Make a simple collage zine

Collage zines are satisfying to make for a number of reasons. They can be made quickly, they accommodate accidents and improvisation, they can use text and/or image, they can be launched from found source material.

I usually use one 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper, folded over twice. I keep track of which end is up and which quarter will be the cover, back cover and centre spread. I glue and reglue, spinning the sheet around as I go. Narrative emerges when I'm quick enough to think I've spotted one.

Collage, in general, does away with any kind of blank page syndrome because you can redirect your focus on the found material, such as a few measly pages of a magazine, instead of your lofty art goals. Zines, as opposed to finished frameable art, have an ephemeral quality that is also pressure relieving. You can make 10 photocopies of your zine, leave them in the coffee shop and start working on the next one. The idea that you are making serious art should be left with the snippings you toss in the recycling box. This letting-go gesture just may be what bolsters your sense of actually making meaningful work.

I usually make a few copies of a zine and then tackle my next project.

That's it. Today's blog post, as inconsequential as it is, was sparked by me finding the above image on my desktop and thinking I can write a paragraph or two about it.

Also, try to make collage without scissors, it really brings the beast out and that direct use of hands-on paper is quite emotionally satisfying too. It also does away with preciousness and persnickety scissor habits.

First to Last Lines

There are shudders through the body demanding to be honoured. If they aren't addressed, these small breezes can catch a corner and turn vicious. Full emotional sweeps can leave one shaken, can rend otherwise fine days, can turn love sour. Also, and this is key, they (the feelings buried) can rise and erupt in ways unwanted - as disease. Dis-ease, as they say, and discomfort.....signs that something is not being addressed. Not only, of course. Illness isn't a one-track nightmare, the reasons for it way surpass any unscientific understanding of mine. I just know, that for myself, if I do not address my strong emotions they plunge down deep and wail away somewhere in my system, making the house crazy.

Hey, sometimes I actually forget that what I need is exercise. I need to engage my body in action, pound out the squeals through a brisk run or a goodly chant. Voice demands space. Voice not given turns bitter. And so sometimes when direct bodily action is somehow neglected, the quick flurry of small art making happens.

Here is some. The last few distilled bits from a much larger stack of full sheets. I took looseleaf binder paper, blue lined, classic. I rubbed it on stamp pads making ink clouds. I sprayed my fingers in minor wand work against the back of the paper, the front resting lightly on the ink pad. I kept going. I looked at the results, some too discrete some too loud. I chopped, I chopped, I sequenced. Me Me Me.

I chose a few, the final stragglers that made the cut, the rest went in the bin. Then I stamped some small words on them. I was left with the above. I like them fine. they are small scraps. I don't know what to do with them now. They are fragile little things, whisps. is it one piece of work now? Is it a poem? Does it remain a jpeg, a blog post or do I wrap it up in formality and present it for coos in a proper setting commanding eyes and cash money? Ha.

These are the remnants of a tiny storm that brewed one afternoon. Honour one's emotions. They hint loudly.

AFIR AFOR AFIN AFON

I draw on the computer with a mouse. My arm is killing me. 

I should get a tablet and all that but you and I both know how 'should' works. It'll be a while, although it already has been a while. It wouldn't be so bad if the desk was the right height but it isn't so I'm all out of place. I also draw at a desk and sometimes I don't sit in the right chair. I also don't draw for 6 hours on end but I do go on jags where I am drawing every day for an hour or two a day.

One of my preferred methods of digital drawing is actually collage. I use an existing scanned image, made by me and uploaded or found on the net, which I then manipulate. I usually do it like so; turn image into high contrast black and white, select a random bit, copy and paste, overlap, crop, continue, finish, use finished image as initial image, start again. 

The image below was sourced from a digital illustration of a bird that I drew to satisfy some desire to prove (to myself and others) that I could draw a bird. I drew the bird. It was ok. I cut it up and made this thing.

I like it because I like asemic nonsense, metal iconography, industrial culture aesthetics, minimal forms.

I've Kept Busy

I have. My studio space, a corner of the shop behind the counter, is working. I am painting, I am exploring. My papers are getting in order without a vast army of help. Some key angels stepped forth, heeded my bidding and helped in ways that would have kept me behind for years without them.

A piece of large furniture was cut down to size making room, a closet was regained and stored with my boxes of scraps. I went through some of my art archives and maybe have a handle on it now.

I don't want to run screaming from retail any longer. I like my shop. I think it's in a good place.

This is not something I have easily said in the last many years.

I'm taking up more space in this place. My name is on the walls and so are many of my pictures. I don't scramble to show what I do, I put it up online and in house all over the walls. If you've ridden along with me for the ride this has been you'll know that this just may be quite the feat. I've never had a  problem with attention, I've sought it out honestly. But this time I may have put aside the shame of it and told myself and thus the world, it's ok, this is your corner, show yourself.

How many years did it take for me to realize what it is that I had the whole time ? Way too may but here I am.

The Sandwich Board Wording That Struck a Chord With Me

The Time Flies

Always thought that would be a great name for a garage band, The Time Flies. Kinda SF, kinda horror, kinda mind bending. In any case, it does and this year it did. My to-do list hung over from February lies faded and incomplete taped to my desktop. It's November now and I don't know what happened. I had some serious plans. Our late winter illnesses spread out and engulfed the spring and then summer said a brief hello while zipping by on it's bike and well, here we are.

So I'm simply checking in to say I did, to send another 'there, ok?' into The Universe, a symbol of my waddling intentions.

I remain confounded about my role as shop keeper / gallerist. I need a serious leave of absence away from the public, I take things way too personally and, to boot, I require full time assistance here. I need a crack team of devoted interns to hoist up my flagging morale and to help me get my papers in order. papers like scraps and drawings and photos. My official papers, taxes and the like, are not the problem this time.

I think the problem lies in the fact that the heart of my collection is the art that I myself have made coupled with the papers and objects I consider sacred. These collections are in disarray. They are stacked here and there and I've lost control of them. Before i had a shop my special collections remained tight and tidy, i knew where everything was and I'd go through the boxes and organize.

Those boxes are now equivalent to several cubic meters of material and I feel at sea. With that, a tiny muffled cry into the wilderness, heard slightly over my stubborn reminders to myself to be grateful, I send my hopes and my desires.

Rocknroll.

Spiel on art

All my life I have been making art, mostly drawing. Nowadays, pushing 50, I consider myself an artist, true, but not necessarily a drawer. My drawing skills are limited. I can't draw you or your house. I mean I could give it a fair shot, even surprise myself, but that's not what I want to do, even remotely.

As someone who makes comics I've met and befriended artists that can draw you, your house, you as a centaur, your house on telescoping robot legs spanning the whole of a major city, tropical jungle, whatever. From any angle to boot. My own dear brother John Mavreas can do these very things. I cannot. Sometimes I wish I could but then again I also wish I could design playgrounds, do backflips, think of something to make for dinner, drive a car.

These artists impress me. They want to draw like their heroes draw. They cite golden age, silver age, adventure, fantasy artists. They cite renowned draftsmen and obsessive pop culture visionaries. I will never be counted among them. I realize more and more that the art I love to make is all project oriented. Sometimes it'll be drawing cute critters for a colouring book project (see a couple posts below), sometimes, collaging abstract bits of paper using a copier or old fashioned glue and scissors (see immediate post below). I also have conflated my collecting with my artistic practise, honouring certain found scraps as I honour my own creations. This has confused things a bit since I also run a curiosity shop.

My heroes are unnamed. I love lots of disparate work, lots of thinkers, writers, artists, lots of plain everyday working folk who do other things, like design parks or make dinners. Sure I love Frazetta and Kirby but not enough to become them if I could. I also love Schwitters, Debuffet and Klee. Maybe I could be 10 percent of those guys.

My art consists of some drawing, some collage, some writing. I do all these things freehand and I also do all these things on the computer. All these things also fit neatly into the pages of smaller or larger books. So, yeah, I like making books. But I don't only make books. I also make paintings.

I also make installations but I'm certainly not versed in the history or theory of installation art. I've read some art history, mostly dada, surrealism, pop and comics. I studied literature but my lit theory is abysmal. I make concrete and visual poetry but talk about that as if I was a parking lot rocker with mostly yelps and awed grunts as tools of communication.

Almost, because I also lead collaborative creative workshops that touch on all of the above. I've also yelped and grunted to rock music for years with my pals in a shitty practise room.

I needed to write a bit this afternoon, so here it is.