27 pounds of yummy vintage paper landed on my stoop today, and I only had time to page quickly thru one magazine before I had to run to a class in journaling. I have fallen in love with a new paint (Luminare), and am plotting how to acquire lots of it in many colors very very quickly. I could roll around nekkid in the stuff, which would probably encourage First Consort Gareth to let me buy as much as I desired.
Oh, but it's gorgemous. Especially the gold and colors--gold and violet, gold and pink, gold and green. What I could do with a heat gun and Tyvek and dryer sheets.
And a million dollars. Siiiiiiiiiigh.
This is the month of enforced poverty, before we go to Florence. It’s like fasting before Thanksgiving, except this is like fasting the month before. And working across the street from a bakery. A bakery that specializes in French pastry.
Hellmouth is complete and looking good. Pix to come, I promise. I had forgotten how much I love paper mache. The squooshy gooshy squeeziness like mud between your toes, the way pulp acts like air drying clay—only lighter, and given to armature work. I made the nose of the face by taping bitty water balloons together and then coating them in mache—and then I took and resculpted it in crumpled newspaper, finally topping it off with duct tape and another sheet or two of paper to make it work the way I wanted without adding more weight.
And now I’m thinking masks—not for this party, I’ve NO TIME at all. If I’m lucky and fast I’ll be able to whip out a pair of fake fur boot covers to go over my hooves before the party. But this will have to get done tomorrow at the absolute outside in order to work.
Ah, but for Dead Man’s in October, I could have a mask to rival Venice’s Carnivale. A domino extended up over the forehead, with rays sweeping back over the head and up that hold the mask on. Sanded fine and smooth, and painted with the colors of light, weeping pearls on fine chains. Oh my, yes.