miscellaneous doings placed here for now with informal musings ...
soon they will have their own spot on home page
scroll all the way down for a true dumping of miscellaneous images

super 8
ektachrome stills in Lucca

‘baby receipt books’ !
receipt photo rolls scanned & formatted in indesign image by image
printed as a booklet, then hand sewn with red vellum covers
titled inside with place & time period of the roll using typewriter
lovingly stamped & mailed via post
reproducing & sharing the photos with others ... 
along the way creating an archive for myself
( these delicate photos that can / will fade ! )

example of receipt paper photo vs. color version from sd card

first three photos taken & edited by alicia gong, fourth by tiff cheung ( 2023 )
other modeling risd apparel design modeling photos here ( 2022 )

the true miscellaneous

messing around with binder clips & draping -- yet to sew this

quick ‘lab coat’ made for science party
body from muslin and sleeves from extra plain t-shirts
left inside out to show the red thread
later used pattern for american psycho party raincoat -- last two photos

a new addition : a link to my are.na board of my collection of word from research, tabbed pages in books, lovely words ... like a pinterest board for letters.

it includes the poem below by ted hughes: the last poem in his shocking book Birthday Letters that was his first true sounding of his voice on his and Sylvia Plath’s relationship & her death
adding the link to the are.na board here for the first time is inspired by my inability to type as much as I would like to on my typewriter, and wanting this poem to exist somewhere someone could read but me
( as an example, see Sylvia Plath’s first part of Tulips I transcribed with my typewriter in the first few pages of Book of Red: Volume 3 )

Red by Ted Hughes
Red was your colour.
If not red, then white. But red
Was what you wrapped around you.
Blood-red. Was it blood?
Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?
Haematite to make immortal
The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.

When you had your way finally
Our room was red. A judgement chamber.
Shut casket for gems. The carpet of blood
Patterned with darkenings, congealments.
The curtains — ruby corduroy blood,
Sheer blood-falls from ceiling to floor.
The cushions the same. The same
Raw carmine along the window-seat.
A throbbing cell. Aztec altar — temple.

Only the bookshelves escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
Poppies thin and wrinkle-frail
As the skin on blood,
Salvias, that your father named you after,
Like blood lobbing from the gash,
And roses, the heart’s last gouts,
Catastrophic, arterial, doomed.

Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgandy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.

You revelled in red.
I felt it raw — like crisp gauze edges
Of a stiffening wound. I could touch
The open vein in it, the crusted gleam.

Everything you painted you painted white
Then splashed it with roses, defeated it,
Leaned over it, dripping roses,
Weeping roses, and more roses,
Then sometimes, among them, a little blue

Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.
Kingfisher blue silks from San Francisco
Folded your pregnancy
In crucible caresses.
Blue was your kindly spirit — not a ghoul
But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful.

In the pit of red
You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness.

But the jewel you lost was blue.


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copyright 2024 Anastasia Chase / STSA