Archive for artistic process

Cutie Pie SICKO

Posted in Art & Culture, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 28, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Barnaby Barford. Remember that name. You’ll be glad you did. “Barnaby Barford” is the new “Rumpelstiltskin.”

Shit! Daddy's Going to Kill Me!

 Barnaby Barford turns bric-a-brac on its ass. He takes the twee and tweaks it. He deconstructs porcelain figurines and reconfigures them to change the context from cutesy to SPOOKY KABUKI.

I thought it’d be bigger

Barford’s work is witty and naughty, brilliant and brash, lewd and glorious. Not to froth at the mouth but really, I’m rabid for this irreverent trickster. I Heart Barnaby!

The above piece is called “We’re hoping he’ll grow out of it.” Isn’t it delicious? My Dad hated “glass trash” but he would love Barnaby Barford. He would love how Barford takes the birds off the mantle and gives them to Godzilla as snacks. (Not a Barford piece but it should be.) Like my pop, Barford sullies Precious Moments: a chubby cherub gets a golden shower courtesy of Felix the Cat. (another should be.) Barnaby Barford tosses the baby out with the bathwater! 
 
The above piece — “Imposter” — is a little Halloween gore for ya! I’m under the weather today, my fiends, or I would surely write the “Ode to Barnaby” that Barford’s talent deserves.
 

Lusty Luddite Looking to Seduce Lonely Steam Punk

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Steampunk, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I had a dream, years ago, that I’ve never been able to shake. It was one of those dreams where you wake up to profound disappointment because you don’t actually have the thing you had in your dream — the perfect pair of elf-cobbled gypsy-toe boots or dead Dad not dead. It was one of those mornings and I hung my head. I’d gotten lost in a department store of fairy tale oddities and was winding through a maze of small majicks, when the “electronics” section beckoned. (An only in dreams rarity. I’m a low-tech Luddite. I still haven’t succumbed to a cell phone.) The mythic machine that called my name was something awesome strange. A “computer” with claw-feet and typewriter keys, a disc of abalone shell in lieu of a mouse pad. I traced my finger over the smooth oceany spot and felt the pulse of the machine. It wanted me as much as I wanted it. It craved stories and hungered for books. I was just the girl it was looking for.

I’d only heard the term steampunk used when referring to a certain segment of the sci-fi genre so I had no idea that such a thing existed outside of my own brain.

So imagine my shock when I opened a magazine sometime later to see my DREAM MACHINE was actually a real world possibility. Not only do other freaks fancy the same idea, but they are actually building it… coaxing a modern entity into the musty pulp novel past.

The literary fantasist in me wants to sit down everyday to an antique Corona & a pack of cigarettes. But the real-life writer must save, copy, cut & breathe. I have a half-dozen vintage typewriters. When I need to think slowly and poetically, I’ll sit down to play. But I rely on my apple for all serious writing in a world of standard-format submissions, deadlines, internet access, and 16 hour work sessions. What the computer provides in practicality overshadows the clickety-clack wordsmith fantasy.

Now, thanks to an underground steampunk movement, I may actually get to have the best of both worlds. Someday.

First I must get rich. Either that or somehow get a steampunk geek to fall in love with me. How hard can that be? Where do steam punks hang out? I’ll show up there in my floor-length gown (pin-tucked puff shoulders, high-neck, long-sleeved) in luxe velvet the shade of sunny tobacco. 1930’s peep-toe pumps with brass buckles and t-straps. I’ll tug my treasured leather aviator cap & vintage goggles snug over my ringlets. Dab some MAC “Film Noir” lipstick that goes on like a black & white movie. Right? What steam punk could resist? Maybe he’d see the stories beneath my ribs and shudder to think what I could do with such a keyboard.

I so so need that clever keyboard. But alas. I can’t even afford a voyage to the big city to attend “The Grand Chrono’nauts Tea” in my beloved NY. Too bad. What better place to meet a lonely punk looking to get steamy with a longful Luddite?

What about you? Can you make it? If so, go! Fondle the clangy keys for me. Don’t be shy. Take liberties. 

Until that day when I can have a steampunk laptop and a steampunk motorcycle, I’m gonna tide myself over with this limited edition steampunk fez from fez-o-rama. I’ll put on my thinking cap while conjuring the crafty plot whereby I seduce my very own mad scientist geek boy. Except I already have a RobotBoy. Damn. This steampunk dilemma is a sticky wicket. It’s no wonder I need a thinking cap!

I hope you have enjoyed this act of SPOOKY KABUKI — stay tuned for more odd twists of reality.

AUTHORS NOTE: If you are interested in steampunk be sure to hit that tag b/c I’m always finding new and amazing bits of steampunkery whether motorcycles, clothes/jewelry, dreamy aesthetics or more computers — namely one that is part computer part church. Crazy beauty!

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