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February 2011

On Your Desk

Virginie's desk 3

Today's desks come from two friends of mine who are wonderful artists in La Gacilly, which is a beautiful little town in the Brittany region of France, not far from the mythic forest of Broceliande. La Gacilly is as full of artists as our own little village is here on Dartmoor, and thanks to the Two Legends project, there is now a lot of backing-and-forthing between the two places. Long may it continue.

The first desk (above, and in the next four photos below) belongs to doll-maker and multi-media artist Virginie Ropars. Virginie earned a Masters degree in graphic art, then worked in the computer game and animation industries (for TV cartoons) before discovering a needed to make art with her hands, not a computer, and to express her own aesthetic vision. She now creates works that fall in the interstices between sculpture, doll-making, fashion design and illustration, using a variety of materials to reproduce the enchanted characters and worlds that haunt her imagination. Her figures are bright and dark by turn, beautiful and broken, capricious and transcendent. Her art has been exhibited all throughout Europe,  Russia, and the United States; profiled in many magazines and journals; and honoured with the Spectrum Silver Award.

Virginie's desk 1

"I have this room dedicated to my work," she says; "I also have another spare room with shelves covered with boxes full of fabrics and working stuff."

Virginie's desk 2

"I bring all I need for a new creation in my working space and when it is finished I put everything back into boxes. I always need to start a new project with a clean space, which is why sometimes people visiting find my studio 'neat'."

Virginie's desk 4

"I can't work without a wall in front of me, as it helps me to focus on the work only, but I cover it with pics of things I like: works from other artists, a bit of my work too, and inspiring things. I sometimes leave books open on the tables all around while I work; it is always good to have beautiful and inspiring things surrounding you."

Virginie's desk 5

"My cat keeps me company from time to time between naps. I watch dvds while I sculpt, or listen to music. I don't like working in silence. Despite living in a small town, I can see the woods through the studio window. In spring time and summer I work with the window open, and it is like working outside. I especially love hearing the birds' songs."

One of Virginie's magical art-dolls is below (a dark fairy for all you fairy fans out there), and more of her work can be seen here and here.


Fee Predatrice by Virginie Ropars


Our next desk belongs to David Thiérrée, whose art is also thoroughly bewitching. David is a self-taught artist who has been working as an illustrator since 1989, his commissions ranging from CD covers to book illustrations. He works in a variety of mediums, often combining watercolours, pencils, and computer techniques to achieve his enchanting style of mythic art. He finds inspiration in the work of Alphonse Mucha and the Art Nouveau movement; turn-of-the-century illustrators such as Arthur Rackham, Kay Nielsen, and Edmund Dulac; and comic book artists ranging from Windsor McCay to Charles Vess. His first art book, Mondes Imaginaires, (which many of us are eagerly awaiting), will be published by Spootnik next spring.


"Here's a picture of my ridiculous work place," he says about the photograph above. "I can hardly find enough space for a A4 paper sheet, but, I don't know why, that's the way I draw. In a urge, between two other things to do, while thinking of a lot of things, with not enough room for my own body."


Above: "Pencils, pencils, and more pencils... I need to display nearly all the spectrum when I work, to try anything possible to save my work from mediocrity."


Above: "Work done, work in progress and work to do all gather in a small space. My workspace is tiny, because it's not so important. I learned to draw everywhere, anytime, and my surroundings aren't so important in fact. I can draw in a rolling train, while talking with people, or on the phone, in a bar, at friend's places, during parties, or with my kids running amok around me."


Above: "Computers, printer, and more pencils...."


Above and below: "Another part of the space in which I live and work... Books, books, music, old boardgames, reading rabbit, and more books."

David's bookshelf

One of David's enchanting drawings is below (I love this big, clumsy fellow), and more can be seen here.


More desks anon.


All readers of this blog are welcome to contribute to the "On Your Desk" series. You'll find more information (and the address where you should send your photo) in the first post of the series.

Tunes for a Monday Morning

Today's tunes are both from Scotland, and both are sung in the Gaelic language.

In the video above, Julie Fowlis performs a traditional Gaelic song, "Hùg Air A' Bhonaid Mhòir." Fowlis is a native Gaelic speaker, an amazing singer, and also a scholar of the social and cultural history of the Highlands and Western Isles. (She's from the Outer Hebrides herself.) This particular tune can be found on Songs from Cuilidh, but all of her CDs are equally good.

Below is Mànran, a Glasgow-based band that's been getting a lot of attention here -- created by six young musicians interested in promoting Gaelic-language music to a new generation. This performance was filmed on New Year's Eve, when they were the house band for the BBC ALBA Hogmanay show. I heard three of the band members interviewed recently, and they sounded sweet, sincere about their Gaelic-language mission, and also like they were having a lot of fun. They've got one single released so far (co-produced by the great Phil Cunningham), and an album is in the works.

Reflections on blogging (and spoons)


Over on the John Barleycorn blog, Rima Staines discusses the art of blogging, and how she started, and why she started. It's a strange kind of art form, blogging; and the question of why reasonably sane people feel compelled to blog [that hideous word, I wish there was a better] is, for me, an intriguing one. It's got me to pondering why I blog myself...which I've actually done for quite a long time now if you count the years that Midori Snyder and I ran a blog for the Journal of Mythic Arts, although that was a good deal less personal than this one. And like Rima, it took me a while to find a comfortable “blogging voice” when I began The Drawing Board.

The thread of my Rima-stirred thoughts about blogging is all knotted up with a number of other things that I've been pondering lately – about art, and life, and energy, and “spoons” -- and out of this tangle there's something specific I want to unravel, but I'm going to have to tease it out slowly from the snarl of other threads, so please bear with me.

This is also going to be a more personal essay than the others I've posted here, touching on the rather intimate subject of living with chronic illness. And that's a subject I approach gingerly, for an essay about illness can be mistaken for a plea for sympathy ("Oh, poor, poor me!"), or as a means of defining oneself as part of an aggrieved minority ("Us sick people don't get no respect!") rather than what it actually is: a creative/intellectual attempt to understand the process of living with illness while simultaneously living as a creative artist. (I'm thinking in particular of some very misguided reviews Nancy Mairs received for Waist-high in the World, her sharp, insightful essays on life with MS.) So I hereby give notice that I am about to tread further than usual into this murky territory today...and perhaps in speaking of the personal, I can find my way back to more general thoughts about living the Artist's Life; or, at very least, give voice to issues that others dealing with illness might find familiar, or useful.

Carl Larsson First let me define my terms. I'm going to refer to the limited energy one has when dealing with a chronic illness in terms of “spoons” -- so if you haven't yet read Christine Miserandino's very useful "Spoon Theory" essay, it might be helpful to do so. And by the term “blogging,” I'll be referring specifically to the writing of individual, personal blogs (like Rima's blog, or this one) rather than other sorts of blogs: professional, commercial, multi-author, etc..

With Rima's words running through my head, I was walking in the woods with my dog earlier (where I ran, quite unexpectedly, into Brian Froud and his dog, but that's another story...), thinking about the “art of the blog,” and why, after a somewhat trepidatious beginning, I find it so congenial. I'm in a different stage of my life and career than Rima, and thus my answer to the question “Why write a blog?” is bound to be a different one from hers, or any other young artist's. The answer that came to me suddenly as I trudged up the hill through the mud and leaves came from a thoroughly unexpected direction. It has to do with chronic illness and spoons and the thorny issue of communication.

Now, I can't speak for everyone with a serious and/or chronic illness, and my own (which I prefer not to name; the specifics of it aren't important here) has its rhythms and quirks that may be slightly different from other medical conditions like MS, or HIV, or fibromyalgia, or chronic fatigue...but what many of us with differing health problems share is a constant need to juggle whatever spoons we have to hand on any given day. And for me, the simple act of communication is one that consistently threatens to empty my spoon drawer.

Perhaps it's because I communicate for a living, and therefore the spoons specifically shaped for that job are ones I particularly have to hoard in order to meet the daily demands of my work. All I know is that the simple act of a writing a letter to a friend, or answering an email, or (especially) picking up the phone are entirely beyond me when those spoons are used up – and they're precisely the spoons I tend to run out of first, due to the nature of my work.

This is an aspect of my life that constantly frustrates my dear, patient, long-suffering family members (back in the United States) and friends (both in the U.S. and here). I drop out of sight, I don't pick up the phone, emails drop into some kind of cosmic black hole. I'm warm and engaged and present on a good day, and retreat into mumbles and chilly distance on a bad one. Sometime I'm a reliable sister/niece/friend, and a regular part of others' daily lives...and sometimes I disappear for days, weeks, months on end with no warning at all. If I were a hermit by nature, none of this would be a problem, but I'm not -- I'm a person with a wide, deep circle of close relationships; an artist who thrives on connection and community; an outgoing woman whose natural rhythms are often disrupted by the over-riding rhythms of illness.

Carl Larssen 3

What has all this to do with blogging, you ask? It is this: Writing short pieces for a more-or-less daily blog is, for me, a means of communication, of maintaining vital connections: with friends, with colleagues in the publishing field, with the wider Mythic Arts community. Yes, it takes spoons, but not many of them (now that I'm comfortable enough with the form and technology that I can put up a daily post reasonably quickly) – and when compared to the number of spoons it would take to stay in frequent touch with the many people I know and love, to answer every email and return every call, those couple of spoons become negligible and well worth the cost. Blogging, for me, is my daily missive from the trenches of my creative life to the people, near and far, who make up my world. It's a form of round-robin letter to say: this is what I'm doing, this is what I'm thinking, I haven't disappeared. I may not be entirely well, but I'm still here. And if other people whom I've never personally met are reading these missives too, well then that's fine by me. I assume they're here because they also love books and folklore and mythic arts, and that means they're not really strangers, they are part of my wider community too.

Carl Larrson Now here's where I'd like to see if I can make the leap from personal circumstance to something that might relate to other artists as well, beyond the small subgroup of folks also coping with illness or disability. It's almost always difficult for artists in any field (except, perhaps, for a very privileged few) to balance the time needed for creative work with all the other demands of life. The need to manage ones time and energy may be more extreme and urgent for the chronically ill, yet I know few writers or artists (heck, do I know any?) who don't wrestle with the details of work/life balance. If it's not medical issues taking up ones time, it might be children, or elderly relatives, or a day job, or community obligations, or all of these things at once. The sheer busyness of modern life can feel relentless and overwhelming...and that, in turn, conflicts with art's requirement for time, solitude, and periods of sustained, uninterrupted concentration.

I think that even if illness was suddenly, blessedly removed as a factor in my life, I would still be at this same point in my journey: having reached the years of middle age, and recognizing that time is not infinite, I feel compelled to turn inward and focus my time and attention on truly mastering my craft. The social gregariousness of youth is no longer possible, or desirable; there are only so many hours in the day, after all. And yet, the life- and art-sustaining web of connection begun in ones early years remains important even as one grows older, slower, and more protective of ones time. That, for me, is where blogging comes in. It maintains that web of connection.

Here's what blogging is to me: It's a modern form of the old Victorian custom of being "At Home" to visitors on a certain day of the week; it's an Open House during which friends and colleagues know they are welcome to stop by. I'm “At Home” each morning when I put up at post. Here, in the gossamer world of the 'Net, I throw my studio door open to friends and family and strangers alike. And each Comment posted is a calling card left behind by those who have crossed my doorstep.

Carl Larsson But it's important to remember that the flip side of the Victorian "At Home" day is that it also provided boundaries -- for it was widely understood that visitors were not to drop by on other days of the week. Visitors could leave calling cards with the butler, but the Mistress of the house was not instantly available to them. Like every artist (and particularly artists deficient in health and energy), I too need large periods of time when I'm simply not available to others: when I'm working, or resting, or off at the doctor's, or re-charging my creative batteries, or working out thorny plot problems while roaming the countryside with the pup. In these days of speed and instant access, of Facebook and tweets and 8-year-olds with their own mobile phones, it's almost a revolutionary act to say: I'm not in to callers. You can't reach me now. And yet artists need this. We need to unplug. We need to spend time in the world of our imaginations, where the 'Net and mobile phones cannot go.

But here's what I find interesting: The very same technology that threatens to force constant communication upon us can also be the thing that allows us to create necessary boundaries. Blogging, for all its intimacy as an art form, is also an excellent boundary maker. Yes, we open up our lives on our blogs...but only this much, not that much, and each blogger decides where that line will be drawn. The blog is a controlled kind of publication. It doesn't provided instant access to its maker, unless the blog's author specifically wants it to. The open, generous space cultivated on a blog need not (indeed, probably should not) be duplicated in the physical world; for in the world, what a working artist truly needs is the equivalent of the butler at the door, politely turning callers away: The mistress is not 'At Home' today. She is working. I will tell her you called.

This, then, is why I write a blog: not for the reasons so many young artists do (as they build their careers and find their audience), but because, as an artist in my middle years, it helps resolve one of life's central conflicts: that both illness and art demand solitude, yet the heart requires communication and connection.

I am also a woman woefully short on spoons and at this point in life I have learned to accept it. (Okay, my husband would say that I am learning to accept it.) Calls will continue to go unanswered. Emails will routinely begin with the words: Please forgive me for taking so long to respond.... Friends will continue to worry when they haven't heard from me for a week, or a month. But these days, at least, they know they can always find me here at the Drawing Board...with fresh coffee brewing, Tilly at my side, and a pen or paintbrush in my hands.

In the physical world, my studio is my work space, not a social space, and a rather fierce butler stands scowling at the door. But here, in my online studio, I am "At Home." And everyone is welcome in.

Carl Larsson studio

The art in this post is by the Swedish painter Carl Larsson (1854-1919).