Artist by Nature, Books by Design

“Handmade presents are scary because they reveal that you have too much free time.” – Douglas Coupland

By Rachel on October 6, 2017

Pop-Up Christmas and New Years card from 2014. Outside of photo prints at less than ¢9 per, no new paper was needed for this piece. Red card stock from years ago, small envelopes pre-printed with old address, over which we put a label.

For the third time in my entire life, I’m thinking about Christmas before late November. Cards specifically. It’s absolutely the best part of the holidays for me. For the record, ‘Christmas card’ is loose terminology. New Years Cards or Happy End of Last Year Cards are probably more accurate. Whenever they get mailed, they are always an I love you to my people.

Forget the materialism and crap music we can’t escape every December. Focus only on the gazillions of Earthlings all thinking about those they love and how to be generous with them. What powerful juice that is. Gives me happy chills. (Not to discount the misery many folks feel around the holidays. Their pain is real and I respect that my glee is no substitute for their real feelings to the contrary.)

Making cards is one of the few projects I enjoy from seed to harvest. Imagining, doodling, assessing the current collection of envelops and papers. Allowing myself to linger in the photo collection amassed throughout the year, noting my family’s changes and growth spurts. Going through my address book and email lists to determine a final count. Whittling a huge idea into something that fits a tight budget. Making mock ups and eventually bringing a two dimensional sketch into something I can hold. Creating a silly address label. Even addressing envelops with the right movie as company – something I have previously saturated myself with like say Star Wars (IV, V, VI), Harry Potter (all of ‘um), Princess Bride, Waiting to Exhale, a whole season of Sex and the City – you feel me.

It’s a gift to me to spend a wee bit of in-my-mind time with the folks I’ve gathered in my life and those I inherited that fill me up with love. Sifting through a personal history of card making has been fairly entertaining, thinking the next couple posts will be dedicated to the preservation of such non-sensery.

Then there are the cards that come my way – what a joy to see my friends and their ever morphing kiddos. My family far and wide. Cousins and 2nd cousins and previous co-workers, and new acquaintances. My sweet great aunt who never fails to write a three page letter. Not copied! Hand written! I even love the cards we get from the Austin Wildlife Rescue.

I’ve collected and cherished these sacred scrapes of my tribe’s earliest recorded history since I was old enough to have my own address. Before that even. So much cuteness and thoughtfulness and beauty and peeks into the worlds of those I love.

Alas, the paper bits have piled up and are bound to do what piles do – decay. And yes, it is a powerful and unstoppable process. Mass changing shape and form. Hard to soft, dry to wet. Precious paper to silverfish poop. We can slow it down some, but there is no real stopping it, nor can there be. Without decay, there would be no room for the new, the fresh, the evolved.

But better to be worn out than rotted out. Seen and touched and used and loved. Fantasies of repurposing holiday cards have floated around my head for years and as my collection is now grown in volume such that I no longer want to expand my precious storage space to accommodate it, this might be the year for catharsis.

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Houston

“Texas has yet to learn submission to any oppression, come from what source it may.” – Sam Houston

By Rachel on September 8, 2017

Left: A working, historically accurate replica of Gutenberg’s press. Center: Block letter wall hanging. Right: What Thomas Edison called “The Eighth Wonder of the World,” the Linotype Machine.

Intent to humble us once again, Nature flexed her whim, yawned out a record-breaking hurricane, and wrecked a tiny spot in the universe last week. This post is dedicated to resilient Houston and her ever-tough humans. Harvey be damned.

Besides being home to my most favorite brother and his family, it is also one great cities to find art in. (Brother factoid: One cannot technically be a vegetarian in Houston because its high level of air borne meat particulate.)

Say what you will New York and Denton, circa the Good/Bad years, Glasstire knows what I know – Houston has treasures of its own. Give me an hour in the Rothko Chapel, an afternoon in the Museum District, or an evening at the Houston Symphony, any time. There’s so much going on.

One past spring break, my brother and I were looking for last minute activities for stir crazy kiddos. Houston is packed with cool stuff for kids to do. Free zine making workshop? Yes, thank you. At The Houston Printing Museum? There’s a Printing Museum?? Excellent!

We arrived to a very unassuming little building and entered into a sanctuary of papery, printing bliss. Or at least I did. The kids raced past me and found the zine-making workshop where they were quickly engrossed in cutting, folding, pasting, and copying.

You really must make a zine. So easy. It takes only one piece of paper, one cut, and whatever you feel like filling in the space with. Here’s a fun instructional video by the Crafty Chica, Kathy Cano-Murillo. Great activity for those recurring 100 degree days we get out here in Texas.

Keeping hands busy for the first half hour made focusing through the rest of our visit a little easier. What a wonderful display of humankind’s incessant need to communicate en masse. From the moment we realized we had something to say and that our thumbs could help us say it, we’ve invented one way after another to get the word out. Imagine what ol’Johannes would make of the Indigo Digital press? Or what Ottomar would think of texting!

On display are Mesopotamian cylinder seals (c. 3000-1000 BCE) (pictured above) and ancient papyrus fragments (c. 300-350 BCE) as well as illuminated manuscripts. Thousands of years old and still here to talk to us. Mind blowing. And this silly little exercise I call a blog? Literally doesn’t exist.

Left: Trying a hand, arm rather, at the linotype machine. Right: Guided iron hand press printing.

Working the presses, straining in some instances, really created a new understanding in the kids of the effort it used to take to communicate. Not just thumbs and fingers, but arms and shoulders, legs and feet. And the planning! No delete button. Once on paper, a mistake could take days to fix.

We had the privilege of meeting Charles Criner, artist-in-residence at the Houston Printing Museum. Criner is a steady gentleman who patiently lead us through all of our activities. While we explored his studio, he talked about his work. He described Juneteenth and why we celebrate it. He addressed slavery in a direct way and it was received with appropriate appall. And in his straightforward manner, sans shaming or rage, easily taught the kids several lessons that day.

Left: Trying a hand at lithography stone. Center: Work in progress. Right: ‘The Blues Man’ used in one of Charles Criners Juneteen Celebration posters.

Thank you, Houston, for housing greatness. No matter how long it takes to recover, there is no question that you will be stronger, smarter, and better prepared for Nature’s next mood swing.

Journals

“To bear responsibility without complaint” – Hayes Crapo when asked what it is to be a man

By Rachel on August 23, 2017

Thank you Great Aunt Connie for urging this old man to jot down a memory or two.

Another treasured find from summer travels back to my paternal family’s homeland – an actual journal entry made BY MY GRANDFATHER! Remember back when I gave him a journal to spill his stories into? Only to find it years later completely blank? Little did I know he had already exhausted himself way back in 1986 in two delicious pages.

Quite a writer herself, Great Aunt Connie composed a wonderfully inciting plea on the inside cover.

Two years later, Grandpa began writing.

New details of his youth were not revealed here, but his familiar scratch was a blast of warm nostalgia and gratitude. The language and phrasing he uses create such a clear voice in my mind.

“The house where I was born – a two room house with a bare attic, the walls were papered with pages from magazines – especially the Saturday Evening Post – vestiges of which still remain after 60 odd years.”

Examining the Saturday Evening Post on the walls of his childhood home.

“The memories of life there are wonderful. The house was in a small canyon with vertical rock walls nearby, which provided a wealth of climbing and exploration for a boy my age. Since my brothers were at least 4 years younger or older then I, a great deal of my time was spent playing alone. This perhaps accounts for my tendency to be less than outgoing.”

The nearby vertical rock walls and a view of them through a pane-less window.

Having heard (and listened to!) grandfather’s stories throughout my life, it occurs to me now that there is part of his narrative that we share – solitude.

His was mostly unwanted, but it conditioned him to learn. He filled it with curiosity and adventure. His memory was strong and rich with detail, possibly from having the space and time to let experiences soak deeply into his subconscious. He admitted once that he didn’t prefer that life of isolation. It drove him to get out of the vast openness and onto college, the Navy, and finally engineering. He found a partner who perfectly matched his need for company and they created a marriage spanning 70 years, ending isolation in both their lives.

I crave solitude like water but get it far less than my appetite demands. The opportunity for long periods of solitude – isolation – aloneness – is difficult to come by when raising a child, but there are pools of rejuvenating seclusion if I can defer judgement of them for being too small.

My childhood imagination game was to think of what it would be like to fix up some little abandoned house tucked in the mountains somewhere and live there alone. Later, when I would drive across country for one reason or another (or none at all…) I would day dream about residing in a town population 123, or renovating one of the little Texas town squares and starting all over. Dove Creek, Colorado has made it into those fantasies many times. Moving there by myself and living in the town my Grandfather spent another chapter of his life in, and where I still have family. Surely those day dreams were fed by the stories I grew up with.

Who am I kidding. I live in the country now and find the isolation a bit much at times. I don’t need a life of solitude, but rather a practice of solitude. The same kind of practice my Grandfather used to build a life around numbers and deep thinking.

I reluctantly accept that for all my Grandfather was, he was not a writer. I’m fairly certain I won’t find my father’s longhand descriptions of his life experiences either. As much as I admire and aspire to be more like them in many ways, I gladly stand apart from them in this one. Thank you Grandpa – for your life of overcoming, moving through, working hard, playing plenty, shouldering your own responsibilities, and not complaining.

Two adults and four young boys lived in this tiny home.

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Cookbooks

“Should your baking be successful think of me with kindness. Should you be unsuccessful, well – you are the cook!” – Mary Hale

By Rachel on August 17, 2017

Another exciting find in the world of handmade books! I wouldn’t submit this for the Open Set Exhibition by any means, but it is precious and beautiful to me. Unearthed during the cleaning out of my deceased grandparent’s pantry, this relic from their young lives made me absolutely giddy.

Once again reminded that my grandmother was a dynamic woman who made friends wherever she went with her calm demeanor and easy smile, I love thinking about how this little book came to be.

A New Year’s Eve project/gift/collaboration from… whom? Members of a recipe club, like the email recipe exchanges of today? Or maybe it was coordinated by the Yorktown Colony Club as a way to promote neighborly connection? (What a fun idea!) Was there a gathering of many neighbors hand writing their recipes over and over, or was it a gift to her upon arrival? Why the little Playboy nekkid lady with the ball?

There’s no way to know, but it is a wonderful gift and full of interesting international recipes as well as plenty of sugar, jello, and white flour.

I wished for a moment that I had either of my grandparents around to ask about this book just to hear it’s story in their voices. No use wishing for the impossible, so instead I embrace this minor mystery and accept that as much as I knew about them, there is so much more I can never know. And that is how it must be.

‘Boots’ Jacobson shares Kosher Kapers and Bulgarian Peppers.

Anne Willcocks shares Apple Nut Loaf Cake on the blue card. Mrs. Anthoney Chutek shares 7-Up Salad, Wild Rice Casserole, and Baked Carrots in an envelope made out of plastic wrap.

Amy Donohue shares Strawberry Cream Mold. Norma Hansen shares Marshmallow Cheese Salad.

Eddie Grier shares Spanish Meatloaf. Polly Richards shares Polly’s Gook in an envelope made from a wax sandwich bag.

Helen Knight shares Butter Tea Cookies (Kourabiethes). Peggy Adkins Eggplant Casserole.

Laurie shares Co Casserole. Mary Hale shares Scotch Black Bun, Cornish Pasties, Matrimony Cake, Yorkshire Farmhouse Cake, Grantham Gingerbread, Shortcourt Pastry.

Pat Webb shares Cheese Snaps in a wax bag envelope.

Kay Winters shares Fruit Salad in a wax bag envelop.

Birthday Gift

Dancing is not just getting up painlessly, like a leaf blown on the wind; dancing is when you tear your heart out and rise out of your body to hang suspended between the worlds. – Rumi

By Rachel on August 9, 2017

No sooner did I think ‘Start finding great and beautiful books to share on Instagram‘ than I came across a most beautiful gift given by two artists to my musician friend for his birthday.

To think that so much time, planning, creative focus, and love went into making such a splendid gift for this splendid man was deeply touching. And there is not a more deserving person to receive such a gift. He has invested his life’s energy into making music in various genres and moving to and through music in such a way as to inspire those around him to move to and through music; he is a gift to all those who experience him.

More brother than band mate of my husband’s for over 25 years, Craig is a musician, dancer, dj, entertainer, and all around magic man. Nights spent dancing and laughing with him are abundant and energizing. Thank you Craig!

Written especially for him by Kate Best, illustrated in watercolor and pen, and bound with love and admiration by Ashley Young’s skilled artist’s hands. I am humbled to share Craig’s Song (with permission).

ps. Hey Craig, can you do me a favor? PLAY ME SOME SLAYER!! Love you brother!

Fiber Family

“It is not death that a one should fear, but one should fear never beginning to live.” – Marcus Aurelius

By Rachel on July 13, 2017

Some of the finest creators of beauty I know

If life doesn’t move you into action, then death certainly will, whether you are prepared or not. And probably not in ways you imagine.

I remember quite vividly the phone call I received on a shocking September morning back in 2001. I answered to hear a dear friend from Texas frantically telling me that the World Trade Center had been hit by planes and warning me to stay put in Brooklyn. “DON’T GO OUTSIDE!” she demanded. I obeyed.

The internet was out and my cell phone didn’t work, we had no TV and all my roommates were gone already. After my friend’s call, the land line went dead. I felt confused fear as I circled the living room, finally deciding to work on an old art project.

What? Art project?

Somehow finishing a would-be miniature book of images and text became the only thing I could think of to do. Photos I’d taken months before of Dallas at dusk in the rain combined with pretty sad writing about some dude I thought I loved and his huge ego that couldn’t love me. Very trite. Very unimportant. Kept me very busy for a time.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more. I left the house and walked half a block to find Metropolitan Ave bustling with people out of sorts. The local laundry matt had a TV and I joined my unknown neighbors trying to take in what was happening. When I left I was confronted with smoke funnels the likes of which I’d never seen before. Stunning. Horrifying.

After the disgusting 2016 attack on the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, I found myself sad and angry like so many others, but this time I sat still in my feelings. Maybe the event was too removed from my life, maybe I was just old enough to have my energies firmly invested in too many other things.

A passionate young friend however, was immediately inspired to create. She had a vision, rallied our mutual group of creatives, and set herself to the task of preparing for a collaborative art piece. The group is predominately made up of diverse and brilliant fiber artists and so the piece was fiber in nature, but to utilize the talents of all of our members, we planned for haikus to be shared in an otherwise blank book with a hand sewn cloth cover.

Not being a fiber artist or much of a seamstress, my contribution was to write a haiku in honor of each soul evolved that fateful night. I scratched out a few lines before realizing ignorance wouldn’t go far, so I read about each person who died. It transformed my writing from hypothesis to heart connection. It transformed me from observer to participant and I humbly joined their spouses, children, lovers, parents, and friends in mourning.

The young woman who moved towards the suffering of others – like a firefighter into a burning building – is a brave reminder of what living fully really is. What power we felt creating in the wake of such an evil act of destruction. What love we invested in our work, even as hate wasted those in their play. Doing rather than watching. Acting rather than talking. Being present in the suffering of others rather than being numb to it.

The communion of our busy hands, creative minds, open conversations, and warm hearts fills me with such love and gratitude. Thank you my friends – for letting me into your circle. Thank you Leigh, for living so fully. You are a gift to this world.

Handiwork of the talented and generous Carol

Haikus:

Night of abandon

Grooves of bliss, love in the air,

Forever dancing

Whirling dervishes

Wild anticipation

Our last night here

You did not end me

You just evolved my matter

Millions know my name

Brother, lover, friend

We sought joy in dance that night

Why did you end it?

Immortality

begins with an extinction.

We have expanded.

Jerald came to dance,

to meet and move and mingle;

his last laugh silenced.

A mother alone

continues loving her son,

though he will not age

You – old with hate, pain.

They – 18, 19, 20

New beginnings, over.

Luis, Shane, Stanley

Xavier, Juan, Tevin

Rays of heaven’s light

Youthful play became

one man’s war; hatred unleashed.

The final end to both.

Alejandro says,

Remember to live: Out! Loud!

Vibrant! On purpose!

Amanda and best

friend Mercedez intended

play for a lifetime

If it is allowed,

this sorrow sown becomes seeds

of tremendous change

“Enrique – come back!”

His mother cries. “I am here”

He reminds her heart.

Brenda gave her life

to her children not just once

but twice. Super Mom.

When I described this

art project to my son it

ended play gun games

In the last moment,

friends held tight to each other.

Eye to eye good bye.

Endless tears to fill

this well of sadness. Mourning

season continues.

Oscar came to dance,

not end his 26th years.

Begin the next life.

Antonio was.

Antonio IS, though he

is no more with us.

Yilmary’s children

still need her voice to tell them

how much she loves them

Frank grew younger

with each spin around the floor

He died young at heart.

My best friend, Darryl

My heart’s beat, Angel. Cory,

son beyond measure.

Every smile

lost that night, has multiplied

the pain in my heart.

If Leroy sang it,

you knew he meant it. I hear

his songs echoing

Then Akyra faced

That unintended moment

of death’s guarantee

As Rodolfo dressed

he could not have known it was

the last such effort

Deonka pulsed

with life and love, giving all

to all she knew. Peace

Luis knew his Mom

would love his new boyfriend, just

one more night dancing

But for grace alone,

I survive my child’s death

to tell her story

Miguel leaves three kids

in the world. It is our

job to love them now.

Kimberly smiled

and lit up the room. Now she

lights up the world.

I went to meet them,

Christopher and Jonathan,

to dance until dawn.

It took all of us

to extinguish your darkness

Our light still shines.

Gilberto evolves,

Simon and Luis too.

No stopping them now.

Christopher – brother,

friend, ally. His courage mine.

I go on alone.

“We get this ONE LIFE

Go hard till the day we die.”

– Geraldo’s motto

Far from Florida –

“Oh God – I knew her,” I wept.

The world gets smaller.

Jean and Luis found

love again on the dance floor,

now and forever.

Juan’s only regret

swept away with his only

chance for redemption

Anthony walked in

seeking music adventures.

Universal sound.

A father loses

a legacy. Edward gone,

but not in spirit.

Are they heros or

victims, or brilliant new stars

in the universe?

Masculinity

Eddie, Eric and Jason

Set free, empowered.

Halted lineage,

Peter imparts his spirit.

We carry his love

Never stop dancing

The night, forever young – and

you, we celebrate.

Javier’s heart grew

with every encounter.

Now it covers me.

To our dad, Paul,

we still feel you, loving life

teaching us the same.

Orlando loses

49 lives to many

Out, out brief candle

Martin’s wish for us –

Face your fears, your dreams, your hopes

with an open heart.

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Poetry

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” – Henry David Thoreau

By Rachel on July 8, 2017

The Non Conformist has no need for matched socks

Sometimes life presents opportunities that feel like they should have been part of your bigger plan all along, but the truth is you just stumbled into something wonderful. Or, you made whatever you stumbled into worth the time to be there.

The Westminster Christmas Bazaar last December was that for Books By Design, MC. Being ready in time meant a hard deadline for finishing a logo, printing business cards, and an info post card and offered the opportunity to exercise my spiel. My husband helped by being absolutely brilliant talking to people, discussing the books, making connections. (Partnerships between introverts and extroverts are cool that way.) My mom and cousin came for moral support. It was a fun day – and I met new clients!

ABOVE: BBD table at the Westminster Christmas Bazaar. Supporting cast: My every supportive and beautiful Mom, MaryAnn, my kick ass husband, Sam, and my power house cousin, Brandy.

Our table was visited by a spry fella in a wheel chair, not one bit interested in family histories, but very curious about a potential book project. He followed up with me in late January and we’ve set to work creating a book of his poetry. The pace is slow and steady, giving me the opportunity to absorb this gentle man’s wisdom and perspective.

He is a self described nonconformist, exercising this through subtle acts such as not cutting his hair, wearing mismatched socks, going to socials and dancing in his wheel chair. In poetry he expresses nonconformity through a casual use of punctuation (none mostly) and loose capitalization. Reading him is fun but listening to him read is exciting. He has a strong voice and rhythmic cadence as well as real passion.

He is a founding member of a poetry group 23 years running. I have had the privilege of joining them a time or two and am very humbled to participate. The group is diverse in backgrounds and not surprising, still very active politically, intellectually, spiritually, and creatively. Sitting with folks nearly double my age offers the chance to feel naive again. No phones on the table when we meet, just minds and attention. And a wealth of knowledge and life experience.

Lack of punctuation came up recently as being confusing to a reader and the Poet’s reply was, ‘Well good.’ He gave a boyish smile. He’s told me several times that meeting the expectations of the status quo is not his priority, rather, thinking, investigating, imagining on his own is his interest. If you ask why, he asks why not?

I like being reminded by someone who’s weathered the pains of time that what others think is for them. What I think is for me. That just because the majority, or even the small minority of my circle of people, are for it doesn’t mean I have to be.

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Mother's day

“A mother is the one who fills your heart in the first place.” – Amy Tan

By Rachel on July 3, 2017

Remember the little bookies I made for no apparent reason, then gave one to my 2nd cousin with stickers stitched in it? I made a sizable stack and waited for the right time to use them until Mother’s day revealed their purpose.

My mother is one of twelve siblings, only ten of whom are still with us. I am fortunate (and willing) enough to have a unique relationship with each of my aunts and uncles, gaining some of the most diverse, entertaining, and profound wisdom I could ever wish for. I love them all dearly. It is no secret that I crave their knowledge of my grandmother. Some have generously shared stories with me. Some remain protective of their precious, limited memories, and I respect them for that.

It is difficult to imagine the void that is highlighted every year on Mother’s day for those who no longer have their mother to hug. Thinking about all that my mother, aunts and uncles have been through is humbling. Every year I wish I could tell them how proud their mother must be of them – how she sees their individual gifts and still knows their heart.

This year I practiced my haiku skills on their behalf with the intention of highlighting some of my favorite qualities of each of Lionelha’s children. The only person I don’t have direct knowledge of is my uncle Joseph who drown with my grandmother. I relied on his siblings’ shared opinion of him.

In honor of all of my aunts and uncles, and of course my own mother, who have enriched my life – thank you. My gratitude grows by the day. I love you.

Gifts From The Sea

One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach—waiting for a gift from the sea.” ― Anne Morrow Lindbergh

By Rachel on June 22, 2017

To be fully in a moment and to step back and quietly observe a moment are equally powerful exercises. In both we can be blissfully unaware of time. Some people paint those moments of observation, or sing them, or stitch or run them, or work their vocabulary over them. Some, probably the wisest of us, simply breath them, letting moments move like a steady stream through our consciousness. Full and empty in equal measure.

Most of the time we zoom right through our moments, hardly bothering to absorb much of what we are experiencing. Our agendas demand disconnectedness. The pressing needs of others command our attention. Even as we take hundreds of pictures (and post them!) we have already missed what we are trying to capture. Filtering our view through digital light, creating a frame so small in comparison to the limitlessness of what is around us.

As I move into my ‘wise’ years, I make efforts to slow down and observe, to breath with intention, to accept and move on. My well worn habits to the contrary make this a challenge, but there are always opportunities to reconnect with the now.

Last week I spent every morning on a balcony with a view of the barely recognizable distinction between ocean and sky. A horizon line that drew my eyes much further than they could actually see. Thick, humid air in my lungs, bird song in my ears, gratitude in every cell. Later I would swim out where no one could hear me, then float on my back, allowing myself to become part of the horizon, bellowing my thanks to the Universe as salty tears of joy disappeared beneath my weightless body.

Journal entry, June 11, 2017:

I rise at 6:30 Costa Rica time. I am alone with good coffee and the roaring ocean as it rolls to shore in its ceaseless effort to turn stone into sand.

The reminder that my humanness – ego and id – are simple matters to be easily pulled under and re-established as no matter of consequence, is a comfort. I count no more or less than a star fish. My troubles, my joys, mean little or nothing at all. As much as the shells that drift and settle to the bottom of the sea.

The idea that I don’t matter, that none of us really do, has always been a comfort to me. In cities it is hard to remember because the inventions of opposable thumbs and wild ego driven imaginations rule. But I’ve lived in snowy mountains, near fierce oceans, and in drought ridden country sides and I know that Nature will prevail. My only role is to be in each moment as it happens, sometimes stepping away to observe them.

Morning view of Playa Flamingo, Costa Rica from my balcony

This I believe | Uncategorized

“I believe the children are our are future, teach them well and let them lead the way” – Whitney Houston

By Rachel on June 7, 2017

“This I Believe, a 5th grade dialog about belief”

I was going to try my hand at a real ‘This I believe’ essay, but who can do that on a hot Texas Wednesday between your kid’s last day of school and a family vacation? Not this one.

This book was created as a fundraiser for my kid’s school and raise funds it did. Very exciting to make a good thing that goes on to make people happy and make money for a good cause.

Artifact Uprising is the best book maker I’ve experienced in a long time. What a superb job they did not only producing this book, but handling my frantic, deadline-is-looming needs. They literally overnighted it at no extra cost so I could be sure to deliver it to the gala committee the day of the gala mere hours before the auction. They infused me with calm confidence and no deadline shaming.

When the 5th grade parents ordered 24 more (a top seller!) they offered a significant bulk discount and delivered a day early. The color is vivid, the pages are lush and dense, the book jacket is rich to the touch. Simply beautiful.

It is 48 pages, 88 pictures plus 22 pieces of art manipulated into hundreds more. Matte book jacket over pacific blue cloth cover.

From the minds of not-quite-babes-anymore, I offer you the musings of just one 5th grade class, deep in the heart of Austin.

And – some music I know you are long over due for hearing. Please, turn it up and listen to the whole thing – sing with Ms. Whitney – you know you want to.