’re not in Rhode Island anymore.” Kew had never been to Europe and visiting Amsterdam was top on his list. In his imagination, it was something like his hometown of Seattle, only bigger, better, and more cool. Now that he was done with design school, it was time to see the world- or at least Holland.



“May I help you?” said the bright-eyed girl behind the glass.

“Oh yes, um, could I please change these into euros? Thanks.” Shelley chided herself for having memorized “Euros, tevreden”. Of course the people at the currency exchange would speak English; maybe this wasn’t going to be as hard as she had thought. Shelley had been to London for a semester, which meant she wasn’t all new to Europe and traveling. However, she definitely had a tendency to over-pack and worry too much. She was really looking forward to beginning this trip she and her friend Kew had been planning for the last year. When they were juniors at the Rhode Island School of Design, they dreamed of traveling all around Europe after graduation. They had been making long lists of museums, towns, and schools to visit based on their design education: there was no way they could afford to do it all, but it was worth a try anyway. Whatever they could see would be better than nothing. Amsterdam was a natural place to start because of its great sense of design- and also because their friend Patricia lived here now.


Patricia Mersadeghi had a natural talent for graphic design and an offbeat sense of creativity. She credits her father, a colorist for a German publishing company. For her thirteenth birthday, he took her to see the paintings of the great Polish artist Tytus Czyzewski in downtown Berlin. That’s when she caught fire and discovered her passion for art. She went to see every exhibit she could at the Neue Nationalgalerie and spent endless hours filling pieces of paper with pencil drawings. She went through a cubist phase with such intensity and flair as only a fifteen year old girl can muster. She wanted to study in America, which led her to a small design school with an excellent reputation. RISD, or “Riz-dee” as everyone called it, was perfect for her. She really grew under the challenging tutelage of her professors, and learned important educational and life lessons from her friends there as well- people like Kew and Shelley. After graduation last year, she landed a great job in one of her favorite European cities.

“Hey, thanks,” said Shelley as Kew dumped her heavy backpack at her feet. “We’d better take off if we’re going to meet Patricia at the Film Museum on time. We have to figure out the system and find something to eat. I’ll leave the navigating up to you and your magic book, Kew.”

Amsterdam was not, in fact, bigger than Seattle. The center of the city was smaller and there seemed to be just as many people, making it feel more crowded. However, there was a familiar laid-back attitude which made Kew feel comfortable immediately. It was a marvelously sunny May day. Walking from Centraal Station, Kew and Shelley agreed that nearly every street had something good enough to inspire a term paper. There were fantastic buildings with interesting details, sculptures from another planet, joyful and disturbing murals, and window after window revealing shops full of unique items. The whole city was in full flower, and Kew occasionally caught scents that reminded him of Grandma’s garden he had visited long ago in Korea. Shelley really tried to keep up, but her body was exhausted. She spied a small oasis up ahead where they paused to buy some street food.


The Vondelpark was gorgeous and full of all kinds of life. It was refreshing. Shelley began to feel energy building up in her again as she finished her falafel and soaked up the sun. Being a bit early for their meeting, they stretched out on the grass to wait.


Patricia had taken the afternoon off. It was rare that she asked for special treatment at work, but she had built up some good karma and it was time to use it. Today felt like it should be a day off anyway; the weather was simply perfect and she found herself smiling as she passed through the glass doors and into the sunshine. “Erstaunlich”, she thought, loosening her vermillion scarf. Marvelous. She breezed through the streets, slowing as she entered the park. As she walked, her thoughts were filled with memories. Shelley had been her close friend, but Patricia realized she was truly looking forward to seeing Kew. He had a certain aesthetic sensitivity that she admired. The joy and beauty he found in the world around him were easy to see in his face and this made him an especially pleasant companion. Patricia knew both her friends would be awed by the offerings in the museums of Amsterdam and she looked forward to hearing Kew’s astute running commentary.