HALLELUIA!

If you're reading this (and it's still Friday morning),

I HAVE JUST FINISHED MY LAST ROUND OF RADIATION!

Can I get an AMENNNNNNN-ah!

Can I get a HALLELUIA!

Can I get a PRAISE BE-ah!

(let that inner preacher man out!)

'Cause my sister and my brothers,

I have made it through.

I've made it through two surgeries, months and months of chemotherapy, seven weeks of radiation, biopsies, scans, mamagrams, MRIs, so many needle pokes I couldn't count them if I tried and today,

TODAY

marks the end of the massive hoops and major deals.*

And so I'm getting outta dodge.

I'm heading down the coast and into the central valley to bask in the warmth of my parent's home, to take a class (adding to my tool chest of knowledge and abilities... I'll fill you in later), to visit with friends old and new, and just,

generally,

celebrate!**

So grab whatever you have nearby, coffee, tea, champagne, or a smooth shot of scotch and let's toast to ALL our health!

SALUT!

See you soon lovey doves!
~ Umber

* From here out, I have a plethora of checkup appointments, a list of scans and tests to run (after I heal from the radiation), and this little drug I'll be taking for the next five years.  And God willing, I'll just look back and remember that one crazy year that I had cancer.

** I'll be flitting about on the interwebs as it suits my soul, but know that I'll be back in town and ready to answer all emails and convos two weeks from now.

While We're On The Subject

Of Barn Owls that is.

It occurs to me that I've yet to tell you a tale of where my owlish love began: in the second story of a elderly farm house on a street called Louie.  I was still in single digits of age.  My sisters and I grew up in a house partly made of science, partly made of magic, and full of encouragement to question and explore.  My father was the town science teacher, known by each and every child still in school.

I realize this is sounding like the opening to a Mary Shelley novel and while we did have a great many questionable objects floating in formaldehyde, and what I'm about to reveal may lie akin to grave robbing, we were a somewhat respectable family living in California's central valley in the 1980's.

My first experience with barn owls was not so much with the birds themselves, but rather with their digestion.  On special Saturdays my father would deliver a few choice nuggets coughed up by local barn owls, filled with the remains of their prey.  Delighted, I would spread out my tools:

Probes.

Picks.

Scalpel.

Needle.

Forcepts.

And ever so carefully, while other children watched The Flintstones and Small Wonder, I would dissect owl pellets, carefully identifying rat femurs and mouse vertebrae.  Consulting creased pages with drawing of bones, spreading digested fur out to see if any treasures lingered behind.

What kind of wonderful creature was the owl!

They could swivel their heads 280 degrees, soar soundlessly through the night, scare the pants off of you if you happened to be wandering in the dark, AND their stomachs did all the work of forks and knives and cutting boards and garbage compressors.  And if that wasn't enough, they delivered all the information of who they found in swaying grasses and lonely country roads in a tidy little pellet for my scrutiny.

Amazing.

And so the love affair was born.

While it's been a great many years since I had the pleasure of a pellet, it's easy to recall the first mysteries the owls presented to me.  I've been chasing them ever since.

~ Both the Barn Owl and Barn Owl Feathered Stones will be in the shop lickity split ~

~ I'm off to take the Pup to the dog park before he loses him mind ~

~ CHEERS ~

PS: LADIES, YOU ARE UNBELIEVABLE!

An Owlish Sort of Day

In the name of silent flight, winged messengers, moonlit feathers, hearing without sound and viewing without sight, I offer the third cuff in the Totem Cameo series: The Barn Owl.  Cut, tooled, painted in a slow rhythm, like the flap of an owl over midnight fields, knowing that the woman who wears this piece will know exactly what it means.

(for the original post on the Totem Cameo Cuffs, please click here)

In the shoperoo momentarily...
screech screech croak! (since barn owls do not hoot)
- Umber

A Day in the Life of the Dove

[A photographic account of a single day in my life, documented in all its dusty glory and commonplace brilliance, free of disclaimers, though the temptation is great]

~ Friday February 18th, 2011 ~

6:59 am

8:00 am

8:47 am

9:38 am

9:58 am

10:09 am

11:01 am

11:38 am

11:39 am

12:17 pm

1:16 pm

1:24 pm

3:54 pm

4:01 pm

4:48 pm

5:17 pm

5:19 pm

7:16 pm

7:43 pm

8:20 pm

9:01 pm

9:04 pm

10:46 pm

11:29 pm

Ehem

Some puppies have hearts filled with mischief.

And have learned they are tall enough to reach the dining table.

(missing pieces have apparently been swallowed into the stomach-pit of doom)

Cable Knit Sketches and other Silliness

So it comes as no surprise that I adore mail.  Which also leads to my adoration of letter writing, postcard inscribing, and general sketch mailing.  Including the infamous "what I'm wearing today" pages that have slipped into a great many envelopes over the past year.

Basically you begin with the outfit:

And quick as can be, with little editing or perfecting, a never-to-scale cartoon is drawn, then surrounded by random commentary on the individual articles of clothing, particularly noteworthy bits on makeup and hair, and generally at least one notation on a gargantuan hand or other such drawing foible.

Really it's just frivolous fun.

So I thought to myself, "self, there must be several others out there with a need for a ridiculous piece of snail mail, you really aught to indulge."
And therefore I will.  Because really, everyone like to find real mail in their box, right?
Sooooooo...
The first FIVE bloggy readers to email me at kclarkstudios[at]gmail.com with their postal addresses will be the recipients of a random day's "Dressing The Part" drawing.  I'll post an addendum here as soon as I'm booked up.

WOW!
I'VE GOT MY FIVE SNAIL MAIL DRAWINGISTAS!
YOU LADIES HAVE FINGERTIPS LIKE ROAD RUNNERS!

Happy Rainy-Hail to you today!
What are you wearing to keep out the cold?

The Things We Shed, Weekend One

I've been painting.
Sliding brushes heavy with oil.
Dripping with translucent turpenoid.

Would you like to see?

It feels so good I could cry.
This painting, which I've been calling "The Things We Shed," has been waiting for the last six months.  I stretched the canvas over barren bars and laid down the initial ground layer of color right before I began chemotherapy last Summer.  I thought I knew what she would look like then, I thought I knew what "shedding" was about.  But then the toxins hit my system and the faintest whiff of paint sent me spiraling into severe nausea.  I tried to work, believe me, but with zero success or tolerance.  So the oils were packed away, out of the studio, and she sat quietly on the easel.  Waiting.  Developing into pages and pages of writings.  Into twenty different sketches, none of which was quite right.  But the whole time she was about shedding.  And she was patient.

Then last week, driving down the road with the most mundane of errands to do, I saw her.  In a flash of inspiration that could only be attributed to the divine, I knew what she needed, what imagery must be laid down.  What life, what death, what regeneration, what decay needed to be born.  I quite literally dived off the side of the road and marched into the closest cafe.  I ordered a tea latté and drew.
And drew.
And drew some more.
I've a long way to go on this piece, but that flame in my chest is burning bright, illuminating the path.

"The Things We Shed"
48" x 24"
Approximately 50% finished.

I'm so excited to share her with you.

A Sunday Morning Commentary

(Look at that light!  I'm beginning to feel cheated if I miss the blue of sunrise, the sleepy band of pink across the Eastern sky, the puff of my own hot breath visible in the atmosphere.  It's reason alone to drag myself out of bed every day)

(The sage is shaking thirty green fists at the rains of winter, saying "take that, ya soggy bastard!  I've made it past my rookie year despite a few rocky months of water logged soil!  Kiss my purple stalk!")

(Morning toes.  I finally gave them a good sniff and guess what?  They DO smell a bit like popcorn.  But rather gross dirty popcorn that I have no interest in eating.  But puppy toes?  I could nibble on those all day long.  And speaking of long, look at those legs!  I suspect our supposedly pure-bred boxer is actually part horse)

(I desperately want hens to lay blue eggs for me.  I want the turquoise chicken rather than the golden goose and I'll build her a coop with tufted cushions and circlet of silver.  Yesterday I took myself to the Poultry Fanciers Show - yes.  It most certainly DOES exist - to do my homework and quibble with the fluffy piles of feathers there)

("B" for BC.  It's a small cup for a man who prefers just a cuppa o' coffee.  Always black)

(I tugged the last bag of blueberries out of the freezer this morning, remembering that dusty afternoon in the waning sunlight my sister and I picked buckets full up on the hill.  I miss her.  I miss our days scouring antique shops, our communal meals, our honest talks in my kitchen.  The county feels a bit lonelier now that she's moved away)

(We ate them all)

(I love the feel of slick glaze on fingertips.  I also think it's imperative that the lip of a mug fits like a puzzle piece against your lip.  So much so that I've been known to shop ceramics by discreetly holding cup after cup up to my mouth to check for the best fit, turning down the prettiest mug in a flash if the curve is wrong for these luscious ladies)

Salut my chickadees!
May the rest of your weekend hours treat you well!