Oh My Lard

Puppet Hound

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 20:26:00 +0000

New puppets in development:

1. National Parks book puppet

Scupt in progress for a simple puppet body. A plaster mold will be created of the final sculpt. Then a wire armature will fit inside the mold, silicone will be poured inside the mold, and voila! A posable silicone puppet body will hopefully result. Hands still need to be sculpted. Handmade clothes will cover His Royal Nekkidness.

The puppet's sculpted head is temporarily fitted onto the clay body sculpt.

2. Experimental puppet based on "The Teeth" illustration:

The original illustration.

The first part of this puppet is sculpted: the head. I haven't added the curled hair yet because I was concerned about the weight it would add and whether her thin clay neck could support this weight. So I decided to partially bake the scupt first, then add the hairpiece and bake the whole sculpt again.

Too bad when I began to take the sculpt out of the oven it landed face-first onto the oven rack. She seemed fine except for her right eyebrow and the area just above it, which now has a slight dent. I'll fill it in with more clay and smooth it out, then re-bake.

If I do things right, this will be a turn-of-the-century costumed puppet.

Pass the smelling salts.

The Vonnegut/Knoxville Connection

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 16:54:00 +0000

I'm currently reading Charles Shields's excellent biography of Kurt Vonnegut, And So It Goes, and I stumbled across this bit about Vonnegut in 1943:

"…[Kurt] qualified for the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) based on his aptitude test scores and IQ. If he completed the ASTP course of study, consisting of eighteen months spread over six three-month terms, he would graduate with a four-year degree in engineering from the University of Tennessee and an officer's commission. At the beginning of the summer, he left for Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh to study introductory mechanical engineering. In September he continued his coursework at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

His classes covered thermodynamics, mechanics, and machine tools…. For friendship, Kurt preferred the company of 'boisterous, prosperous' scientists from nearby Oak Ridge National Laboratory. Over a drink, the chemists, technologists, and physicists became loose-lipped about what they were working on. Most could only speculate about their mysterious work. A publicist for the lab, Richard Gehrman, confided to Vonnegut that his job was to keep the bibulous men of science guessing about how exactly they were contributing to top secret projects.

Those six months of studies at the University of Tennessee didn't lead to a promotion, as it turned out. In the spring of 1944 the army brass canceled the ASTP program because an additional fifty thousand men were needed to support the Allies' secret plans for D-day."

Flea Bitten

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 16:06:00 +0000

I have a book project due in March for the park service, but in my spare time I've been developing a graphic novel for an older audience than the picture book crowd. This one's for the more mature YA audience—teens and early 20s and beyond—and it begins in a flea circus. I set up the first 3 or 4 pages somewhat like a silent movie. After that, the talky fun begins, especially for the murderous flea shown below.

It's a story of oddities, murder, and insanity. It's also about writing, fame vs. infamy, and figuring out what life has in store for you. And it's about behavior when one feels there are no choices in life.

There. Now that I've told you about it, I have to stick to my guns and finish it, don't I? Terrifying.

The Literate Dog

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 14:51:00 +0000

Some books are to be tasted;

others to be swallowed;

and some few to be chewed

and digested.

—Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

Damn dog. You don't have to be so literal.

For the New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 03:12:00 +0000

Fill your bowl to the brim

and it will spill.

Keep sharpening your knife

and it will blunt.

Chase after money and security

and your heart will never unclench.

Care about people's approval

and you will be their prisoner.

Do your work, then step back.

The only path to serenity.

—from Tao Te Ching, Chapter 9

Happy New Year 2012, dear friends.

Up with Figs:

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

I’m just not feeling it this year. Maybe this will change. Maybe it won’t. But I’m meeting the whole Christmas/Hanukkah/Festivus/Kwanzaa/New Year’s season with resignment rather than celebration. It’s going to happen no matter what I do. Might as well lie back and think of the Baby Jesus.

This isn’t new, mind, just more pronounced this year. And my hope is that I’ll have a moment, one of those small seconds when the light catches an ornament just right, say, when I feel that holiday feeling. Just for that split second, it will be less than a total drag.

Which is why I miss living in Knoxville, where one dude roams the interstates in his tricked-out pick-up with the electrified holiday icons. It’s like one of those mythic Christmas miracles, all heaped up in the back of a Ford longbed.

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

Up with Figs: You've Got Mail!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 13:30:00 +0000

This is the time of year when I feel the most sorry for mailmen.*

Every single time I step out to the mailbox, it contains at least five pounds of catalogues.

That’s a conservative estimate, mind. On the days when I also get my issues of Martha Stewart Living and Real Simple (don’t judge), the estimate crawls up to eight or nine pounds.

Then there are the boxes. And Tyvek mailers. And brown-paper-and-bubble-wrap envelopes.

It’s a lot of stuff, is what I’m saying.

And some of it is probably weird stuff, too. Not that I personally get weird stuff but I know for a fact that you can mail a coconut or a bowling ball or live chickens or crickets.

If I’m getting all of this mail, I can only imagine what our mailman (see below) has to carry up and down our street, which has at least ten houses on it. In the cold. And, frequently, in the dead of night.

I want to leave a plate of cookies out for him on Christmas Eve. Along with a Thermos full of hot toddies. Because, seriously, dude deserves it.

* Or “letter carriers” or “mailpersonsofeithergenderwhichisnotintendedtoexcludethetransgendered-tosaynothingoftheintersexed.”

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

Cosmic Oy

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 21:20:00 +0000

I saw this the other night.

And you thought God didn't have a sense of humor.

Up with Figs: BrowComb™ Technology

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 16:31:00 +0000

Here at the Hair Club for Super Manly Men, we know that you have a lot of choices when it comes to your hair replacement therapy.

You could go with plugs that have been vigorously cultivated from your shoulder hair.

You could thatch your denuded head with a mat woven from freshly plucked goat beards.

You could choose creams, gels and unguents, rubbed into your manly scalp by strong lady hands.

But when those fail, we know you’ll choose our patented BrowComb™ Technology.

Remember, those of us at the Hair Club for Super Manly Men are also clients.

Also: Freebird!

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

For your post-Thanksgiving feast hangover: Dogs In Elk

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 14:01:00 +0000

A few years ago I came across one of the funniest threads I've ever read, and now, as a dog owner, it's even funnier to me.

Presenting: Dogs In Elk

Anne V - 01:01pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1318 of 1332)
Okay - I know how to take meat away from a dog. How do I take a dog away from meat? This is not, unfortunately, a joke.

AmyC - 01:02pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1319 of 1332)
Um, can you give us a few more specifics here?

Anne V - 01:12pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1320 of 1332)
Theyre inside of it. They crawled inside, and now I have a giant incredibly heavy piece of carcass in my yard, with 2 dogs inside of it, and they are NOT getting bored of it and coming out. One of them is snoring. I have company arriving in three hours, and my current plan is to 1. put up a tent over said carcass and 2. hang thousands of fly strips inside it. This has been going on since about 6:40 this morning.

AmyC - 01:19pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1321 of 1332)
Oh. My. God. What sort of carcass is big enough to hold a couple of dogs inside? Given the situation, Im afraid youre not going to be create enough of a diversion to get the dogs out of the carrion, unless they like greeting company as much as they like rolling around in dead stuff. Which seems unlikely. Can you turn a hose on the festivities?

Ase Innes-Ker - 01:31pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1322 of 1332)
Im sorry Anne. I know this is a problem (and it would have driven me crazy), but it is also incredibly funny.

Anne V - 01:31pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1323 of 1332)
Elk. Elk are very big this year, because of the rain and good grazing and so forth. They arent rolling. They are alternately napping and eating. They each have a ribcage. Other dogs are working on them from the outside. Its all way too primal in my yard right now. We tried the hose trick. At someone elses house, which is where they climbed in and began to refuse to come out. Many hours ago. I think that the hose mostly helps keep them cool and dislodges little moist snacks for them. hose failed. My new hope is
that if they all continue to eat at this rate, they will be finished before the houseguests arrive. The very urban houseguests. Oh, god - I know its funny. Its appalling, and funny, and completely entirely representative of life with dogs.

Kristen R. - 01:37pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1324 of 1332)
Im so glad I read this thread, dogless as I am. Dogs in elk. Dogs in elk.

Anne V - 01:41pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1325 of 1332)
Its like that childrens book out there - dogs in elk, dogs on elk, dogs around elk, dogs outside elk. And there is some elk inside of, as well as on, each dog at this point.

Elizabeth K - 01:57pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1328 of 1333)
Anne, arent you in Arizona or Nevada? There are elk there? Im so confused! We definately need to see pics of Gus Pong and Jake in the elk carcass.

Anne V - 02:03pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1329 of 1333)
I am in New Mexico, but there are elk in both arizona and nevada, yes. There are elk all over the da*n place. They dont look out very often. If you stand the ribcage on end they scramble to the top and look out, all red. Otherwise, you kinda have to get in there a little bit yourself to really see them. So I think there will not be pictures.

CoseyMo - 02:06pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1330 of 1333)
"all red;" Im not sure the deeper horror of all this was fully borne in upon me till I saw that little phrase.

Anne V - 02:10pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1331 of 1333)
Well, you know, the Basenji (that would be Jake) is a desert dog, naturally, and infamous for its aversion to water. And then, Gus Pong (who is coming to us, live, unamplified and with a terrific reverb which is making me a little dizzy) really doesnt mind water, but hates to be cold. Or soapy. And both of them can really run. Sprints of up to 35 mph have been clocked. So. If ever they come out, catching them and returning them to a condition where they can be considered house pets is not going to be, shall we say, pleasant.

CoseyMo - 02:15pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1332 of 1333)
What if you stand the ribcage on end, wait for them to look out, grab them when they do and pull?

Anne V - 02:18pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1333 of 1333)
They wedge their toes between the ribs. And scream. We tried that before we brought the elk home from the mountain with dogs inside. Jake nearly took my friends arm off. Hes already short a toe, so he cherishes the 15 that remain.

Linda Hewitt - 02:30pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1336 of 1356)
Have you thought about calling your friendly vet and paying him to come pick up the dogs, elk and letting the dogs stay at the vets overnight. If anyone would know what to do, it would be your vet. It might cost some money, but it would solve the immediate crisis. Keep us posted.

ChristiPeters - 02:37pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1337 of 1356)
Yikes! My sympathy! When I lived in New Mexico, my best friends dog (the escape artist) was continually bringing home road kill. When there was no road kill convenient, he would visit the neighbors house. Said neighbor slaughtered his own beef. The dog found all kinds of impossibly gross toys in the neighbors trash pit. I have always had medium to large dogs. The smallest dog I ever had was a mutt from the SPCA who matured out at just above knee high and about 55 pounds. Our current dog (daughters choice) is a Pomeranian.A very small Pomeranian. Shes 8 months old now and not quite 4 pounds. Im afraid Ill break her.

Lori Shiraishi - 02:38pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1338 of 1356)
Bet you could fit a whole lot of Pomeranians in that there elk carcass! Anne - my condolences on what must be an unbelievable situation!

Anne V - 02:44pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1339 of 1356)
I did call my vet. He laughed until he was gagging and breathless. He says a lot of things, which can be summed as *what did you expect?* and *no, there is no such thing as too much elk meat for a dog.* He is planning to stop over and take a look on his way home. Thanks, Lori. I am almost surrendered to the absurdity of it.

Lori Shiraishi - 02:49pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1340 of 1356)
"He is planning to stop over and take a look on his way home." So he can fall down laughing in person?

Anne V - 02:50pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1341 of 1356)
Basically, yeah. That would be about it.

AmyC - 02:56pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1342 of 1356)
No, there is no such thing as too much elk meat for a dog." Oh, sweet lo*d, Anne. You have my deepest sympathies in this, perhaps the most peculiar of the Gus Pong Adventures. You are truly a woman of superhuman patience. wait -- you carried the carcass down from the mountains with the dogs inside?

Anne V - 02:59pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1343 of 1356)
The carcass down from the mountains with the dogs inside? no, well, sort of. My part in the whole thing was to get really stressed about a meeting that I had to go to, and say *yeah, ok, whatever* when it was suggested that the ribcages, since we couldnt get the dogs out of them and the dogs couldnt be left there, be brought to my house. Because, you know - I just thought they would get bored of it sooner or later. But it appears to be later, in the misty uncertain future, that they will get bored. Now, they are still interested. And very loud, one singing, one snoring.

Lori Shiraishi - 03:04pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1344 of 1356)
And very loud, one singing, one snoring. wow. I cant even begin to imagine the acoustics involved with singing from the inside of an elk.

Anne V - 03:04pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1345 of 1356)
reverb. lots and lots of reverb.

Anne V - 03:15pm Sep 9, 1999 PDT (# 1347 of 1356)
Ill tell you the thing that is causing me to lose it again and again, and then I have to go back outside and stay there for a while. After the meeting, I said to my (extraordinary) boss, "look, Ive gotta go home for the rest of the day, I think. Jake and Gus Pong are inside some elk ribcages, and my dad is coming tonight, so Ive got to get them out
somehow." And he said, pale and huge-eyed, "Annie, how did you explain the elk to the clients?" The poor, poor man thought I had the carcasses brought to work with me. For some reason, I find this deeply funny.

(weekend pause)

Anne V - 08:37am Sep 13, 1999 PDT (# 1395 of 1405)
So what we did was put the ribcages (containing dogs) on tarps and drag them around to the side yard, where I figured they would at least be harder to see, and then opened my bedroom window so that the dogs could let me know when they were ready to be plunged into a de-elking solution and let in the house. Then I went to the airport. Came home, no visible elk, no visible dogs. Peeked around the shrubs, and there they were, still in the elk. By this time, they had gnawed out some little portholes between some of the ribs, and you got the occasional very frightening glimpse of something moving around in there if you watched long enough. After a lot of agonizing, I went to bed. I closed the back door, made sure my window was open, talked to the dogs out of it until I as sure they knew it was open, and then I fell asleep.

Sometimes, sleep is a mistake, no matter how tired you are. And especially if you are very very tired, and some of your dogs are outside, inside some elks. Because when you are that tired, you sleep through bumping kind of noises, or you kind of think that its just the house guests. It wasnt the house guests. It was my dogs, having an attack of teamwork unprecedented in our domestic history. When I finally woke all the way up, it was to a horrible vision. Somehow, 3 dogs with a combined weight of about 90 pounds, managed to hoist one of the ribcages (the meatier one, of course) up 3 feet to rest on top of the swamp cooler outside the window, and push out the screen. What woke me was Gus Pong, howling in frustration from inside the ribcage, very close to my head, combined with feverish little grunts from Jake, who was standing on the nightstand, bracing himself against the curtains with remarkably bloody little feet.

Here are some things I have learned, this Rosh Hashanah weekend:
1. almond milk removes elk blood from curtains and pillowcases,
2. We can all exercise superhuman strength when it comes to getting elk carcasses out of our yard,
3. The sight of elk ribcages hurtling over the fence really frightens the nice deputy sheriff who lives across the street, and
4. the dogs can pop the screens out of the windows, without damaging them, from either side.

Anne V - 09:58am Sep 13, 1999 PDT (# 1401 of 1405)

What I am is really grateful that they didnt actually get the damn thing in the window, which is clearly the direction they were going in. And that the nice deputy didnt arrest me for terrifying her with elk parts before dawn.

AmyC - 09:59am Sep 13, 1999 PDT (# 1402 of 1405)
Imagine waking up with a gnawed elk carcass in your bed, like a real-life "Godfather" with an all-dog cast.

Anne V - 10:01am Sep 13, 1999 PDT (# 1403 of 1405)
There is not enough almond milk in the world to solve an event of that kind.

Well, bless my boots and call me corn pone.

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 16:24:00 +0000

Good news! I've discovered the poster I created for the All Hallow's Read poster contest tied for first place. While not the grand prize winner, it's still pretty damn cool.

The best part is that I will receive a signed first edition copy of The Graveyard Book, a copy of Coraline, and a copy of the Coraline graphic novel.

The Head Vampire, Mr. Gaiman Himself, blogs about it here.

I'm especially pleased because the only copy I have of The Graveyard Book is in Kindle format, so now I will have a wonderful paper version, author-signed. I always figured if I had the chance, I'd have Neil Gaiman sign my Kindle, but now there's no need.

Congratulations to the grand prize winner and the other first place winner. Well done, yous!

Now will somebody please give me some illustration work? Go to www.lisahorstman.com to see my portfolio.

Up with Figs: Anger Management

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 13:30:00 +0000

Memo

To: All Employees

Re: Mandatory Workplace Violence Training

On Thursday, we will hold our annual Workplace Violence Training. Attendance is not optional. (And, yes, Steve, that means you, too. We tire of your excuses, by the way, and boggle at just how gullible you must think we are.)

This year’s Training will focus on the proper uses of the common #2 pencil. While eye-gouging will be covered, we will also think outside of the box, so to speak, and look at all of the other potential painful applications of this common piece of office equipment. The men of this office (And, yes, Steve, you, too.) are advised to wear a cup.

Due to last year’s mishap, employees are advised to wear garments without loose ties, fringe or laces.

Thank you for your co-operation.

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

You make me laugh/Cause your eyes they light the night/They look right through me

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 17:13:00 +0000

Color and light study.

Down on the Farm

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 22:31:00 +0000

Today I read an article about Mark Zuckerberg, Facebook guru, and his self-challenge: any meat he eats in a 1-year period will only come from an animal he's killed himself.

(Aside note: do a "mark zuckerberg meat" search and you'll find all sorts of cheeky headlines like "Why Mark Zuckerberg's Meat Challenge is Full of Bull" and "Mark Zuckerberg kills his meat with his bare hands" and "The Meat Mark Zuckerberg eats is you." Oh, clever Interweaves.)

Well, if you have to eat meat, maybe you should kill it yourself. At least you know where it came from.

I haven't eaten meat for a while for lots of reasons: I try to restrict animal protein to keep my kidneys and heart healthy (as a 34-year-veteran of Type 1 diabetes, it can't hurt). I'm suspicious of where a lot of packaged meats come from. I figure there are lots of other kinds of good foods to eat. Plus, I like animals and don't really feel a huge need to kill them. Besides, why are some animals okay to eat, but not others? That doesn't mean I dislike the taste of meat. On the contrary; I love it. Dave and I jokingly tell our dog Jack, "Jack, your head would make a really good soup. Lots of meat on it." We wretches in this house have a dark sense of humor.

My mom riding a bike to the barn before the cows' early morning milking.

Let me tell you a story.

I grew up on a farm in the late 1960s-1970s. My dad primarily farmed crops like soybeans, wheat, and corn, but we also had a few dairy cows and roosters, and we also kept a steer or two for butchering. This, along with vegetables from the garden, pretty much kept a family with five children fed throughout the year.

I always knew not to get attached to the farm animals, but there was one steer I decided I would save. I felt sorry for him; he was kept apart from the other cows, and so I vowed I'd be his friend. I went out to the barn when he was in his pen and fed him extra grain behind Dad's back, not realizing this would only be a dark benefit later on by adding to his butchery plumpness.

Since he was a white steer, I uncreatively named him Whitey. (It's an unwritten rule of childhood: all pets must be named with a descriptive adjective + y or ey or ie.)

I had half convinced myself that once my parents saw what a great pet Whitey could make, it would save him from the butcher. Sadly, this was not to be.

One cold Saturday morning, a large tractor-trailer backed partway into the barn at our farm. I knew from experience that this was the local butcher, and my heart sunk. They were here to kill my unfortunate pet steer.

Here's the clincher: My mom, seeing me staring out the window, incorrectly thought I was interested in seeing the whole bloody mess take place, saying, "Lisa, do you want to go out to the barn and watch them?"

"NO!" I screeched, horrified, and ran off.

Now, you have to understand, my mother is very salt-of-the-earth. This is what farm life is about: living off the land, working hard, and raising animals for food. No romance to it—when you have mouths to feed, you don't have that luxury. Perhaps she was hoping I was beginning to understand that. But no. I could never stomach the annual butchering of chickens, either. Hell, it broke my heart to hurt an ant.

Yet, at mealtime, I was always able to conveniently block the thought that this particular chicken dinner was, a few months earlier, one of those cute little yellow chicks huddled under the heat of the incubator in the chicken coop.

Did I eat any of the cuts of meat from poor Whitey? Of course I did. When you're a kid, you can pretend lots of things. I probably pretended the meat was from some other cow, or some kind of Magical Mystery Meal.

These days, I mostly eat other sources of protein, usually plant-based. It's abundant, easy to prepare once you learn how, and more interesting to me anyway.

But I guess my mom did have a point: you need to see where your food comes from. Perhaps this includes seeing those horrible factory farms, the processing plants where the cows end up, and how the meat is packed. Over the years, things have changed, and not for the better. I refuse to take part in it any more.

Up with Figs: Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 13:30:00 +0000

After one absinthe too many, Lord Reginald Huffingworth-Perigree couldn’t remember which eye needed the patch and which eye needed the monocle, much to the amusement of the other members of his private dining club. It amused them to no end to watch the Lord stumble into walls, over the ottomans and into the ha-ha.

Also after one absinthe too many, Lord Reginald Huffingworth-Perigree would stick his hands down the blouses of the staff, those of both the men and women employed by the club. That, however, was a matter left undiscussed.

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

Jack and the Meat Truck

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 00:08:00 +0000

"It's time we did another movie," I said to Dave. The last one we did was "Lucy and the Cheese Truck," where poor hapless Lucy falls victim to the mysterious Erector Set truck bearing a piece of cheese on its hood:

"This time we'll prank Jack," I said.

This is Jack:

Jack is just over a year old and likes to chew on things. Today he ate part of the shoelace on my sneaker. Now I have a shoelace that is just barely long enough to keep my shoe tied. Jack has taught us that almost anything he chews can be replaced, and so we accept our chewed discoveries with weary resignation.

Who knew Jack was an avid absorber of books? Now we do.

One night we came home to this:

He'd been confined to a room, but from that moment on we put him in his crate when we go out. This was a hard lesson.

So it didn't make me feel terribly guilty at the idea of pranking the Satan's Spawn of Canines. Here was the plan:

1. Load Erector Set truck with a chunk of lamb dog food in its bed.

2. Set up small bits of lamb leading to the truck, then hide behind the wall.

3. Jack follows the treat trail and hopefully pokes his snout into the truck bed.

4. Let the hilarity commence when the truck suddenly moves on its own.

So we did it:

Flea Bitten

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 16:34:00 +0000

Work on the flea armature continues for the next book proposal, a graphic novel. God only knows if this thing will find a publisher.

Puppet sketch for comic's splash page, a couple of finished sample pages, the beginnings of a new flea puppet armature, and an older armature. The splash page will be a full color piece of art done in the puppet illustration style. A majority of the other pages will likely be two-color or black and white.

Work in progress: the small jointed legs for the flea.

Troublesome miniature screw, nut, and plastic washer. Plastic washers do a better job of keeping the fasteners tight than brass washers.

Lastly, some pictures that make me giggle:

Did you ever have a friend who grabs your camera when you're not around and takes a picture of him/herself, and you come across the image unexpectedly later on?

I think Thomas the Cat did this:

Thomas looking vaguely drunk.

Speaking of animals who look vaguely drunk in a photograph:

Jack with his tongue lolling. No, wait…that's my thumb.

And I came across this on the laptop's Photo Booth:

Up with Figs: He Returns

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 13:30:00 +0000

Tow that, er, barn, Lift that bale

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 23:18:00 +0000

When I visited my mom and dad in Ohio last week, I looked through a box of their old photographs, planning to digitally scan them while I was there. I started with this one:

This photograph was taken around 1905, when my grandfather and his neighbors built the barn still standing today on my parents' farm. The hand-hewn beams are a sight to behold.

Then I came across this madness:

Nowadays, structures would just be torn down and rebuilt. Back then they just moved 'em.

I'm not really sure whose barn this is. It's not the one my grandfather built, but it might be my great-grandfather's.

How they managed to raise the barn up onto what I assume is a series of flatbed wagons and drive it across the countryside is beyond me, but it probably wasn't an everyday thing, even back then.

Can you imagine coming across this thing unexpectedly while driving down the road?

Off With Their Heads

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 21:49:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago I saw a link to All Hallow's Read, a concept created by Neil Gaiman where, the week of Halloween, fans of the holiday give scary books as gifts. There was also a link to a poster contest: create an 11 x 14 poster by October 31, 2011 for 2012's All Hallow's Read, and the winning entry will be used to promote next year's fun.

But by the time I saw this link, it was October 24; I was committed to another project, had plans to visit my parents in Ohio for the weekend, and time was too tight to create what I wanted to create. "Maybe next year," I thought.

I told Dave about it that night. "You should do one," he encouraged. "Even if you don't win, it's a chance to make something fun. You can always use it as part of your portfolio."

"Yeah, but I'd have to make the puppets, their clothes, paint the backdrop…I dunno." At the time I was thinking about making five puppets, but as I thought more about the concept, I realized I could create some art using only two characters: Dracula and Frankenstein's monster. That still meant sculpting their heads and hands, making their clothes, and photographing them. I decided to use two older puppet bodies I had already fabricated—two monkeys. I could hide the tails easily enough.

I checked the fabric scraps, slammed together the clothes (probably the fastest I've ever done, and it shows if you look too closely. Good thing the Monster wore raggedy clothes), and sculpted the heads from Fimo Doll Puppen. The background art was next; I drew up a scene in pencil, scanned it, and painted it digitally. Then I photographed the puppets, placed them digitally into the illustration, and added skin tone and hair and eye color.

All in all it took around 20 total hours.

The sculpted heads. I added a couple of cogs on either side of the monster's neck instead of bolts, like you usually see. I also decided to give him an Elvis grin. Dracula has only one fang because, well, why not? And both have unibrows.

The compiled puppets in costume. See the holes in the shoes? Those are nut/bolt holes for attaching puppets to a peg board base. Then the puppets can stand up on their own. I blocked out the holes digitally, and added book covers to the books the puppets are holding. In this case, Dracula is reading "Frankenstein" and the Monster is reading "Dracula." Get it? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. They've swapped books for Halloween! Hee haw.

The finished poster.

You can also see the resulting illustration here.

Bird By Bird

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 16:20:00 +0000

One summer when I was a kid, huge flocks of starlings came to nest in the trees around our house, shitting on everything below them.

"If you come over, don't park next to the house," we warned, "otherwise the birds will change the color of your car."

Sometimes we'd go outside and clap our hands as loud as we could. A huge mass of starlings burst from the trees, circled around the house, and settled back into the trees. The same thing happened when we slammed the front door. It was like they were obeying our command.

One night we had a freak hailstorm, and the next morning there were hundreds of dead starlings on the ground. My brother shoveled them up into a wheelbarrow and carted them off to a waiting pyre.

* * *

In the mid '90s I worked in downtown Knoxville, TN as an art director for the city's alternative weekly, Metro Pulse. My office was on the third floor of the Arnstein Building, a wonderful old 7-story brick building on Market Square, and the windows overlooked Krutch Park, which was at the time a small, gated, spooky but wonderful park that I loved. It was full of old, leafy trees, and had a small stream running through it.

That fall, hundreds of starlings started hanging around the place, screeching at the tops of their lungs. The biggest telltale sign of their tree parties was the accumulation of bird droppings on every possible park bench, rock, and path in the park.

One night at 6 p.m. I heard what sounded like a shotgun blast. BLAM! The starlings exploded from the trees in the park, circled above the trees, and landed again. A few minutes passed, and then BLAM! I half expected to see old Mrs. Clem Enloe, a fiery mountain woman who was one of the last inhabitants of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, toting a shotgun from one hip. But no.

The city in its frustration over the starlings' whitewashing job was using a propane cannon to scare the birds away from the park. Propane cannons don't fire projectiles and are often used in orchards to keep birds away from crops. This went on for a few weeks, but the starlings continued to return to the park.

And so every night at 6 p.m. while I still worked at my desk, that damn cannon would go off and scare the bejeezus out of me with its first firing of the night.

After a while I put on my earphones in an attempt to block out the noise of the cannon fire and the starlings laughing at us all.

* * *

And then I came across this the other day: "Murmuration"

Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

Up with Figs: The Melancholy Giant

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 12:30:00 +0000

No one knows the pain of the melancholy giant.

They think it’s funny, all part of the grand adventure, to run into the woods and face the giant on their quest. But the giant never wins, no matter how hard he tries. As much as he might want to grind their bones to make his bread, the little girls and the stroppy boys always get away in the end., leaving him bread less.

And it makes him sad. What good is being a giant if you never get to win?

All Hallow's Read poster

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 20:56:00 +0000

It's not every day I get to make Dracula and Frankenstein's monster puppets.

Up with Figs: When every day is Halloween

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 12:30:00 +0000

“That’s some interesting facial hair,” I thought as the guy driving the old pick-up truck made the left at the four-way light. “Kinda of a wolfman thing for Halloween.”

But it wasn’t.

As the truck passed me, two thoughts went through my head almost simultaneously:

“His entire face looks like one of those new-fangled, mottled, warty pumpkins with little tufts of hair glued on.”

Which was followed quickly by, “Oh my God that poor guy.”

Can you imagine? And how much must that hurt?

I mean, upside, you can make it work for you one day out of the year.

Really, though, everything else is downside.

Up with Figs: Bored, bored bored. (Or Lounge, lounge, lounge.)

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Horstman) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 12:00:00 +0000

Dear Lisa,

I’m not sure what you were going for with this but what you have managed to capture is my ideal day. The day I dream of, when I can stare out the window, fly paper airplanes, and flop over the back of a wing chair like a cat. If I were 8, mind, this would be the worst day ever. But at 40? I am all over that. Bring it on.

Hope you all are well,

-Adrienne