Gibberings
Dad told me never to use XTREE when he wasn’t in the room.
August 29, 2008 ~ 09:40:00 AM * -07:00ST
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Log # 391
The Horror
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Eliza Gauger on June 10th, 2008 ~ 11:30:00 AM
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Log # 389
Progress
With Bohren on the speakers and my copal medium turned to jell-o, I’m at the stage of painful tentativity with most of my current paintings. What next, what now. What colors. Maddening.
by
Eliza Gauger on June 9th, 2008 ~ 10:09:54 PM
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Log # 387
Oakland
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Eliza Gauger on June 5th, 2008 ~ 07:02:21 PM
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Log # 386
Adam’s Commission - Nun Sketch
The Nun is my favorite of the group. The best part is the way her
cilia-like eyelashes are being pinched and splayed by the bandage. I’m
pretty goddamned excited to start on the paint for this one.
monster
by
Eliza Gauger on June 4th, 2008 ~ 11:04:44 PM
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Log # 375
Pre-Birthday Blastin’
I guess now would be the right time to say I never expected to spend a birthday blasting beetles out of bovid bones with a pressure hose, but you know what? I actually kind of did.
And I’m not complaining, either.
Tomorrow is my real birthday, of course. I expect offerings of gourmet teas, swank gift certificates, and cash on outstretched, trembling palms.
by
Eliza Gauger on May 4th, 2008 ~ 12:23:21 PM
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Log # 372
‘Pon the Road
I like the lone sunflowers on the median.They mark the step of some pied trucker, some Johnny Sunflowerseed, chomping and spitting robustly.
The milky muffle of the basin atmosphere fools me and for a moment, ravine walls peel away, and it looks like I’m going somewhere beautiful.
70 miles to Los Angeles, gentlemen. One hour to stow your valuables, strap up your smokesuits, prime your breathers, and smooth your cilia.
The milky muffle of the basin atmosphere fools me and for a moment, ravine walls peel away, and it looks like I’m going somewhere beautiful.
70 miles to Los Angeles, gentlemen. One hour to stow your valuables, strap up your smokesuits, prime your breathers, and smooth your cilia.
Should I really be texting on the freeway? No. Suggestions for Palm text-to-speech, anyone?
I am currently on this system’s desert world, as previously indicated, and burning through filter cartridges faster than is reasonable. Inside the bunker, machinations of the literal kind are afoot as I scramble to catch up with Etsy backlog. My printer took a huge shit, you see. And as usual, I am left holding the scoop.
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Eliza Gauger on May 2nd, 2008 ~ 06:56:24 PM
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Log # 370
Nightlife
This is what I’m doing. These are my colors and forms. Rusted-out concrete
and green glass. My brain goes here when everything is quiet, or everything
is loud. I took a more illustrative photo of my current living conditions,
yes, but the quality and subtlety were both lacking, and this is prettier
anyway. Some sort of cookie factory, by the smell of it.
by
Eliza Gauger on May 2nd, 2008 ~ 01:45:56 AM
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Log # 369
70/70
The landscape is milk-tea. Roll down the window, tearing between the orange groves, and let in dust, perfume, and false memory. The way we should have lived, or the way we live on Demonia. Terran dust in my eyes, I swear. They woke up greener than was fair.
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Eliza Gauger on May 1st, 2008 ~ 05:27:11 PM
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Log # 337
Tinting Gibson
New necklace in the works. Protip: copal medium-thinned oil paint
will paint onto laser print like watercolor, without smudging or
blooming the ink. Use this information wisely.
victorian, edwardian
by
Eliza Gauger on March 4th, 2008 ~ 05:09:50 PM
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Log # 321
How Things Continue
You know I’ve been making necklaces. Or necklace, literally. I
stumbled onto that, not really thinking of much. A friend snapped it
up instantly and I’m hearing whispers for more, more, MORE. You
crave my chains and droplets, droogs. It’s okay. I understand.
This photograph encompasses my life. It was taken at the Pub in
Berkeley, a delightfully old-fashioned, wood-tabled, saggy-chaired,
ye olde publick houfe, compleat with imported beer, pipe tobacco, and
even tea (pictured here). Being the youngest person in a room by a
standard deviation is immensely relaxing to me, as is the background
murmur, sometimes roar, of Yahtzee, philosophy, and chess (Andrei
talks shit in a Boris accent while he pushes his pieces; I love it;
when he met me he touched my wrist to his mouth and inhaled deeply,
coy and filthy and politely rapacious as only those ruski wolfmen can
be [I am looking at you, Poul]), and the soft heats from baseboard
and gas fireplace, and a sparkling baristakeep, and the old Berkeley
men in John Lennons and beards and berets, talking abstracts and
grinning. All while I crank open these jumprings and glue and pry
and clamp and fumble: making things.
