The Diggingest Girl - Blog

The Diggingest Girl

The Story of a Name

6/27/2015

It happens at every show without fail - people stand off to the side, eyeing my banner, trying to sound out the name of my studio practice with great difficulty. The Dinghy-est Girl? The Dingiest Girl? No, I am not the smallest-boat-girl, nor do I resemble an old pair of once-white socks. Perhaps a well-placed hyphen would have helped clear some things up, but oh well.

Aside from wanting to know how to pronounce it, lots of folks are curious about the meaning behind it.

The meaning of the name of my studio practice is multi-fold. My favorite book when I was seven was called “The Digging-est Dog” by Al Perkins. It’s the story of a dog, Duke, who yearns for love and acceptance and is rejected by his peers because he doesn’t know how to dig. When he finally learns, through the coaching of his owner, Duke becomes overzealous and digs up the town, effectively destroying it. His “friends” try to murder him by drowning Duke in a well (Yikes! Why did I like this?) and his master threatens to take him back to the pet store. Duke escapes and fixes the town, and spends the rest of his days happily plowing fields. The most amazing part of the story, in retrospect, is the fact that he stays friends with the dogs that tried to kill him. Dark stuff, indeed. But we can all relate to Duke in that at our core, we want love and acceptance. And for me, I just want to do one thing really well and use it to positively impact people’s lives, like Duke learned to do.

I also see the act of digging as a spiritual and intellectual metaphor. I love digging into a good book and losing myself in the story. I see digging as an archeologist might, to uncover truths, something yet unknown, revealing truths about our past that inform and influence the present. There is much potential in the ground beneath our feet - we grow from it and return to it - what could we find if we only dig deep enough?

With my pen as my spade and my brush as my shovel, and I’ll keep digging ‘til my hands are calloused and arthritic, ‘til all the stories have been told.

(So I guess that means forever)

And Then I Found $5

4/20/2015

The first few shows of the season have been rough to say the least. Before you read on, please know that I don’t intend this story to be a list of complaints, or that I feel poorly toward the town where these events transpired. I merely want to remember what happened on my venture to a far-out-of-town show totally alone for the first time.

The cheapest hotel in town sat on a quiet downtown street, just a few blocks from my show venue. When I arrived at the door, a smoking man quickly put out his cigarette, held the door open for me and followed me inside. The air had that old familiar smell of decades-old smoke that had inserted itself into the very molecules of the building itself. Behind the front desk was a huge wooden grid of cubbyholes held the keys for the rooms (real keys! not cards!) and to the right was a shaky elevator that was most likely operated by a troll working a pulley in the basement. $75 for two nights! “For how many adults?” the receptionist asked. I could see the smoking man lingering in my periphery, leaning on the desk. “Just me,” I answered uneasily. The receptionist slid the key to my room across the desk. “419?! That’s right next door to me!” said the smoking man. Ew.

I shut and locked the door behind me. The room was unwelcoming with bare white walls and a comforter on the bed that was perforated with a million little burn holes. I checked for bedbugs and found that the holes in the sheets had been hand-mended, which comforted me for some reason. A big boxy TV sat at the foot of the bed, and boasted 2 channels. The sink, tub and toilet were rusted and covered in lime residue. Is this starting to sound like a yelp review yet?

There was a knock on the door. No peephole so I hollered out, YES? It was my neighbor. “You need to get a parking pass for your car!” Turns out I didn’t need one, so it seems that he was just trying to lure me out of my room. The smoking man appeared at the desk again and revealed that he lived at the hotel and was the chef at a nearby pasta place and he invited me to stop by. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was super nice but NOPE. Leave me alone, please. I don’t know you.

I didn’t sleep well. The walls were paper thin and I was worried about the smoking man on the other side of the wall. People were microwaving ramen noodles ALL NIGHT LONG. In the morning I took all of my belongings with me because it didn’t feel safe.

Lesson 1: Trust your gut. If it doesn’t feel safe, then it probably isn’t safe.

Lesson 2: You get what you pay for.

I set up at the show. The space was SO COOL. The craftspeople around me were SO COOL. We shared stories, snacks and beer. We gave each other bathroom breaks. We traded art. Sales were slow but I was hopeful. There was a Neo Nazi rally a few blocks away that day, so helicopters were hovering about, police were out in force and it got a lot of press - perhaps that was the reason for the spotty attendance? Why are Nazis even a thing still, really? The customers who did come were so nice and interesting. I carved a new block. By the day’s end, I had new friends and I was ready for the Crafterparty. I went to deposit my cooler and snacks in my car, which was parked in a nearby lot.

I experienced a little bit of genuine disbelief at this point. My driver’s side window was smashed and glass littered the ground and the seat. My door handle had also been smashed in. I peered inside and my backpack was gone. My clothes (favorite dress, favorite sweatshirt borrowed from my big bro), makeup, glasses and hotel key were gone with it. Also my embarrassing collection of CDs from high school & college. The saddest part of this was that one of the CDs was a short collection of original songs recorded by a boy who (may have) loved me once. I loved those songs.

Lesson 3: Don’t leave even the appearance of valuables in your car. Even though there was nothing of any real monetary value in there, the bag itself was apparently tempting enough. I didn’t trust the hotel to keep it safe, but I shouldn’t have trusted that lot either.

Lesson 4: Calling mom always helps. Just knowing that she is in the world makes everything survivable.

Lesson 5: Cops can be handsome and helpful. He suffered my tears (I couldn’t help it), filed my report and found a safe hotel for me to go to. When I told him where I was staying, he grimaced and said, “You shouldn’t go back there. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the guy who stole your bag was waiting there for you.” Eek.

I climbed into my car through the window and drove to the burbs to buy a few essentials, eat, and sleep in peace.

Day two of the show. I only told a few folks about the incident, but I Instagrammed about it. What came was an outpouring of support, and customers offered to open their homes to give me a safe place to stay. Nearby crafters gave me beer, empathetic smiles, words of kindness and good company throughout the day. Sales were pretty terrible, but somehow that didn’t bother me as much.

Lesson 6: Some people are asshats who take shit that doesn’t belong to them, but more people are really wonderful, loving, and kind human beings.

It straight-up monsooned on the hours-long drive home, I mean, really scary shit. I stopped at a Steak N Shake to dry off and warm up. The waitress gave me free fries because she saw me crawling out of my window before I came in. I arrived home soaked, cold, and tired, down to the bones. I missed Game of Thrones, but Mom had done my laundry for me and had a big bowl of chili waiting. I had to wake up to go to work in a matter of hours, but was so glad to be home.

In the morning, dressed and ready to go, I untaped my window while in the driver’s seat. Cold rainwater cascaded into my lap, completely soaking my crotch. I crawled back out of my car to dry off my pants. When I came back to my car to go to work, I glanced at the grass and LITERALLY FOUND FIVE DOLLARS.

Lesson 7: The universe is always at work, pushing and pulling in a perfect balancing act.

I couldn’t believe my luck :)

Thoughts on Keeping a Sketchbook

2/21/2015

I recently completed a self-imposed 30-day sketchbook spread challenge that really pushed me creatively over the course of a month (you can check out the fruits of my labors here). I gained a little bit of insight along the way, and drew from my experience as a sketchbook-keeper for well over a decade. Here are some of my thoughts on keeping a sketchbook, whether you are an artist or a human being in general:

Sketchbooks are for EVERYONE: You don’t have to identify as an “artist” or even call yourself “a creative person” in order to keep a sketchbook. Have you ever had an idea? Have you ever seen something beautiful that you wanted to capture in some way? I thought so. Guess what? You’re creative. It’s in all of us, end of story.
Let go of the idea that your sketchbook is a “precious” object: Learning to let go of my work as something “precious” was one of the most liberating lessons I received in grad school. I’m free to sell it, trash it, rework it, paint over it.. rather than being a slave to it. I was less afraid to take risks. I grew as an artist. Also, if I hadn’t learned this lesson, I’d be a stage 4 hoarder right about now.
Think of your sketchbook as a place to experiment: Your sketchbook is YOURS. No one ever has to see it. You don’t ever have to post on social media or on your website. You don’t have to show your mom. So don’t be afraid to treat the pages as a testing ground. Work out potential color schemes to find what looks good. Try out new styles. Mimic the work of artists you admire. Practice. When you’re trying something new, there is no such thing as a failure. That said...
...don’t just draw: Drawing is easy to do when you’re on the go, as it’s a relatively clean way of working, but test out other mediums. Paint with gouache or watercolor. Collage. Tape in random interesting & relatively flat things you find on your ramblings. Write. Make lists. Take notes. Do research. Don’t like what you just made? Skip a page and come back to it. Still hate it? Collage over it. Work the hell out of your sketchbook.
Be forgiving: It can be hard to get started. An entire book full of blank pages can be really intimidating. Especially if it’s leather-bound/embossed or otherwise superfancy. I always get nondescript black moleskine sketchbooks because other than being hardy, they’re simple, unassuming and don’t demand greatness from me. Sometimes, to just go ahead and set the bar really low, I open up to the first page and write SHIT really big across the spread. It can only get better from there. Just remember that making art is a process. The doing is what’s important, not the result.
Sketchbook = physical Pinterest board: Use your sketchbook as a place to collect, store & catalogue the things that inspire you. Clip out beautiful photos from magazines. Cut strips of gorgeous textiles and collage them across a spread. Print out and glue in examples of art that you love. Test paints for your living room wall. Organize according to theme: have a spread full of photos of stained glass. Or try and organize photos, drawings and patterns according to mood.
Visit your local library or bookstore: There is a wealth of knowledge and inspiration in a number of books directed at sketchbooks and the creative process in general. Here are a few that are pretty rad:

Work in it often: It’s important to keep that creative channel open, no matter what you do for a day job. We all have creativity within us, begging to be released. If I go for extended periods of time without doing creative work, I usually end up back with my therapist. Making art is just plain GOOD FOR YOU. So keep your sketchbook near you (+ a pen or pencil) so you can work in it as the mood strikes.
When you’re finished, don’t throw it away: Jesus, don’t throw it away. Even if it’s embarrassing as HELL, just tuck it away somewhere safe. I know this goes against what I said about “preciousness” but I think of the sketchbook as a record of growth. It’s fun to look back on what you were thinking about, where you were, what you did, who you were way back when. I had a manic purgefest about 8 years ago that resulted in the trashing of my sketchbooks dating all the way back to high school. I really regret that.

Additionally, there are some great resources online to help you get started on your sketch-journey.

Emmy Award-winning artist Gary Panter gives some great tips here: http://unbored.net/gary-panters-drawing-tips/
Bad-ass artist/designer Lisa Congdon has a great four-part video series on sketchbook explorations, where she walks you though really specific directed techniques for getting super-cool effects. Highly recommend. Offered through Creative Bug: http://www.creativebug.com/workshops/sketchbook-explorations

HAPPY SKETCHING!

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Day 30!

1/30/2015

Spread 30: aaaaaand we're done!

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Day 29!

1/29/2015

Spread 29: Meanwhile, Ophelia was thinking about shoes...

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Day 28!

1/28/2015

Spread 28: girl talk

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Day 27!

1/27/2015

Spread 27: good love

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Days 25 & 26

1/26/2015

Day 25:

Spread 25: Illustrated research notes

Day 26:

Spread 26: about/face

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Day 24!

1/24/2015

Spread 25: the love of thousands

I stumbled upon this quote from Linda Hogan's "Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World." Lately, I've been letting my mind go to dark places and reading this sort of shattered all that sadness for a time. Some good perspective, knowing I was born of love and meant to share it, if nothing else.

30 Days Inside My Sketchbook: Day 23!

1/23/2015

Spread 23: drinking coffee & practicing hand lettering