I don’t know if you remember, but I started going to art school. Yeah, like a year ago. I haven’t talked much about it, partly because I took a semester off in order to stay on at the Fools. Now I’m back for my second residency in Vermont. Residency is sort of a week-long, intensive, participatory, interdisciplinary art festival -slash- collaborative curriculum planning workshop. It’s wonderful in all kinds of ways, for all kinds of reasons: including the absurdly beautiful setting.
I say “absurdly beautiful,” and I guess there really is this in-credible dimension, for me, being on campus — almost like being in a lucid dream. Running late for a secret book-making meeting earlier today, I decided to leave the plowed path and take a shortcut over a hill, to the front entrance of one of the little dorm buildings. Somehow I assumed that I would simply walk over the snow. Like it would mostly compress under my boots or something.
Instead, of course, I end up thigh high in powder (not saying much since my legs are short — but still). Do I stop and go back? No. Just kept sloshing through, like, Oh well, guess this is just part of walking in snowy places: stumble-hop-crashing around and getting all soaked in the legs.
My “snow-pas” (oh god, i know) happened to occur just outside the picture-window of the room where my friends were making books. I loved the jolly way they laughed.
“I loved the jolly way they laughed.” That’s funny! So, you’ve never walked in deep snow before, eh?
Ooh, where are you exactly that you are making books? There’s not to many book arts studios/programs in the Northeast…