Production for Use!

So I'm killing time after my discussion class today, when I decide, "Hey, I'll see if they have anything good and cheap at the Strand". (One of the few redeeming factors NYC has for me is the fact that the Strand exists).
Among roughly 1000 books about Sotheby's wine auctions (some old rich drunk must have just died and his kids had no idea what to do with his stuff), I find a large folio-type item that's covered in yellowing, brittle paper, and basically just looks OLD. Oh, and it has

on the cover. "Hm", say I. "I think I'll have a look inside. This could be interesting."
So, I open it, and what do I see?

HELLS YES.
What do I have before me? A 1949–I don't know, book? File? Magazine? Folio?– that's 100% Soviet propaganda about how glorious Stalin is. Seriously! Printed in the Soviet Union (says a stamp on the back) and distributed in four languages. It looks like this was one of a series about the various aspects of the USSR, I was just lucky enough to snag the one saying what a swell guy Stalin is. I LOVE Soviet-era stuff, so this was a real find.
Some samples of what's inside (this thing's pretty big, so I took admittedly crappy digicam pics instead of scans):

I think I've actually seen this picture, when the Guggenheim was doing a retrospective on Russian painting. It's (I believe) a head of a collective farm and Stalin at a celebratory dinner (or something of the sort).

Hero's Square, Budapest– I think (my directions are horrible) that Hero's Square is actually pretty near the Terror House, the museum of Communist torture and imprisonment (never let it be said that things get too lighthearted in Hungary).

Tractors! Because you can never have a book of Stalinist propaganda without liberal use of tractors!

Rosie the Riveter defects.

The Young Pioneers strike a pose. I believe my friend Yulia told me she was a Young Pioneer, but "wasn't very good at it". While I was in Budapest I inadvertently bought a Young Pioneers badge, so I guess all my jokes about how I defected from the Girl Scouts weren't entirely unfounded.

Last one for now. They look so happy! And...um, armed! I believe this picture was taken in Belarus, which means that Belarus is following me, which means if I suddenly vanish, check the cooking schools.

Oh, and the price? A whopping 48 cents.
I love the Strand.

Keep Your Hair Free of Drunken Mashings!

Yeah, I haven't updated in awhile. I've been busy!
Saw this pic on an ephemera blog I frequent (Swapatorium) and thought it was just keen.
Not only because of the lovely graphics, but because Unicum in an incredibly potent Hungarian liquor that's a lot like Jägermeister...but tastes even worse.
Maybe that's what the bubbles represent. That, and her utterly HASHED expression.

Not much else happening otherwise (that's fit to print, anyway). Been working my heiney off with Thesis, having odd dreams about protozoa, clown balloons, and Shane MacGowan (not necessarily in that order)...
Oh! New art! That actually I'm really really happy with (oh, God, they're cooking BBQ under the window where I'm sitting, and though I've been a vegetarian about 8 years now, that smells SO damn good. Uh, where was I going again? Right. Art.)
It's based off a song I have been obsessing about since I heard it in a movie, "Flame Trees" by Cold Chisel (or, as sung by a children's choir in the movie, 'Little Fish'). Basically just sketchbook noodlings that came out a lot better than I thought they would. I'm really happy with it as a piece.
Oh, God. BBQ. Sigh...

Good Old-Fashioned Nightmare Fuel

Just woke up from a harrowing nightmare in which I was kidnapped from a Turner exhibit at the Guggenheim (I fully admit I barely know who Turner even IS, and from what I've seen I don't know why I would have gone to that show, but anyway...), by a gang of military/rogue mercenaries dispatched from a cooking school in Belarus. After pleading with them that, among other things, I had to use the bathroom, the elevator stopped at the 44th floor (at the Guggenheim) and deposited us into a British grocery store in Belarus (...again, at the Guggenheim). It was there where I was cruelly told I must separate lettuce by color to ascertain just how far along I WAS in cooking.
This was when I literally woke up crying. Belorussian cooking schools don't fuck around.
Finally starting on my drawings for Thesis– would have done it yesterday except for recovering from Germanfest, which I will talk about. I figure there's no way in Hell I'm going to be able to do that many linocuts, so I'll do faux-linos. I figured out a quick n' dirty way of doing it (well, actually less dirty than doing real linos, but you get the point). Listening to a bunch of Lotte Lenya/Kurt Weill to get "in the mood" (yeah, it's a really cheery, upbeat piece of art), which unfortunately has me now wanting to do real prints about the Threepenny Opera. No! No! Resist the temptation! Until next weekend, anyway!
So, Germanfest: Imagine every loud-but-jolly drunk you've ever met, slap 'em in lederhosen and one of those Munich hats with the brush on the side (one of which I have proudly owned since high school), and ply them with beer and brats, and encourage them to yodel. Then, throw in an inexplicably huge amount of Asians, also drunk, in funny hats, and yodeling. Did I mention it's 2 in the afternoon?
I've determined, as a part-German myself, that although we might be efficient, we're essentially one damn goofy culture. So between that, the Lotte Lenya marathon, and the pursuit of Frans Masereel prints for reference, it's been a VERY German weekend.
Guess that's better than Belorussian, anyway.
Where the Hell even IS Belarus?

Phine Art 2

Ah, fair Vulnavia. Who else could make wearing a hat described in terms as "a pincushion" (by me) and "a mama quail" (by Mom) look so damn....well, maybe not ELEGANT, but certainly less ridiculous than...well, no, it still looked strange and silly, but...
Um...
Oh, well. She liked her hats. And helping to commit increasingly bizarre murders. I still wonder how she managed to get that gig. Did Dr. Phibes put a want ad in the paper ("Wanted: Beautiful mute female assistant for dinners, dancing, Biblically-themed murders.")? Did her career-services counselor at school set her up with it? Ah, Vulnavia, you keep your secrets well.

Phine Art

Schlock doesn't get nearly enough credit. I'm not a B-Movie connoisseur, exactly (although I watched MST3K for eight seasons, at least, it was mostly cos the jokes were funny), and I don't really subscribe to the "so bad it's good" school of thought (they usually aren't), but I do like, and can appreciate, a movie that at its heart is so schlocky and campy that you KNOW absolutely nobody was taking it seriously when they were making it, and where the star had to sit in the makeup chair longer than usual because he kept laughing so hard his prosthetic face kept falling off.
Holy crap, what a run on sentence THAT was.




Medium: linocut, digital text
Inspiration: The Abominable Dr. Phibes, Leonard Cohen