Making Business Cards at Lettre Sauvage
Art Predator & friend Dave print cards at Lettre Sauvage
I spent a fabulous fall Friday at Lettre Sauvage which focuses on letterpress stationary, broadsides, and chapbooks (they of the chapbook competition which closes Nov. 1– go here for info).
Before we settled down to the business of making my business cards and stationary, Fiona showed my friend Dave and I and the small boy around the two shops and old machinery, pieces of type in various fonts, blocks with art ready for printing, miscellaneous samples, and miscellaneous marvels.
I love fonts, and paper, and color, and graphic images, so I was in love with everything making it a bit of a challenge to find my way to some decisions. Certain ideas came through and I settled on a color combination of chartreuse green and cobalt blue to represent earth and sky or land and water.
For a graphic, I decided on a jimson weed or datura (more info here and here) which is native locally, to pictorially represent my “greenness” and “nativeness” and possibly even a shamanistic or magic quality (with words anyway!) since the local Chumash used datura for visions. The plant is a yellowish green similar to chartreuse and has a large usually creamy white purpe tinged flower with a wonderful scent that flows out as the blooms open and unwind as the sun goes down. It’s common along roadsides and washes, preferring to grow in land that’s been disturbed. I chose the deep purplish cobalt blue for the text below.
The other side of the card includes my address and other info and sports an image of a circus acrobat–which I liked because as a writer I want to be playful but it is also a serious and risky business to fly through the air. For the font, we chose Goudy regular and italic because it is classic, beautiful, and they had the sizes I wanted for my design.
We had to run each of the 300 cards through the press four times–one time on each side for the images and one time on each side for the text: ink, slide the paper in the slot, pull the lever down, click, then back up, repeat. For most of the cards, my friend Dave helped me run the press while Fiona set the type. We did the green image, then Fiona cleaned and reinked in blue. Fiona’s husband Cameron guided us and directed us and even did some of the printing.
Cameron on the press
After we made the cards, we moved into doing some stationary using the already set type, graphics, and cobalt blue ink. We made three kinds of cards and two envelopes with my return address.
AP's new cards & stationary
There is so much to like about Lettre Sauvage and how they function as a business. One of their key considerations in making decisions is factoring in the impact on the earth. The paper for the business cards is 100% recycled cotton, for example, and the papers here all use recycled content.
It was a long day, with lots of decisions to make, and much of it spent on my feet on the concrete floor since I was too active and excited to sit down! I am thrilled with the results and couldn’t be happier with the service and expertise which Fiona and Cameron offer at Lettre Sauvage.
Of course, you don’t have to be as intimately involved in the process as I chose to be; they get most of their business over the web, and can design and print your project for you. I’m a hands-on person and really enjoyed being there and being involved. They can include you as much as you desire over the miraculous internet. It’s not cheap to makes cards this way–what I have though is really special, distinct, and unique.
Thanks again, Fiona and Cameron! (and for sending over the photos too!) And thanks, Dave, for your help and your company!
Art Predator Reads at Ventucky College 10/16
On Thursday October 16, from 12:30-1:20pm, I give a reading, discuss my process, practice, craft, and approaches to writing for Kelly Peinado’s Introduction to Poetry Class in J-3 Ventucky College aka Telegraph Tech. I will bring some broadsides ($7-10) and books including between sleeps: poems from the 3:15 experiment 1993-2005 ($12) which Danika Dinsmore and I co-edited in 2006 (en theos press). The event is free and open to the public.
Ashes: a poem & Joan Didion’s “The Santa Anas”
Ashes
California burns every autumn: this
time far enough away not to worry
me for my safety but close enough to rain
ashes on my clean laundry, on my green
tomatoes. They swirl under and around
my bare feet as I water containers
of natives I will plant Saturday.
My familiar hillside view obscured:
drifting smoke scatters sun’s rays only
oranges and reds filter through making
mid-afternoon as twilight oddly
appropriate for this Halloween time
of year. I wish for a full moon rising,
glowing; the rooster too is confused.
In the barranca, monarchs chase each
other, vibrant flames, insistent, blazing.
Male and female look alike but it is
he who latches on to her abdomen
and he who keeps them aloft above the
monitoring eyes of my black cat.
Stretching skyward he leaps, lunges, changes
this from a dance of reproduction to
the chase of predator and prey.
His brother rolls on his back, soot
disappears into his grey coat. He’s learned
the bittersweetness of such poisonous
play, prefers to observe the red house
finch in the ash flecked banana tree.
This fire I cannot see began in the
mountains behind Piru, fading town, earth
quake ravaged, now Hollywood movie set.
In Piru my sister-in-law’s grandmother
died when the fire began. I’m forbidden
to tell you how they loved her, honored her
passing. It is too private a moment.
I cried. Grief too burns. My nephews–they’ve
lost five great grandparents this year. I am
grateful they knew them at all. My children
never will. In yoga practice, the last
pose is shivasana, corpse pose. Body,
mind, spirit lets go, quiet, supported
by earth, bringing renewal, peace, rebirth,
new growth. California burns every
autumn, a time of death and birth as the
nutrients rain down. I understand it
is the Chumash New Year. Careful of
poppy seedlings, I will plant wooly blue
curls, milkweed, sages on Saturday: at
night, listen to owls. Go butterflies go.
poem c. by Gwendolyn Alley aka Art Predator
I wrote this poem a few years ago and published it in ARTLIFE Limited Editions as a simple broadside–a beautiful creamy paper with flecks of orange and other colors embedded and I burned a corner of every page of the edition of 220 (150 of which went to ArtLife).
I choose to publish this today for two reasons. It is just a few weeks past the fall equinox which is the time the local Chumash celebrate the “new year” and harvest through the annual Hutash festival (Hutash created the people and led them across the rainbow bridge from the Channel Islands to the coastland. People who fell off the bridge became dolphins.)
And the famed “Santa Anas” have arrived. East winds which fuel fire blow the eucalyptus trees outside my windows wildly today. Several fires burn out of control and freeways and schools are closed. Clouds of smoke appeared on the southern horizon toward LA where the fires are burning. I hope my clothes dry on the line before the ashes start raining down…but after two drought years, the damage is likely to be severe and great as long as the wind blows in from the great dry deserts to the east of us. (For an AP story posted on yahoo on the fires, go here)
Let us pray the wind calms soon so the firefighters can contain the blazes, the sky will clear– and I can ride my bike to the beach to pick up the boy from school.
Here is Joan Didion’s essay “The Santa Ana” (excerpted from Slouching Toward Bethlehem):
There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point. For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night. I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets. The maid sulks. I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior.
I recall being told, when I first moved to Los Angeles and was living on an isolated beach, that the Indians would throw themselves into the sea when the bad wind blew. I could see why. Read more…
Pop Waffle Presents: Toe Jam by The BPA
I have loved David Byrne’s music and flair since I first heard the Talking Heads back in the late 70s, and I’ve seen the Heads, David Byrne, and Tina Weymouth’s side project Tom Tom Club as often as possible over the years (including the amazing “Stop Making Sense” tour). David Byrne’s label Luaka Bop offers interesting music like SiSe and his side project “Lazy” with Xpress 2 and now Norman Cook aka Fat Boy Slim in this project “Toe Jan” kicks out a really fun time! This is a new video of the song created by Pop Waffle.
Vodpod videos no longer available.
There’s more about the BPA on their myspace page here the original Toe Jam video with the censure bars is there too along with “Seattle” — rumour has it the next single from The BPA will be Seattle featuring Emmy The Great.
Art Predator Outs Herself
Art Predator's New Letter Press Biz Cards: front, back, front
After great consideration, and after nearly a year of blogging as Art Predator, and after taking great care to conceal my identity as best I can (for reasons not quite clear to me), I have decided to out myself on my own blog.
Not that I haven’t been outted before–several of my friends have listed my blog by my name as Gwendolyn Alley or as Gwen Alley not as “Art Predator” on their blogrolls. And as I have commented far and wide on as many blogs as possible and as often as possible, my name has shown up there too, and people have begun to call me by name, here there and elsewhere.
Then there is the issue of all the poetry and artwork that I have posted over the past year here on the blog, poetry and artwork which may or not be getting credited to Art Predator, and, in the case of the broadsides anyway, has my name there on the bottom.
My videos too have Gwendolyn Alley on them.
The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was my new beautiful letter press business cards which I made the other day at Lettre Sauvage studio (they of the chapbook contest), and which I want to show off here and everywhere I go. These cards show my name “Gwendolyn Alley” front and center for all to see.
So I guess it’s time to change. My old avatar, the one by Sophia of my two feet out on the prowl, is going too.
Watch for a post about the process of desiging and making my cards at Lettre Sauvage soon!
Linda Is Her Name: a poem
Under the tree on the
edge of my yard, I spy
fresh beer can smashed
Miller Lite 24oz grande.
Oh Marcel, you’ve been
drinking again I say
to the great grey one
lounging in the grass.
He watches with interest
as I climb over the fallen pine
push my way through caster bean
and thick sticky cobwebs.
Following a trail of Cobras,
I find nestled amongst cascading
clusters of blue flowers
beloved by monarchs
face down in the mud
a day pack, green, new.
One of the neighbor kids
impatient with school or sibling
launched it off the hillside
I imagine as I examine it
heavy with books and rainwater
but it hasn’t rained in weeks.
It’s closed up snugly.
I squeeze the releases–
a mildewed black sweatshirt
Quicksilver embroidered.
Soft green silky panties
a hole ripped in the crotch.
Black t-shirt with a white Camel
insignia, folded and rolled.
Jeans jacket in good shape
Esprit with a leather collar, my size.
I pull these items out one by one
lay them on the ground.
Rummaging in the bottom of the pack
a small pink Vidal Sasson hairdryer
I could use this I think.
A pretty pink lace push-up bra
from Victoria’s Secret
going green from mold.
This too would fit.
Her make-up in a clear bag
which I don’t open but see
her Clinic lipstick, Estee Lauder
Resilience, her perfume Jontue
my fifth grade Christmas wish.
Tampons, deodorant, Aqua Net
Sleep Aid tablets, a bus ticket from
Santa Barbara to here, dated
Monday September 28, 10:31am.
The envelope reads
“Called home lately?”
I wonder what happened to her
what brought her and her belongings
into this barranca behind a clinic.
I worry about what could have
caused her to leave her things.
Inside a zippered pocket
a sealed ziplock bag
reveals DMV papers, court papers.
Linda is her name.
I smell the moistness
of autumn earth, fennel,
rotting clothes, cigarette
smoke, fresh eucalyptus.
Wind moves branches, clouds
overhead, the freeway is loud
but at night the ocean is louder.
Linda is her name.
I don’t know much about
legal papers, about
probation violations, about
jail grievance forms.
I am fortunate in that way.
I have a hard enough time
keeping up with parking tickets,
rehabilitating my credit.
I am tempted to escape
toss everything, leave behind
these forlorn objects, abandon
this vocabulary, hobo around
but it is a romantic notion mostly.
The reality is Linda’s–a stranger
going through my things wondering
what happened, wondering what to do.
c. by Gwendolyn Alley aka Art Predator
(Epilogue: I contacted the police and they brought Linda’s daypack to her in jail.)
Day to Play Hooky: new spoken word video poem
I went down to Surfer’s Point to the rivermouth break and filmed the poem I wrote yesterday; the text for this poem is here–but if you click now, the video stops (I’m working on it!)
(I also talked with the surfer in the westy in the poem; his name is Bill and he’s visiting from England. I gave him surf and camping tips from here to San Francisco, to Yosemite, and beyond. I encouraged him to take Tioga Pass across the Sierras and come back south along the east side, stopping at the hot springs along the way. He was traveling in a rental bus from Surf Safari; it came decked out with a duvet and a plunger pot coffee maker.)
Please let me know if you like how the video came out! Can you hear my voice clearly enough over the surf? If the weather holds, I may try to do this one again tomorrow. I am also going to tape “The Lot” and “The Tattooed Lady” get them up soon!
Day To Play Hooky: a poem
This is the day to play hooky:
clear Indian summer sky
clear to the Islands’ canyons and coves
clear for the dad longboarders waiting for waves.
Moms march by–2×2, 3×3
stroller by stroller, babe by babe.
A dad in straw hat does business by phone, his
quiet daughter watches wheels roll.
Stench of stale cheap beer and cigarettes flows
from a van housing a happy drunken couple.
The bar opens at 10am when it’s BYOB.
The self employed employ themselves surfside.
A woman in a muumuu and her dog wade the river
recline by its side watch
avocets gulls cranes herons
small birds dip curved bills, bathe.
An altar lies on the round iron
sewer grate, its surrounding pavement
long removed by surf and sea.
Small objects: shells stones driftwood: rest there.
You yourself played in the Pacific this sunny morning.
I saw you after you got out of the water
towel wrapped round your waist, you read a fat book.
Your surfboard rests on your oldschool vw bus, a red westy.
I am tempted to talk to you
(to seduce you)
but continue my ride to the river to sit,
eat my apple, write about you.
You are still there when I bike back.
I waver–your coffee pot calls me
your belongings (your open bed) tempt me,
your shiny cherry bus.
You sit now on the bumper out front in the sun
all long baggy shorts and no shirt
all sandy and brown curls tasting of salt
still reading your book.
I look back, me in my sunglasses, you in yours.
It has been a long time
since I slept with surfer sand and salt.
As much as I want to, I don’t go back.
As much as I want a smile, I don’t give much of one
to you, only a small one I feel inside of me.
I don’t turn round.
I steer my bike straight ahead.
I know where that story goes
and I can’t go there today.
I have work to do. Two boys
who love me. No hooky for me.
(Shishilop Project 10/7/08: Surfers Point Loop)
c. by Gwendolyn Alley aka Art Predator
(The next day I made a video of this poem. To see it, go here).
This poem is part of Read Write Poem.
The Lot: a poem
Blessed by abundance of sunshine, butterflies
framed by eucalyptus trees,
a barranca, ravens scavenging from electric lines–
1.
A van pulls up Mondays, Wednesdays.
Windows down, men eat lunch in shade.
The clinic’s security guard takes a breather
from anti-abortion animosity.
Others cool off, sleep in cars,
nap in leaves or face the trunk
with that particular attentive hunch men get.
In the barranca, workers in orange shirts
move earth with yellow caterpillars
preparing for winter.
2.
A fair man with cloudy face
shirtless muscled black shorts ballcap
sits on abandoned concrete blocks
picks at pieces, uncovers nothing
tosses rubble like another
would stones into streams.
She joins him, they smoke:
silent mouths move.
Knives glint in sun.
She wears black jeans crop top sunglasses
walks away and comes back
like she does on the street.
3.
He lives here, neighbor, drinks water
from my faucet through a hose to his camper,
eats pizza and drinks cokes at the corner.
His name is Ken and he doesn’t want an address,
doesn’t need an address.
He throws knives into a tree trunk
one after another after another.
They land in me. I am
powerless to do anything but watch.
4.
Helicopter hovers, buzzes the barranca.
Butterflies, kittens scatter. Windows, nerves
rattle. Fugitive out there, the policewoman says.
Later, my neighbor, his camper
various derelict vehicles gone.
Hose, cushions, odd socks remain.
Sun will rise on the lot tomorrow,
wake butterflies from homes in trees.
Earth waits for what washes up.
c. by Gwendolyn Alley aka Art Predator
Background: I wrote this poem not long after I moved into this house about the lot between my house and an abortion clinic. Activity in this lot and area at the time included prostitution, drug dealing, and illegal dumping.
I read this poem to the newly formed Midtown Community Council and got their support to clean up the lot. I wrote and received a grant to turn the vacant lot into a wildlife demonstration garden, and the community helped make it so. A Scout troup worked on hooking up my water to a drip irrigation system to get the plants going.
Ten years later, the two sycamores are large and beautiful, the shrubs have filled in, the wildflowers have naturalized, and the avian diversity has increased significantly. The abortion clinic has been torn down, and while there are plans afoot to develop the area into homes and they leveled the trees, they also intend to landscape with butterfly friendly plants, call it Paseo de Mariposa, and the city is turning their part of the adjoining land from a dump into a city park–all because of my visioning and advocacy. This poem and other writings I have done and shared in City Council and local media have changed the land here for the better.
This poem was published in ARTLIFE Limited Editions November 1998.
i dreamt a poem for you
I dreamt a poem for you.
The lines were meticulously rhythmical and fluffy.
I explained to you I used a comb to make them line up like so–
If you brush them the words get too riled up and unruly.
I showed this to you at my junior high where
my son was going to join the class of a teacher who
in real life was a bitch
her tests destroyed joy
she looked old when she was young
died of cancer before she got old.
In the dream she was youngest than me
miraculously beautiful and nice
advisor to the school blogging club.
I cannot remember the name of the brown boy
I met who was blogging there after school
who showed me his blog, so peaceful and blue.
Children outside line up for a Halloween parade and open mic.
The parade and open mic are one in the same.
Colorful painted costume boxes they wear serve as stages,
boxes which once housed couches, refrigerators, washer/dryers.
now hold children standing in their boxes, waiting.
Some hold their boxes up around their waists
their fingers lifting them up from underneath.
Some children leave their boxes resting on the ground
surrounding each in a colorful square.
All of the boxes are wildly painted, the children too
in loud colors which some might call garish, clashing.
The children chatter excitedly from their boxes:
moving and whirling they practice their poems.
These boxes do not contain or restrict the children,
but give a framework, a foundation
which they make their own.
The band starts up: tuba, drum, horns.
The parade moves forward.
The blogger boy and I follow along
our open laptops fold on our arms rest around our hips.
c. by Gwendolyn Alley aka Art Predator
art predator 