We’re adjusting our hours for the next few weeks while we work on something big! So. Saturday + Sunday : 11am – 7pm (*or by appointment!)
We imagine hardly anyone will probably notice the difference, since most visitors have been coming by on weekends anyway, which has been so much fun.
*If life is weird right now, and those hours don’t work for you, let us know, we can take appointments
A gigantic thanks to everyone who’s stopped by the shop, left kind words on our social media or even bags of books on our porch these last few weeks. We are eternally grateful!
All we can see sometimes is the big things we want to work on ahead of us, but it’s immeasurably helpful to be reminded that we are, in fact, making progress.
Thank YOU from us, @victoriahfarr & @alanjelercic (and the sticky toddler 👶🏻)
“They may be dog-eared, paint-splattered or falling apart, but the unassuming appearance of sketchbooks belies their importance as an artist’s storehouse for ideas and thoughts, a free space where creativity is unraveled. Inside their battered covers is a secret lab where plans, dreams and doodles flourish and develop page-by-page, and they are just as likely to contain drunken scribbles, risqué drawings and friends’ telephone numbers as elaborate designs.”
-from Street Sketchbook: Inside the Journals of International Street and Graffiti Artists
As parents of a creatively messy tornado toddler…we are a little bit obsessed with this book: “My Boyfriend Barfed in My Handbag . . . and Other Things You Can’t Ask Martha“>My Boyfriend Barfed In My Handbag…And Other Things You Can’t Ask Martha,” by Jolie Kerr ( @joliekerr )
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It’s worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
– “The Colossus” by Sylvia Plath