Printmaking is a craft that is near and dear to my heart.
The act of taking a blank piece of paper and loving transforming it into art,
is something I find to basically magical.
I had an opportunity to explore Lone Goose Press recently.
I was beyond thrilled to find this lovely print studio tucked into my neighborhood.
Quality over quantity is the motivation behind the work at Lone Goose Press.
Here, you will find an age old craft being practiced in an almost timeless manner.
As I approached the address, I right away knew someone here is a LOVER of books,
as there was a Free Library shelf tastefully placed out front of the entry path
that then lead up to a lovely craftsman style porch.
I walked into the main house, best described a multi-room display studio, I was
immediately struck by the fine quality and creative assortment of work on display for sale.
Here is a sampling of a few I found to be interesting;
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| Copyright 1997 by Pattiann Rogers, Milkweed Editions of Minneapolis, Minnesota |
OPUS FROM SPACE
"Almost everything I know is glad
to be born—not only the desert orangetip,
on the twist flower or tansy, shaking
birth moisture from its wings, but also the naked
warbler nestling, head wavering toward sky,
and the honey possum, the pygmy possum,
blind, hairless thimbles of forward,
press and part.
Almost everything I’ve seen pushes
toward the place of that state as if there were
no knowing any other—the violent crack
and seed-propelling shot of the witch hazel pod,
the philosophy implicit in the inside out
seed-thrust of the wood sorrel. All hairy
saltcedar seeds are single-minded
in their grasping of wind and spinning
for luck toward birth by water.
And I’m fairly shocked to consider
all the bludgeonings and batterings going on
continually, the head-rammings, wing-furors,
and beak-crackings, fighting for release
inside gelatinous shells, leather shells,
calcium shells or rough, horny shells. Legs
and shoulder, knees and elbows flail likewise
against their womb walls everywhere, in pine
forest niches, seepage banks and boggy
prairies, among savannah grasses, on woven
mats and perfumed linen sheets.
Mad zealots, every one, even before
beginning they are dark dust-congealings
of pure frenzy to come into light.
Almost everything I know rages to be born,
the obsession founding itself explicitly
in the coming bone harps and ladders,
the heart-thrusts, vessels and voices
of all those speeding with clear and total
fury toward this singular honor."
"Almost everything I know is glad
to be born—not only the desert orangetip,
on the twist flower or tansy, shaking
birth moisture from its wings, but also the naked
warbler nestling, head wavering toward sky,
and the honey possum, the pygmy possum,
blind, hairless thimbles of forward,
press and part.
Almost everything I’ve seen pushes
toward the place of that state as if there were
no knowing any other—the violent crack
and seed-propelling shot of the witch hazel pod,
the philosophy implicit in the inside out
seed-thrust of the wood sorrel. All hairy
saltcedar seeds are single-minded
in their grasping of wind and spinning
for luck toward birth by water.
And I’m fairly shocked to consider
all the bludgeonings and batterings going on
continually, the head-rammings, wing-furors,
and beak-crackings, fighting for release
inside gelatinous shells, leather shells,
calcium shells or rough, horny shells. Legs
and shoulder, knees and elbows flail likewise
against their womb walls everywhere, in pine
forest niches, seepage banks and boggy
prairies, among savannah grasses, on woven
mats and perfumed linen sheets.
Mad zealots, every one, even before
beginning they are dark dust-congealings
of pure frenzy to come into light.
Almost everything I know rages to be born,
the obsession founding itself explicitly
in the coming bone harps and ladders,
the heart-thrusts, vessels and voices
of all those speeding with clear and total
fury toward this singular honor."
 |
| Copyright 2007 by Lucie Jane Thu Carmin, age 7 |
Snow
"Flake by flake
falling softly,
covering the ground in a white blanket.
The trees whisper in the wind—
snow, snow, snow they seem to say.
Smoke is billowing from chimneys into the cloudless sky.
A soft whoosh of the wind—
I watch. I listen.
I look at the setting sun.
It goes down
like a melting ice cream cone.
Through the fog I can see the ocean lapping up the sand.
The moon rises.
I get into bed
as I hear the chimes of winter.
I shut my eyes
and go to sleep."
falling softly,
covering the ground in a white blanket.
The trees whisper in the wind—
snow, snow, snow they seem to say.
Smoke is billowing from chimneys into the cloudless sky.
A soft whoosh of the wind—
I watch. I listen.
I look at the setting sun.
It goes down
like a melting ice cream cone.
Through the fog I can see the ocean lapping up the sand.
The moon rises.
I get into bed
as I hear the chimes of winter.
I shut my eyes
and go to sleep."
As I walked throughout the display studio into a patio the led into a grassy courtyard,
I was greeted by letterpress printed gifts!
Tags with poems had been handprinted and displayed for guest to take away.
The trees and honeysuckle branches proudly displayed the poems as
they gently dances in the late afternoon breeze.
Sandy Tilcock's studio was brightly light and neatly displayed many pieces currently in the works.
The crown jewel of the room was the press affectionately nicknamed, "Phoebe".
I was so excited to pull sprint on this lovely machine, and jumped at the opportunity to do so!
The press ran smooth and clean and seemed to glide with little physical effort.
I was then invited into the lush garden courtyard.
Here I enjoyed a glass of Sparkling wine, nibbled on appetizers and met with friends.
It was a lovely way to wind up the day.
It was a lovely way to wind up the day.
Watch this short video
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