SPECIAL FEATURE: Collaging 101

Art is like misery (in that it likes company).
So for those of you who would like to join me in putting collages into the world, here is an introduction to the craft, based on my two-years' experience in service of this blog:

First-off, there are 3 basic approaches which I have found myself using to create collages.
All 3 use the basic steps of (A) having an idea/experience/emotion that you want to share; (B) gathering images that, in combination, will convey said inner-state; and (C) blending those images together to achieve that evocative visual representation.
But within that generic frame, the strategy of each approach is slightly different.

1: HAVE IMAGE IDEA, FIND PARTS
For instance, in "Fickle the pickle," I knew what image I wanted (a girl bleeding over a sandwich), and so I found parts that I could build up to create that picture (little girl, lettuce, bread, pickles, "meat," tiled diner floor, etc.).

2: CHOOSE MEANINGFUL PARTS, MAKE INTO IMAGE
When I made the collage for "Trickle-down," I had no pre-set composition, but just a collection of images (headless girl on bed, open head, blood-red flower, men & planes plummeting, etc.) which I shifted and sorted around until they cohered well.

3: TAKE STRONG IMAGE, FILL IT IN (like a bowl)
For the collage of "Safe enough," I knew the image that I wanted to make central, so I cropped it aesthetically and then went about texturing/coloring/complicating it with other enriching images (fire, glass beads, excavation site, trees, a dog rescuer, etc.)

_ _ _

No matter what approach (or blend of approaches) you take, 

there will be some basic steps to the process of creating a cohesive collage:

Compose – for eye-flow
(note how the elements in “Undersides” are placed to draw your eye in a clockwise expanding wave around the page …)

Build and Adjust – for texture and interconnection
(note how the pill-shaped elements in “Vitamins” draw a line of connection from the man to the woman, and texture his muscles, and how the white ingredients-list beside the man compliments the white health-info beside the woman …)

Layer, like watercolor – for light and depth
(in “Camel,” I layered the center-image several times over, blending each with the last until it was prominent at it center – yet integrated at its edges. You can see the same multi-pass staining happen with the dark image at bottom center, of a nephew's hand on an uncle's arm …)

Fill and Blend – for wholeness and subtlety, i.e., focus and no-distractions
(I revisited “Tiny-Brief” a year later because I was so irritated by the prominence of the falling man's and the hill's silhouettes overpowering the lovers' kiss above and the violent rocks below … so I filled in the man with a rusty can and cobbled rocks, the hill with an ocean wave and a toothless laughing baby. The result is much more balanced and so invites the eye to explore its subtle details …)

So there's what I've learned about collaging, thus far, in a nutshell. Go make stuff!

BOOK LINE - Virgins Are Meant To Die

So that's the Book!
I already have a line of 10 poems waiting for the next collection (this brain sleeps precious little), but I'm going to take a break from collaging/posting for now so that I can put this book together {front/back cover already in-process, see above}. I'm only putting in the best, so if there's one you like POST A COMMENT, for gosh sakes, and I'll put it in there for you :)

I'd like to thank especially Julie P., Jessica P., Krista L., David K., Brigitte H., and the natural world in general for contributing so many aesthetic moments to these collages; Julie, Val, Ashley, Jenna, my dear friend Lilyann, Kanani, Jenny, Brittany, Riley, Jacquie, sweet adventurous Becky, Mallory, Eryn, Irena, and the judiciously vicious carniceria of actual / computer-mediated date-finding in general for spurring so much of this poetic self-medication (and growth in understanding) regarding the nature of male-female communication, the negotiation of mental/physical attraction, and the affective/philosophical construction of self-acceptance and confidence.

Since everyone so far has reacted  with some variation of balloon-eyes (you know, ..oo00OO) on hearing the book title Virgins are Meant to Die, here's the back jacket-cover's elaboration. Thanks for reading, closing your eyes, and imagining with me:

*     *     *

                                                                  To the virgins,
                                                    or their champions:

Before you get upset with me,

inhale a step back from 'literally' and think

about what it felt like  growing up:

Remember your skin, when you considered saying “hello,”

catching the air on some sweat that you didn't feel growing

until – yeah:

there's the body your eyes were in love with ...

And do you remember when your crush-gods/goddesses

stopped being perfect? For your sake, I hope you do –      if     they          still

seem faultless, there's a lot of dying yet ahead of you.

But  No,   don't  worry,   love, if your skin's still soft,      pre- bruised,

and thinks the ground will be just another cloud

for falling through.

The ground will help you stand up after

it makes you weep. Die as a virgin,

rise a bit stronger-skinned, and         treasure

the scores that you keep.

       - JK

(23 August 2013)

Safe enough to cry ...

{ spur }

“What's wrong?”

                                        She asked like she didn't see.

                                                                                                    “My leg's

                                                                                Cut off from the rest of me.”

“Oh no,”

                                        She said like a medicine.

                                                                                          “I know,” he said,

                                                                 Like her needle was under-skin.

“Will it heal?”

                                                  “Not the half that's cut off, I think.”

                                          And she laughed,

                        Like some air in the kitchen sink,

“I'm no doctor,

would a hug work to bandage you?”

And he burst,

  Like 

          the   water 

                   she 

              bubbled 

                          through.

Always, Only, Ever ...

There was only one way this was going to end:

With a kiss or a cry – a kiss; a cry.

Because growing up carries up only one lesson –

That virgins are meant to die.

“Silver-lined clouds,” “This too shall pass,” and

“Good things come to he who waits”

Is a lie, is a lie: everything is here, cycling,

Embracing the raw tidal weight.

“Good friends are forever,” “I'll always be here,”

“Some things you can depend upon”

Is a thin veneer on a ship's cloistered lung (

past a rock, then a high wave, gone).

Let me tell you what is, and always, and ever,

The wisdom you'll feel melting dreams from your eye:

New skin needs to callous, chased into chafing;

Embracing, abrading (what's hard holds the sky).

There was only one way I was going to come:

Up the rocks, through the sand, over sharp branches – I

Felt the air on my shredded skin – gasping, then laughing.

Oh! Virgins are meant to die.

Let her down (a song) ...

I buzz in to drive a pup uptown;

A man comes to drop off his dead hound (

Eyes closed, with blood rollin' off her lips).

Wife follows, sunk-eyed, behind him,

Hoping that her hand can unwind him (but

All he can feel is the truth on his fingertips).

I jump over their line of red splashes –

A black bag zips; a kennel unlatches –

And here's little Petey by his paws hanging onto me.

I nod: the man's half-a-step farther from

Broken – his pale wife's taking it harder.

I hope they can feel this Sunday morning breeze

           As I set him down (easy, child),

           And into a seat that he's never sniffed before.

           I let him whine (soon he'll find the scent

           Of my gum, of the sun, of the window's rushing roar).

I drop him off at the local adoption

“Keeping you with me was never an option.”

She sneaks up behind, about twenty minutes late.

“So sorry, a car hit me, had to – ”

“Don't worry about it, I'm really just glad you – ”

She glows in the sun while her green eyes gawk (worth the wait).

We dance in the woods. She puts on her shoes and –

taking a moment, the ground becomes loose sand –

I ask: “Just to be clear, what's you-and-me?”

She says, “Well, I'm sort of seeing someone,”

Standing so close beside (he must be a deaf-dumb one).

“Just friends for now, then,” I squeeze her (the fool is me).

                      [Instru.]

And I suppose the question becomes – right? –

in the end, when you'd rather feel sunlight,

Is it wasteful to loiter in the cool, fluorescent gloom?

I think so: as her core leaves your fingers,

let loose from the weight (so that no shadow lingers)

And hop in your car with the sweet morning breeze: make some room.

           Just set her down (easy boy:

           Not that ends are deaths or farewell such a heavy crime,

           But when a hope become just a dream,

           That end – while it rests in your hands – is the world for a time).

Hope's replacement II ...

Everything grows cold at a distance:

poles          from equators, babes            from parents, lovers                from arms, and this –

the ocean  (almost hot,    like tea,        at            top.  So ankles-first I plunge

off the slope, where sands drop away, and everything

is farther and blinder, uncradled and currented,

more work than play)

from the light.

What's warm is wide,

but thin   :     pull down

from that tangent

surface and

the day

might

as

w

e

l

l

h

a

v

e

n ever been.