Lately I've been making little 5X7 collages of houses. House after house after house after house...so far 4 and at least 4 more (god who knows, maybe more than that) in my future. I use either a canvas panel or hardboard with flat black gesso base. The houses are strips of vintage paper cut and glued. Some of the paper is vintage religious engravings that were damaged and so could not be sold at my antique booth. I find the cutting and pasting to be almost a religious experience in the sense that I 'go' to another place when I'm constructing them. Put the music on and before I know it hours have passed. No real plans or sketched out ideas...just the basic house shape and me with brush, gel medium and scissors. When they are done I throw a little acrylic red on the background, scratch it around and then give a good spray of fixative. Don't know what's going on with me. I guess it's the search for 'The House of Belonging' (David Whyte poem that I love)
Last night I had a bizarre dream about my Grandmother's house. I was there alone and had to climb in through a small window on the front porch to get in and out. While there a neighbor came over and pointed out to me millions of carpenter ants who were coming and going from a gash up on the side of the second story. I remember being amazed that I missed this (they were everywhere!)....and then I noticed that the house really needed painting. Grandma is 97, but hasn't lived there for about 20 years. What the heck does this dream mean? And how is it tied in with me and my current house making??? Or is it not...? Does everyone feel that sense of not belonging or longing or searching for a home? Don't get me wrong, I love where I live, and it has less to do with an actual physical home and more to do with the spiritual. So there it is. I make paper houses. Here are two of them.