frozen toy people

photo: jetheriot

a heaven of doves

I KNOW it’s an illusion. I know that the wild doves I leave birdseed for every morning grow old and die, as all creatures do, but when you can’t tell one dove from another and you never see any dove eggs, it’s easy to believe they’re immortal.

design for a large oil painting

jetheriot

latch hook grid

image: jetheriot



the godmother

 image courtesy Chere Labbe Doiron

AT FIRST GLANCE she floats. The photograph eventually orients you, but for a moment you are confused. “What is this woman doing here,” you ask yourself, “hovering in the middle of the scene?” Then you see that what she’s standing behind and tucking her folded elbow over isn’t a cloud, as you first thought, but the fluffy ghost of a gate, white with the chalk lines of memory.

pillow possibility

image: jetheriot

Based on a pattern from the book Cut & Assemble Paper Airplanes That Fly by Arthur Baker.

the point of a pencil

Not everything that can be shaped into a point points. A sharp pencil is pointier than the pointiest finger, but pencils don’t point as well as fingers.

the familiar becomes invisible

photo: jetheriot

A Scandinavian man vacationing in Acadiana returned to the home of his hostess after an exhilarating drive through the countryside. In recounting his day's journey, the tourist spoke with spirit about a beautiful tree he had seen. The tree made such an impact, in fact, he was breathless as he described it. The hostess could not imagine which exotic tree he had happened upon.  The man took his hostess by the elbow and pointed through the window to some trees in the distance. “What is the name of this tree?" The hostess didn't see any trees. The man went outside and marched across the yard to the trees growing wild in the ditches. He reached up and pulled down a low-hanging branch, blossoming with lavender flowers. “This one,” he yelled back the question to his hostess, “What is this wonderful flower?”

okra makes the prettiest flowers

photo: jetheriot

Fruit come from flowers and flowers become fruit, so plants which bear flowers bear fruit. The fruit of the plant, however, may escape our collective attention if we treasure the plant only for its flower. We prize, for example, rose plants and lily plants for the flowers these two plants produce. A rose plant will make roses as everyone knows, but a rose plant will also make fruit. We savor the fragrance and the beauty of the flower: the fruit of the rose is invisible.

the egg of personality

photo: Wikimedia/Horst Frank

A person starts out as an egg. Inside this egg, a set of instructions tells the egg how to grow. And the egg unfolds: each set of instructions is unique, so each egg is unique. Also, each egg is ejected into a unique geographic location, at a unique hour in its planet’s history. To paraphrase Emerson, each man is an egg new to Nature. Now, the egg has a permeable membrane and is highly impressionable, so as it travels forward, it soaks up not only gases and fluids but also pollutants and intoxicants which color the egg as it grows. Life dyes the egg with living. The egg becomes the shape of its journey.

people are a lot like statues

photo: public domain

The first emperor of China wanted to live forever. Or did he want everlasting life in an afterworld shaped much like this one? Was heaven really heaven-on-earth? Delirious from the toxic elixirs of jade powder, chalk and mercury favored by his wisest advisors for the promotion of immortality, the emperor lay on his deathbed. Swollen, purple and bald, dead skin peeling off of him in layers, his vision and his hearing long departed, his fragile grasp of reality filtered crudely through prickling fingertips, the emperor genuinely wondered if he had already left the planet. “So this is what heaven feels like,” he thought, “or is this heaven-on-earth?"

redbird pinocchio

photo: red bird mission crafts

A wooden redbird went begging for bread. Motherless, fatherless, starving and growing weaker, he combed the streets of the city in search of a crumb. There wasn't a morsel to be found. In a plush yard a mother sparrow cracked open grains of millet with her beak and brought tiny pieces of it to the cocked-open mouths of her babies. The baby sparrows chirped. “Sing me a pretty song you funny bird” the sparrow said. “Go on, flap your wooden wings and sing!” The redbird tried to chirp and coughed. The sparrow harrumphed. “Sing you ungrateful bird!” It was the same story everywhere the redbird went. “Birds sing,” the birds would ask, “don't they?” 

a guessing game

My friend Uri is a fan of guessing games, and he knows I enjoy a challenge, so after exhaustively describing a meal he'd recently enjoyed, he finished with a guessing game about the dessert course, a sumptuous duck-egg custard.

princes on horses

WHAT WAS THE LAST Walt Disney film Walt Disney made sounds like a trick question because it feels like he’s still making movies somehow. He isn’t alive anymore, but His name continues to echo, each story in the growing collection a new chapter in the same bible, that long shadow of His existence. And what with all the churches, I mean temples, I mean amusement parks built in His honor, you’d swear He never died. 

     The rumor that His body was powered down into a state of suspended animation is an apple too tempting to refuse: it’s too perfect. Walt Disney is still alive – or so we tell ourselves – just sleeping for a while, floating in a cloudy solution in a vat in the bowels of Disneyland. Surely He’s a regular skeleton somewhere, bones in a bed of dirt. Surely Santa Claus is some senior citizen I have sat on at the mall.

proposal for an exhibition (exactly four-hundred words long)

photo: jetheriot

My grandmother gave me a sewing basket when I was seven years old. At the ripe age of nine, when my passion for embroidery had faded, the basket eventually settled, forgotten in a distant closet. My mother found it earlier this year. Inside this time capsule, tucked under thimbles and coils of colorful floss, beneath panels of light blue satin onto which nursery rhyme characters had been traced and embroidered, was a folded sheet of loose leaf: a simple drawing of a horse colored in brown and black. Thirty years after I buried him, I brought him back as my muse. Pootail captures the unbridled exhilaration my crayons channeled in 1979. He reminds me that I am the same child, only bigger.

computer translation of a portuguese website

How much to its work, Rose works in the digital way (digital photograph), however Rose works very in the fusing of the painting with the digital composition. According to same, all its work is born of the imaginary one of the adventure, either this adventure of the psychological or physical forum.