Rooful.

Mask-making.

I have some pictures I took of the masks I finished up on Sunday. I thought I'd take you through my process.

At the end of last week, the assistant to the designer (a woman I've worked with several times previously) contacted me to see if I was available to make some masks for an out-of-town event. She wasn't sure if the project was going to happen-- she and the designer were waiting on approval from the producers-- but she wanted to get her ducks in a row just in case.

I was interested.

She told me the masks hadn't been designed yet, but that the producers wanted a sense of how much they'd cost. She forwarded research images (none of which were pictures of masks, incidentally!) and asked if I could put together a ballpark bid.

Why not?

A couple days later, the project was approved, and the designer sent me a first draft of the design sketch so I could finalize my bid. A day or so later, I got a color sketch, with the caveat that the colors might change once they'd settled on the rest of the outfit.

Meanwhile, I was assessing my stock, planning out the build process, imagining potential problems and fit issues so I could solve them ahead of time (particularly since I wouldn't have a chance to fit the masks on the actors wearing them), and trying to figure out if the bid I'd made was kind of high or actually not high enough.

The designer specified that he'd like the masks made from paper, since they'd be oversized and needed to be light (I don't know if you've ever been in a position to find this out for yourself, but things seem much heavier when you're wearing them on your face.) Still, there would need to be an understructure to support the paper-- something that would look good, be appropriately light, and fast to put together. And the masks would be trimmed in feather and fur-- I needed to figure out how that would work, and where I'd find the items, since I wouldn't have time to order anything online.


The other meanwhile involved jumping through the appropriate paperwork hurdles to make sure I got money to buy supplies. This took some time. Friday morning I got some petty cash, and took a couple hours zipping around the Chelsea and the Garment District, assembling everything I'd need for the weekend.

The masks needed to be finished and delivered Sunday night.


Fortunately, I'd been able to start the patterning process and putting together the bases for the masks with what I had in stock.I ended up using buckram, which I wired with a zigzag stitch on my machine-- it was a trick getting it under the needle (and I broke a few in the process), but it's rollable (and recovers from being rolled) which is one of several reasons I chose buckram over thick paper as a base. I went ahead and attached the elastic ties at that point, too-- so they'd grip right at the understructure of the finished mask, and so I wouldn't have to figure out at the eleventh hour how to discretely drill holes in finished masks and have to hand-stitch the ties on later.


I got home around 2:30 Friday afternoon and settled in to work. My work process from that point on was driven by time-- timing how long each proposed step would take, multiplying that by six (since there were six masks), subtracting that from the time I was supposed to be leaving the house with six finished masks on Sunday, and estimating the other known steps. Does the timing work? Is there a faster way? A more efficient way? What are the fewest steps I need to accomplish to convey the designer's idea?


Of course, even with that, most of my estimates were off by... a lot. It's hard to estimate the time a task will take if you haven't done that specific task before.


But I managed pretty well. I even scheduled in some sleep each night (something I never would have thought to do in my younger years.) And Sunday evening I snapped some shots of the finished product, stacked the masks in two big Ikea bags, and headed downtown for an on-time delivery. Woot!

Now, with no further ado, the pictures:

The blog behind the mask.

That sounds like some in-depth metablog title, doesn't it?

Nope.

I'd like to write something delving. Delvish? But that's going to have to wait a few days. I've been hired to make some Aztec(ish) masks for an out-of-town event, which seems to have some connection to the film Apocalypto-- but I'm not sure. I haven't even met the designer. It's all emails and phone calls and photos and a really quick turnaround.

Yesterday I took Sprog with me to hunt for supplies in various zones of the Garment District. Surprisingly, he seemed to enjoy it. Maybe because he got so much attention.

"Hey, babyyyy!"

"Ohhhh, it's a BAby!"

"Look at those cheeks!"

"Awww!"

Actually, I think one shopkeep gave me a lead because he liked my kid. He called another shop to see if they had the supplies I was looking for (they were appointment only.)

"It's just a block down-- shouldn't be too hard with [gestures towards Sprog with a smile.]"

It wasn't far. And the other shop had what I needed.

Babies-- so cute, and useful, too!

Babies! They're what's for dinner!

(No, not really.)

Peanuts.

I've opened our windows, sending Fee into paroxysms of kitty delight. Sprog is in his bouncy chair, and all is right with the world.

Well, maybe not. But we were able to go out earlier, in long sleeves and hoodies, instead of coats. Sprog came with me on my morning errands. Then I got coffee and a bite for lunch, and we headed to the park to enjoy them.

I had a thought, en route, feeling Sprog's weight in the carrier, resting on my hips. His legs brushing my sides as I strode along, shifting from left to right, made me think of elephants. I felt strong and steady, my feet meeting the earth with solid assurance.

I had a memory of riding an elephant, in a parking lot somewhere, or a zoo-- in one of those high-sided saddles that fit a small group. I remembered the crinkly feel of her skin.

I don't know if that memory is real. It could be.

There were daffodils, and crocus. We passed banks of purple heather on our way to the lower lawn. Not much grass yet. I spread a little blanket for Sprog-- one that used to be big enough to swaddle him. I sat on the carrier, to keep the wet dirt off my bum.

A little yogurt, a little ice coffee, a little bottle, a little rolly-polly in the sun. Then we headed home.

I got an email today, that warmed me from the toes up. (I'm looking at you, Ms. From Boston.)

I've had a disappointment. That's true. But I'm proud of the work I did. I finished something that started in a different life-- something left hanging, incomplete. I didn't win in the end, not because I can't do the work, but because I'm inexperienced.

I got to the final level of a fairly grueling process, competing against people that, so far as I can tell, all had years of experience working in the field I was just hoping to enter. That shows me that I must know how to paint. I have a lot to learn about professional practice, but I wouldn't have gotten that far if the talent wasn't there.

For the last few months, my tasks have been clear: take care of sprog, and work on my exam. Passed one stage? Time to prepare for the next.

It was comforting, having that script for my life-- knowing what I needed to do. Now I've finished that circle. I have to decide what's next.

What's my next dare-to-be-great situation?

J thinks that phrase sounds "a bit... grandiose, don't you think?"

Well, yes, a bit. I say it tongue-in-cheek. But not entirely.

I want my life to have a shape to it. I want to build something to be proud of.

I've got some ideas.

In the meantime, I have to say, I feel very lucky to have the Sprog, and sunshine, and readers like you.

In case you were wondering...

I didn't pass.

Time to figure out what's next.

Studio Saturday.

I had my final painting exam today.

This morning I had to gather up my bags of brushes, sketching supplies, lunch, and other sundries, and catch a train that took me to another train, which took me to yet another train, which left me in a busy yet barren-looking section of Queens. Then I walked, keeping one eye on the print-out of directions from the website, until I found the warehouse/studio space where the exam would take place.

Someone pointed me towards a steel gray door, that opened up on to a large room. The wide floor was covered with brown paper. Twenty-odd canvasses, primed in white, were mounted to the floor in rows.

I picked one, and started to unpack my stuff. Candidates made shy greetings to each other, arranged partnerships for certain things that require more than one person-- like snapping a chalk line, or sharing an electrical outlet. Candidates also checked each other out as competition. But it felt friendly.

A monitor passed out postcards of our project image. We were to reproduce this Diego Rivera painting. You might know it-- a man and a woman in a field of grain, napping together. His sombrero is resting on the side of his head. She's propped in a prone position over the side of his lap, with her breasts exposed. They both have giant hands and feet.

Anyway, the exam ran from 9 to 4. At four, we would be told to lift our brushes and stand.

I could tell most of the other candidates were already working in the field-- simply by the breadth of their supplies. I confess, money's tight, and even though bamboo extenders (long handles for holding a brush or charcoal) had been on a list we'd each received of recommended supplies, I decided against. I would have had to mail order one (or more), and I wasn't sure I wanted to be trying out a new piece of equipment during an exam. And I didn't really understand why I'd need one for a piece that's only roughly four feet by six feet.

But I've always worked upright. On the floor is another story. Other people could stand and draw, and really see what they were doing. I was sitting and hunching and reaching. I took off my shoes so I could walk on the painting, from dry spot to dry spot, gardener style.

So that slowed me down. And man, my back is KILLING me.

But I managed. There was a trestle table of paints along one end of the room, and some slop sinks on the other, and I stretched my arms and neck as I made the necessary trips, then got to come back and look at my work with a fresh eye.

There were probably five or six judges/monitors that wandered around the space, taking notes, talking to each other in low tones. Most of the other candidates were already working in paint while I was still sketching, and the judges radiated a certain unspoken "Hmm..." as they'd pass. But when I switched into paint and began to find my stride, all of a sudden there were clusters of judges, lingering in my periphery, or solitary ones off to one side, watching.

I was too busy to feel nervous about it.

And actually, at one point I was feeling quite good with what I was doing. I'd found a technique that was fast, but really seemed to capture Rivera's brushiness.

But there was a lot to do. And I'm new enough to this kind of work that I don't estimate my time with much accuracy. At two hours left, I had the background finished, but, beyond the sombrero, hadn't done a lick on either figure.

The man who runs the exam announced that unfinished work might be acceptable, if it was looking good. But unfinished work that wasn't looking so great, well...

I kept my eeek! internal-- the only way to win this game was to stay cool and keep my eyes on the prize. What absolutely needs to be done to convey the sense of this picture? If I have to stop before I'm done, what things can I leave out?

First, I painted skin, and hair, and faces. No one wants to look at figures with beautifully rendered clothes but no eyes. Well, at least not in this case. I think.

I tried to capitalize on the brushy texture, the emphasis on chunky shapes defined by fine lines. I tried to be smart about my color choices-- finding four to substitute for eight.

That'll do, That'll do-- NO. Leave it alone. Move on.

Then their shirts, because I could use the primed surface of the canvas to do some of the work. Then, okay, only a half-hour left! block in the color of her kerchief, his pants, her skirt...

"Time! Brushes up, everyone!"

I wouldn't say it was finished, exactly. But a lot of it was. The parts that I consider truly finished, I'm happy with. And all the colors were blocked in. I mean just blocked in-- I did this last little swoop just as the monitor called time.

I'm just grateful the entire canvas was covered with the correct colors of paint before I had to stop working.

We were told to go wash up while the judges had a last look around. Then we were given our home projects back. We were provided with staple-pullers. We each loosened the staples holding down our most recent paintings (now dry, or dry enough), peeled them up from the floor and rolled them with our other work.

The judges laughed and chatted while they rolled up the brown paper that had covered the floor. I gathered up my gear, and my giant roll of paintings, and wished them all a good weekend.

And then I had to haul all that stuff back through worn-out industrial Queens to the subway, to the other subway, to the final subway that would take me home.

My arms are sore. My neck is sore. My shoulders are sore. My back is sore.

I think I did okay. But I don't know. I won't know for sure until I get a letter, maybe next week.

All I can do is wait.

I almost forgot to mention...

I passed!

I got the email the other day. Boo-yah! I did it!

Of course, I'm not done yet. This exam process is like a series of medieval challenges.

My next task is to go out into the forest, and chop down the tallest tree I can find-- with a PAINTBRUSH!

Not really. Next weekend, I need to report to a studio in Queens, where I will be given a small image to reproduce large-scale. I must complete the project, start-to-finish, in the time allotted (about seven hours), while also demonstrating good skills and a courteous, professional demeanor.

And then, if I pass that test... I think I'm in. ? !!!

So, keep your fingers crossed! I'm in the home stretch. And no matter what happens, I made it this far, which is awesome.

I passed!!!

Process shots.

I finished.

Two days ago, I didn't think I would. And I cried and cried.

But I thought through my approach, made up a game plan, took a three-hour nap, then got to work.

And I finished. And it looks pretty good.

I had an interview this morning. I think it went all right. They seemed to like my stuff (my portfolio, not my paintings. Those will be assessed separately, by a blind jury.)

It's hard to tell, really.

Their faces fell when I mentioned I have a baby.

Oh, did I say I have a baby? I meant a dog. I have a dog.

Then they told me about how demanding the schedule can be sometimes, working in theatre.

Yes, well. Did you look at that resume you're holding? I've been working in theatre for eighteen years. More if you count pre-college stuff. I'm aware of the demanding schedule. Thanks, though.

I did not say any of this, fortunately. Even though I hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time for three days. While also having a baby. Amazing, huh?

But it's done. I handed over my work, with two projects I fully stand behind and one that is passable (the middle one-- turns out it's hard to jump right back into painting at a large scale, with time constraints, when I haven't done it in years. It sucks to have to turn in my learning curve, but ah well. The third one was good. And I finished it in less than half the time of the second one.)

I turned in my projects. They're theirs now. And now all I can do is wait.

So I feel somewhat relieved, in that I got all this work done, especially, since it really didn't seem possible that I would just a few days ago. But I don't get to thoroughly relax, because now they're deliberating, and I won't know how I did for some time.

But it's out of my hands. For good and for bad.

The tough part is that if I don't get in, I won't know if it's because I did a really crap verion of faux marble for their delectation, or if it's because I whiffed the interview, or if it's simply because they only need so many new members and I don't make the cut.

But I made my way back to the subway, at which point the juice that had gotten me to my appointment and seen me through my interview drained. I sat down on the train and passed into a coma. Miraculously, I woke up just in time to make my transfer, and then again to get off the train and stumble home.

I tried to sit on the couch to talk to J and spend a little time with my boy-o, but I passed out again. A few hours later, I woke up with cramps from the weird position I was in, and I made it to my bed, at which point I collapsed until midnight.

My hips hurt, from hours of sitting Indian-style to paint the last project. My back is sore. My eyes are dry. And my house is beyond messy.

Large-scale paintings, a husband working from home, and a five-month old baby, all in a New York one-bedroom... Yeah. It looks... I'll let you picture it.

But. I finished. Did I mention I finished? Yeah.

And just over two years ago, I was going to make this attempt, and I never got this far. Life and sickness intervened.

So. I accomplished something I've wanted to do for years. And even if it never goes any further than this, well. Look at my life.

A husband, working from home. And a baby. A beautiful baby boy, who likes to watch me paint. Seriously. J would set him up in his bouncy chair, and Sprog would be entertained for hours, intently watching my process.

So much better than a dog, you guys.

The Sprog Report.

My little sprog has been laughing and giggling for a while now. It's fun to see what tickles his blooming sense of humor.

He got a kick out of me singing my lady bass along with Gaston when we were watching Beauty and the Beast a few weeks ago.

He likes beat box, too. (I wonder how he'd react if he heard people who were actually good at beat box?)

He also giggles for patter songs, which is good, since Gilbert and Sullivan-type stylings are far more firmly within our (extremely white, not very hip-hop) wheelhouse.

But most of all, the Sprog likes farts. Farts are high-LARious! Which goes to show that certain types of humor are not only practically universal (especially amongst little boys), but are somehow essentially funny. He didn't learn to laugh at farts. As soon as he could laugh, farts made him laugh.

Luckily, I can manufacture fart sounds by squishing my palms together for those [rare] times when real ones are unavailable.

I can't do the armpit kind, though...

Hey, I think they're funny, too.

And so does Louis CK, incidentally: click here.
(I can't get the video to embed. But it's worth a click if you haven't seen it.)

In other news, the Sprog is becoming far more mobile. Which thrills him! And me too, though the jackknifing/torquing maneuvers he's taken to employing while on the changing table might give me a heart attack one of these days. But he's so cute, all smiley and thrashy and such.

And he's starting to be able to bust out of his baby straitjacket with Houdinian ease. This morning he had both arms and one leg out of their wrappings, and had managed to scootch all the way down to the end of the crib. He had his head mashed to one side, with his shoulder up against the rails. He looked up at me from his odd angle and grinned a big drooly grin.

I guess he hasn't figured out reverse.

I also guess this guy might be trouble.

Chil-dren, don't make me have to tell you a-gain... about... the scootching.

Channeling Fonzie, and some other stuff.

I have an interview coming up early next week.

I've been re-vamping my resume--
sent off an updated copy earlier today.
And I'll be spending a good chunk of the weekend assembling a current portfolio-- a task which normally sends me into a state of deep existential dread, but which I've decided this time to approach in a cheerful, workmanlike manner.

We'll see how that goes.

I'd really like this job. Glah-- don't want to jinx it.

Which brings me to my next point:
As an atheist who values a rational approach to problem-solving, life choices, and the like, I'm loath to ask anyone to pray for me.

But, since I've yet to shake certain superstitious attitudes to fate, and I've never been one to under-estimate the power of positive thinking,
I was wondering,

Would any of you be willing to "Aaaaaaaaaay!"
for me?

You know, sometime between now and Tuesday afternoon, think of the Fonz and his unshakeable cool, then think of me, and let out a nice "Aaaaaaaaaaay!"
Maybe coupled with a double thumbs-up?

I'll take all the help I can get.

Fonzie be praised!

***

In other news,
I've been reading that book Baby Bargains--
in an attempt to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to registering for stuff I'll need for the proto-baby launch this summer.

(I've been doing a lot of on-line research as well-- thanks, Mayberry, for that helpful Rookie Moms link! and if any of you readers know other must-see sources for this sort of research, your comments would be greatly appreciated.)

Anyway, back to Baby Bargains--
As I was flipping through the section on maternity wear, I came across this line:
"Okay, I'll admit that I don't normally shop at K-mart or Target for my clothes. But I was surprised to discover these chains (and even department stores like Sears) carry casual maternity clothes in 100% cotton at very affordable prices."

I've got to wonder-- if you wouldn't normally even consider shopping at Target for clothes, what business do you have writing a book called Baby Bargains? I mean, doesn't this say something about the socio-economic level of the authors, and their idea of what bargain shopping is, if they sound so vaguely dismissive of shopping at these sorts of places unless you're in the market for (relatively disposable) maternity wear?

I like fashion. But hell-- I've worn stuff from Sears and Target-- even K-mart, if we're talking bras, sleepwear, and workout clothes. Because I'm not made of money. Which is why I bought a book called Baby Bargains.

This also makes me wonder if there's a connection between this attitude and the fact that I can't find a single listing for a stroller fit for urban living (read-- no elevators to the subway platform) for under $350 (actually, usually closer to $500-- or more), unless I stick with an umbrella style or manage to convince my relatives (who will be funding this venture) to haunt Ebay or Craigslist.

If you knew my relatives, you'd understand this shopping style isn't exactly realistic. Computer savvy they ain't. And none of them are in a position to just send me a lump of cash to do it myself. Et cetera, et cetera.

Besides which, I'd like to jog with my stroller, once the baby's neck muscles allow for that sort of thing. And J is tall, so I'd like to find one he can walk with without hunching over, or kicking the back of the carriage with his normal stride.

I understand I may be hunting a mythical beast. But it's this sort of thing that makes me want to scoop out my brains with a spoon every time I try to figure out what we ought to get.

Again, if you have some better ideas about the stroller situation, I'd love to hear them.

In the meantime, I think I might change into some jammies, get my sewing machine set up, and get my nursery groove on.

Or I'll be thinking about how to be more Fonze-like.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy....