Sunday, November 25, 2007
At the Green Lantern Studio in Mineral Point, I met artist Carole Spelic and talked to her about the cast paper vessels she was showing there. Her vases and bowls are very colorful, and startlingly lightweight. She had a demonstration sample that showed the stages of the work as she builds up colored paper pulps around a form, and then sands and polishes the vessel smooth. The black linear characters that decorate the colored vases are based on Gregg shorthand letterforms -- which I learned in high school myself back in the Late Stenographic Era -- set in a textural pulp with something of the look of stone aggregate.
Of course we looked at all the other cool stuff in the gallery, even though we had skipped all the other galleries in town. The other thing I terribly admired was this huge pulp-painting diptych by Roland Poska. Paper pulp cast into a mural, with what lovely color!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
How about it, Chris? it's been a while. I've just got myself onto an envelope exchange with calligraphers from the international conference... at least I think that's where the contact came from. This mail art actually came to me from Dale Spiers, a papernet fanzine nexus in Canada. I did the calligraphic blockprint-cut stamping.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Her piece in the faculty show (similar to another she has just posted) was a dramatic assemblage including a calligraphic, gestural sort of... object. Maybe made of acrylic, I'm thinking. We had a fun collage class with her some years ago at the Siena Center in Racine, where she showed us wildly mixed media techniques, building up layers of materials, various metal-leafing and patinas. During our breaks in that class she got us down on the lakefront picking up bits of rusted metal to incorporate into assemblages. There's treasure everywhere!
Friday, August 24, 2007
I call this "My World Is Full of a Number of Things" because it includes painting, lettering, origami paper, found papers, paste paper, stamping, and postage.
She also gave one of most inspirational of evening slide lectures, on the subject of finding your own voice. What a great teacher!
Friday, August 17, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
This is a "must have" publication. A few of my daily checkins (Nina Bagley, Misty Mawn, Judy Wise) are featured. Fabulous photography of art and inspiring words. I can't put it down, it's a great read. Go get yourself a copy and pour a cup of tea. I promise you'll get totally lost in it!
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Monday, August 6, 2007
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Vancouver Island is one of the best places I've ever been to: nearly as beautiful as Skye, but with excellent mild weather. The campus at Shawnigan Lake this year was pretty good -- a posh prep school that was the most handicapped-inaccessible institution I have ever seen, although the landscaping was lovely, the new dorms comfortable, staff enthusiastic hosts, and the food excellent.
This year I first had three days with Thomas Hoyer, studying a Fraktur hand. This is descended from medieval blackletter but has been elaborated into many typefaces, particularly in Germany, where books are traditionally printed in the style. A thick blackletter falls naturally from the broad-edge pen, and was the first thing I tried when I bought my first Speedball nib. I've spent a bit of time over the last mumble-mumble years practicing a primitive version of it, but this was something entirely new. I mean every stroke was different from the alphabets I've learned to write before. You're only fooling yourself to think you can learn a new alphabet in three days, but the first day we got through the entire lower-case, which was grueling. I had no muscle memory for this, and would frequently get lost in the middle of a letter, or even the middle of a stroke. It's not that often I get such a bad case of beginner's mind. Since beginner's mind is a much sought-after state in zen buddhism, this was not entirely a bad thing.
At the end of the third day, I was beginning to feel as though there were expressive details in this family of alphabets that Thomas could see, because he is native to that print culture, that I was entirely blind to, as though it were made of Japanese kanji characters in which I am an illiterate barbarian.
Thomas is an extraordinarily creative young man, as you can see from his website. I found the "callitype objects" in his virtual gallery particularly interesting. He is known in the calligraphic community more for his colorful ruling-pen demonstrations. His two-day class -- not a continuation of the Fraktur, but that ruling-pen technique -- was filled, although our Fraktur class only had half as many, eight people in it. Below, so you can see what I'm talking about, a sample from one of my practice sheets.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Friday, July 6, 2007
Say Chris (this is Jae now), the Wikipedia links also to an extensive French website on her work which has lots of good photos, even if your French is not quite enough to read it all. I find the story (as presented in Wikipedia) about how her family treated her, incarcerating her in an asylum for forty years even against medical advice, more shocking than her relationship with Rodin.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
And Darlene has done art fairs and SF conventions for a long time now. That link above if it loaded properly for you shows some of her painted silk scarves and jewelry, that she takes to conventions. She doesn't seem to have this kind of work on her home page, which is devoted to prints of her paintings. But she says the internet has not been all that good to her for sales. Nothing like face to face contact and seeing, touching the actual work. This can be either because of the physical nature of the work, or because of the styles of perception of the persons taking it in.
Anyway, Darlene is having an opening tomorrow at the Bindley Collection gallery at Hilldale, for her wearable art, and she was very pleased with the publicity graphics Colleen Bindley has done for her there. The gallery is the latest version of the Twenty Hands Gallery that Colleen started up as an artists' collective during the last few holiday seasons. Lots of local artists from the art fairs and weekend house sales represented there.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
They are all arranged with a view of the entire work first, which are each mild-mannered abstracts, and then progressive views of the elements of composition and details that are lost inside the big picture. Personally I think if you can wait for all the JPGs to load, it would be better to view these images the other way round, scrolling from the bottom instead of from the top. Either way, pertinent.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
which if you are not up on the latest and greatest, is a really astonishing thing, er, medium, er, software, er, way to look at things. What really impresses me is the collaborative nature of the sources: basically all the photos of a certain site (Trafalgar Square for instance) that everyone, pro or amateur, puts online (say on Flickr) are overlaid like a big mosaic. Microsoft has a few sites set up experimentally, so that you can tour those places the way Google Earth does, but in more detail.
The artist's studio they used as an example has a close relation to Lewis' Garageography that I mentioned yesterday, or what it might look like in the near future. (Or maybe in the future artists' studios will look more like Lewis' garage, I dunno.)
And then the BBC has started to get the population of Britain to photograph the stately homes and tourist sites and such. You can look at Ely cathedral. The whole island could be virtual in pretty short order.
Friday, June 8, 2007
This was an actual installation in his garage, which interests me particularly since I am planning to have Open Studio in my garage in October. (My garden horsies, lincoln logs and barbie art are pretty twee compared to this, so I have to think about that.) Lewis took photos of the installation, of course; and then someone else made this cool website where you can click on the stuff and see the photos. You can even see photos from his previous garage installation (if you find the photo of the garage in the photo of the garage). I particularly like the stuff in the yard.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Here's another one that pans the paintings, not such good resolution, but yet more paintings I haven't seen, although some of them are iconic Van Gogh. It's a four-minute song, and the pace of each slide show is a painting every two to three seconds. I knew he was prolific, but gee.
OMG! there's one for Gauguin too! YouTube is still mysterious to me. Where do you get permissions to use this kind of stuff? I bet you don't! the information wants to be free! It's digital folk art.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Friday, June 1, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
In order to make truly personal work,
one has to struggle with intent and content as well as with techniques.
And technique is the easiest thing to learn in art.
The creative is the place where
no one else has ever been.
You have to leave the city of your comfort
and go into the wilderness of your intuition.
You can’t get there by bus,
only by hard work and risk,
and by not quite knowing what you are doing.
What you will discover will be wonderful.
What you discover will be yourself.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The image is a color test using yellow ochre and cerulean blue. Those colors produce some luscious greens. I was working on an exercise that Jae gave me several months ago. She took a workshop with Peter Thornton based on the work of Adolf Bernd. Here is an example of his work. Here? Yee-ha!
He drew letters and then enhanced them with various shapes and colors. Jae said to take some watercolor, paint a square and change the color a bit, then change the color a bit again, paint another square......lather, rinse, repeat. Your painting will have very subtle changes in color that have quite an impact on the design. Beautiful work!
Jae is trying to figure out what is wrong with this link, but without success. Meanwhile, here is a link to Jae's LiveJournal post about the Adolph Bernd workshop last fall.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Monday, May 7, 2007
Friday, May 4, 2007
But! with that you get not only poetry, documentary filmmaking and social justice in the Americas! Another item for my growing list of things to do when in San Francisco is the Current Exhibit at the associated Red Poppy Art House, or at least to take in a performance on their eclectic schedule of concerts.
If you scroll down on that Current Exhibit, you'll find a lot of paintings by their Artist In Residence, Todd Brown, who uses calligraphic marks and printed texts in his wonderfully colored paintings, that seem to me to take expressionist collage in the direction of folk tale and fairy story. Which as you know Chris is just my kinda thang.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
This is so interesting and inspiring... http://www.bubble-art.com/bubble-art/aktuelle_ausstellung/Plakatomania.html --
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Here's an interview to listen to--
and a website to get you started--
Here's their website: http://www.justcoffeeart.com/
Monday, April 30, 2007
By Dorianne Laux
No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather moments, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waits patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day it continues, each kindness
reaching toward another- a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a retarded child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them –
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Love After Love
(by Derek Walcott)
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Gehry ......this will get you started!
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
(by Karle Wilson Baker)
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons- all cold, and dull and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;
And other days they drift and shine - such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
(by May Sarton)
Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before—"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!
Monday, April 23, 2007
(by William Stafford)
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Thursday, April 19, 2007
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
(by Dylan Thomas)
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
To read more about Dylan Thomas:
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
At age six Cummings wrote this to his father:
FATHER DEAR. BE, YOUR FATHER-GOOD AND GOOD,
HE IS GOOD NOW, IT IS NOT GOOD TO SEE IT RAIN,
FATHER DEAR IS, IT, DEAR, NO FATHER DEAR,
LOVE, YOU DEAR,
Monday, April 16, 2007
by Wendell Berry
At start of spring I open a trench
in the ground. I put into it
the winter's accumulation of paper,
pages I do not want to read
again, useless words, fragments,
errors. And I put into it
the contents of the outhouse:
light of the sun, growth of the ground,
finished with one of their journeys.
To the sky, to the wind, then,
and to the faithful trees, I confess
my sins: that I have not been happy
enough, considering my good luck,
have listened to too much noise,
have been inattentive to wonders,
have lusted after praise.
And then upon the gathered refuse
of mind and body, I close the trench,
folding shut again the dark,
the deathless earth. Beneath that seal
the old escapes into the new.
It's spring, you have just dug a trench, what will you put in it? Failures, regrets, excess weight from the winter, fears, clutter...........?
Friday, April 13, 2007
line 1 - one word (noun) a title or name of the subject
line 2 - two words (adjectives) describing the title
line 3 - three words (verbs) describing an action related to the title (-ing)
line 4 - four words describing a feeling about the title
line 5 - one word referring back to the title of the poem
Here's an example:
Thursday, April 12, 2007
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
mystery,felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Monday, April 9, 2007
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses."
"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead."
"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:"
What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
of other lives
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early summer
Do you think this world is only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy to let you in!
Never to lie down with grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life
.Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left-
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tiplets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night.
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or two of music, damp and rouge-red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable
.What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daisies,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb. I backtrack.
I ramble my way home.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Monday, April 2, 2007
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
1. I love kitchen gadgets
2. I can watch the same movies over and over and......
3. I love to eat dry Cheerios
4. I can't watch animal shows, at some point I will start sobbing.
5. I have never read the newspaper all the way through....the small print makes me nuts.
6. I can't read a map when the radio is on.
7. If I read while lying down I will be asleep in minutes.
8. I don't like clothes shopping, nor do I have excessive pairs of shoes.
9. If I had to choose either a diamond or art supplies, I will go for the art supplies.
10. I don't have cable tv, a cell phone, tivo, a lap top or most any other electronic thing --neither do I feel deprived.
This is scary, just thought of another one, I like to polish my toe nails, but not my fingernails.
What are 10 Weird Things about you? Please post!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Friday, March 2, 2007
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
But Chris, you have, cause I showed you some (replies Jae Leslie). Okay, maybe not quite such delicately detailed work. At the last St. Louis calligraphy conference, the organizers let us try pyrography one evening, using a plug-in pointy iron to burn runes onto little bits of wood that made nice brooches, and the smell of it was wonderful. If you like woodsmoke, at least. Your link there is a U.K. site, and so is my friend Sue Mason's, Hugo-award winning fan artist (although the award was not for her pyrography, which is lovely).
Friday, February 23, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Friday, February 9, 2007
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Monday, February 5, 2007
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Friday, February 2, 2007
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Chris often sends me links in email to interesting artists' websites that she finds. Maybe I don't wander around the right places on the web, or am not so discriminating. The flashing lights and colors and all the words distract me from what I might actually be looking for. But I thought it would be cool to share the links she finds with more of our friends, and that of course is why god has given us weblogs.
We both have a lot to learn about this, but I hope we can use this blog to discuss a little more the things we find and the things we learn. Welcome to our Most Excellent Blog of Links.