sketchblog – Page 49 – Stephanie Sicore

August 21, 2007August 22, 2007

SPC:: Patterns:: Week 4

A quick moment in the bedroom to stand in the afternoon sun. The kids have broken both tripods. You wouldn’t know it, because you can’t see it behind me, that there is a toddler jumping on the bed and about to whack his noggin on the headboard, or that there is a terrier beneath this frame looking up at me, barking about a filthy, soggy tennis ball at my feet. Or that the only pattern I feel this week is really he lack thereof in each day, as we stumble awkwardly towards fall: meeting teachers, new shoes, dental appointments, last-minute camping, knots in stomach and lumps in throat.

More patterns at SPC.

August 21, 2007

If I could just post one photo from the party

I’d be a very decisive person.

It’s hard! trying to photograph kinetics well in a blacklit bowling alley.
Chas was airborne most of the time; those balls didn’t weigh him down one bit.

We have a handful of sweet moments that translated to image. For instance, here was Chas, just after he had taken…

…this image:

And Ford grabbed to Polaroid himself to capture a little Whitman craziness:

and a little mommy/daddiness:

Then Damon took a mellow polaroid:

and turned it into something absolutely fabulous:

Cheers to indecision! If it weren’t my bedtime I’d post them all.
Oh! And cheers to Daddies that stencil tshirts for birthday favors!

and cheers again to Chazzy!

August 20, 2007

A Small Plate of Afternoon

The kids pick their own tomatoes and basil off the vines and bushes that have, in three short months, overtaken their once-huge terracotta pots. I am sloppy; I quickly slice the larger tomatoes and the buffalo mozzarella, throw it onto a plate and shake olive oil and salt atop the pile. We walk barefoot back out into the garden, around the back of the house, and sit in the shade on the upside-down red canoe. There are no forks. Why should we need forks? We eat with our fingers and talk about next Saturday, when we’ll be inside this canoe paddling up the big river from Russian Gulch.
But the heady tomato-basil-olive oil fruitiness anchors us firmly to the present; and before long, we’re nothing but giggles and dirty, greasy fingers leaving shiny happy prints atop the dusty canoe. Maybe the slick fingerprints will make the boat glide faster, we postulate.