Once you’re a certain age, you can let yourself go. I have always wanted to be the crazy old lady in the loud batik caftan who frightens the neighborhood kids away with a walking stick and pronouncements of doom. But not yet. My mom scolds me for wearing shorts that hit above the knee. “You’re …
When I’m in a hurry, I abandon cursive. Goodbye loops, goodbye shading, goodbye thick and thin lines that swoop and scroll into descenders, ascenders and pretenders in between. My G looks like a 6, my R can’t be bothered to close its loop like a lady. Slow writing isn’t necessarily slow thinking. Sometimes the words …
We’re shooting at Pinto Gallery in Antipolo. Stairs of stone and cement lead to and from pockets of gardens and ponds. There is a whiff of delightful dereliction about the place, a devil-may-care attitude towards cobwebs and lichen. There are sculptures almost indistinguishable in texture from the grass and soil and wood that surround them. …
Actually, it’s eleven, but one of my pens is back at the shop, waiting for a nib exchange. I bought more than ten modern pens this year, many pre-owned, and while I liked them all well enough in the first place to buy them, inevitably favorites emerge. The Pilot Bamboo didn’t make it to the …