I remember my mother would cut up little images from magazines and art-books. She put them in shoeboxes and kept them for school projects with her high school students. Today, I decided to gather a few images—from two second-hand books I bought on Mont Royal. I got my exacto-knife out, and felt like my mom. All the colors were her: the way I held my knife, the way long rectangles of yellowed paper curved under the blade and landed in a small pile at the edge of the book.
Klee’s colors look like dye seeped into silk: batik, the kind of images my mother made when I was young… the same colors, similar lines.
Art school was all about contemporary art for me, when I was an art student. But today, I’m cutting out the text, the titles and dates and I’m finding a more childlike appreciation.
Klee’s colors look like dye seeped into silk: batik, the kind of images my mother made when I was young… the same colors, similar lines.
Art school was all about contemporary art for me, when I was an art student. But today, I’m cutting out the text, the titles and dates and I’m finding a more childlike appreciation.
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