O Tannenbaum

christmas tree, photography, digital, holidays, art

O Christmas tree!

I do not have my Christmas tree up yet. I was considering getting a real tree, but I just don’t think it would survive for very long with my two cats and Cuddles. I have this scene in my head of Cuddles chasing one of the cats, and the cat climbing up the tree, and Cuddles attacking the tree to get the cat out … you can fill in the details of what happens next.

Today, I had to turn in my final project for the dark room class. I made an object. It is a pop-up/collage book with my prints and a poem inside. It has 9 pages, a page for nearly every line in the poem. I may do a little video on my iPad this weekend, because photographing it is sort of pointless … it’s interactive. Some prints have a cut-out where you can see pieces of another image a few pages underneath. Some have flaps that open and you can read a line of the poem inside. There is also magazine clips, quotes, and a photograph of Dr. Ruth. I had to present it to the class.

Anyway, I got an A on it, but my professor also critiqued my “crafting.” That was definitely very challenging for me. My cutting is sloppy and the parchment paper wrinkled when I tried to glue it down to the matting. I did cut the matting myself. I experimented with adhesives, like spray, clear glue, and rubber cement. I even used an X-Acto knife. That’s a big step for me. I also sewed together a little pouch with a button (there is a piece of paper inside it with a line from the poem), and I used cloth and metal rings to bind it.

I will probably try and make more of them. It was fun and it gives me something tangible to do with my prints. I will just have to do some research on the best adhesives to use for different kinds of material. Hopefully, I’ll get better with the crafting part.

Anyway, classes are officially over for me and my study is a mess. Time to clean it up. Cuddles wants to come in and hang out.

Santa Thumb

Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a feeling.
–Edna Ferber

The doorbell rang.

I crossed the foyer and parted the lace curtain. I flinched. A pink snout? Someone was holding it up in the air, pressing its fuzzy white cheek against the glass. I opened the door. “What the—”

“Sorry to startle you.” The guy tucked the tiny pig under his arm. “Found this pig in the road. Is she yours?” Over his shoulder, an 80’s model van idled in my driveway. A prism dangling from its rearview caught the last beam of daylight and shot a hundred florescent daggers into my eyes.

Dazed, I shook my head. This was too weird… Only a few people knew about my obsession for teacup pigs, and they thought it was a joke. They had no idea how much time I spent crawling mini-pig websites, downloading photos, learning their unique behaviors.

I lifted the piglet’s chin gently. Her belly swelled and she let out an adorable squeal. The guy dropped her into the crook of my elbow. Her hooves were caked with mud. She needed a bath. Even her shivers were dainty. Fine white lashes curled above her black nascent eyes.

I looked up. “It’s my daughter’s pig,” I lied shamelessly.

“Cool,” he said, hiking up a thumb. It wore a costume. The skin had been marked with two black dots for eyes and a long cotton beard dangled below a squiggled smile. A teeny red hat with a white ball topped off the ensemble.

He patted the piglet’s head, spun around, and vanished into my yard.

“Wait!” I said.

“Merry Christmas,” he shouted, raising the thumb.

I stood on the porch, bouncing my piglet, wondering how I’d explain her to my husband. He’d never believe this. Then the sound of wind escaped, as if a valve had been twisted in the sky; a contortion of tiny specks shimmered ephemerally, and snow began to fall.

 The End

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