Black History Month: Barbara Earl Thomas
Thanks again for joining me during Black History Month, when I’m posting a series about Black visual and literary artists who inspire me. Let’s talk about:
Remember the previous blog post, when I made a crack about how rare it is to see a famous contemporary artist visit Seattle? That was only partly true. Barbara Earl Thomas lives here, making larger-than-life Tyvek and paper cut installations. Her work has also been translated into glass and metal. A few things I admire about her:
the stained-glass look of some of her paper work (and real stained-glass at Yale University)
her prodigious ability to convey complex narrative scenes with silhouettes
her persistence in continuing to make work before the world outside Seattle finally acknowledged her genius.
Considering the labor-intensive nature of her work (she has two assistants), she spends a lot of time working in the studio. So it doesn’t happen that often, but occasionally I get to see Thomas out and about at art events and say hi.
Speaking of being busy, Thomas continued to make new pieces during the quarantine days of the pandemic. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to the artist who collaborated with her on one of those projects.
Wearing the smell of old books
A legendary bookstore says they’ve captured the smell of old books — in a perfume! Our prayers have been answered! Right?
Well… I don’t know about that.
I inhale the old-book scent regularly, as I rummage through my paper stash for collage materials. Lucky for me, my friends and collectors enable my habit; I just received a delicious haul from Tess the other day. Perfect timing to find out how “Powell’s by Powell” unisex fragrance holds up to The Real Thing.
You might be familiar with the chemistry behind old-book scent: it’s even been formally studied in a lab. But this quote from “Perfume: An A-Z Guide” is far more evocative:
Photo credit: Patrick Tomasso/Unsplash
And yes, the Powell’s fragrance does smell like vanilla, with some woody notes — but not like a favorite old book. It did, however, bring a vivid image to mind. This must be what it’s like to chew an overflowing mouthful of vanilla-scented sugar crystals, followed by a shot glass of wooden splinters. It doesn’t transport me back to libraries I’ve loved, or books I’ve read until they fell apart in my hands.
I want to love this fragrance… I really do. But it would be more satisfying to drive a few hours and then walk into the actual Powell’s Books, just to hyperventilate the air inside. The perfume is missing something. Maybe a hit of printer’s ink?
Art & motherhood: things to be thankful for
In spite of this crap-heaped-on-top-of-crap year, I still have a few precious things that fill my heart with gratitude.
The Boy folded up a little origami cornucopia and gave it to me as a Thanksgiving gift. He wrote the things he's thankful for on paper vegetables, like "toys" and "electronics" and other fun stuff. But he wrote the most important things in his life on the big pumpkin.
My favorites: "putting up with me" & "giving us stuff with sentimental value." ©Lisa Myers Bulmash
For the last two weeks, TwoBoo kept reminding me to come see him speak during his class Thanksgiving Day presentation. Which must be some sort of miracle in itself: anything else he would've forgotten in seconds.
TwoBoo also helped his classmates sound out the big words. ©Lisa Myers Bulmash
They're not angels: The Boy threw plenty of shade at me later today when he had to help put away clean pots and pans. And TwoBoo has yet to get through a whole day without contradicting me, or trying to correct my answers after he asks me a question. (I can't even tell you how hard it is let those ones slide.)
Marshmallow and chocolate chip eyeballs for Thanksgiving. ©Lisa Myers Bulmash
Still, I am amazed that I have a son who forgets everything but an opportunity to shine for me. I am awed that I have a son who expresses emotion in an artistic way... and trusts me enough to share these thoughts and emotions with me.
So on this day that also symbolizes a lot of brutal history (you know, genocide, broken treaties...) I wish you the deepest love possible, and comfort in the art you love.