Bonnie unit, Paris -- ha, that was autocorrected from Bonne nuit!

Have arrived in Paris with a marked sense of optimism. Everything went smoothly today, everyone I met was helpful, if not downright jolly!, I had to pay less for the bass than I expected, it arrived in one piece, my taxi driver carried it into the hotel for me, and I think the friendly desk worker at the hotel gave me free breakfast for the next two days. I wonder if isn't the spectacle that I am that makes people be nice to me--gigantic bass, little me--but whatever, I'll take it.

In the cab on the way to the hotel, heard a French version of the 80's hit, Always something there to remind me:

What?! Is it possible that this is in fact the original version of the song?!?

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rAE1vglkv7g

You be the judge.

Snow is better than slud

Snow is a lot better than slud [sloohð], and that's a fact. (Watch out for the soft d at the end there. Sounds like an "l" but with the tongue touching your bottom teeth.) Slud is, I guess, sleet, though it's hard for me to confirm because I haven't lived anywhere prone to sleeting in 15 years and these things are easily erased by season after season of California sunshine.

Happily, there was, recently, quite a lot of California sunshine in my life. I hadn't been back in two years. It felt less like home than I remembered. Or, truer, I felt less like its native daughter. I couldn't remember how to get anywhere! Neighborhoods appeared between the hills like unknown lands. Things looked like I remembered, but more, or less, real. I took the dialect quiz in the New York Times (here's the link) and a lot of those random, self-defining signifiers looked familiar to me, but I had no idea which one actually fit. Sometimes, I do use "y'all" but not in all situations, and less than when I first moved to Europe--at which point I used it more, to reinforce my personal identity as an American / Austinite. Coke? Pop? Soda? I don't know. The first day I was back in SF, my friends told me I looked "Euro". What does it mean? I remember thinking, some years ago, that it had something to do with cheesy club culture and fake zippers. But now? When I moved to Denmark, none of my clothes seemed right. None were waterproof, for one thing. But now, going back to SF, again--nothing was right. Skirt, the wrong length. Tights and boots instead of no socks and sneakers. Everything too warm, or wrong for layering. Also, recently, my California driver's license expired, and you know, I can't get a new one unless I'm living in the States. I do have a driver's license, I got it in Switzerland (in the nick of time) and it never expires, so that's cool. Probably sometime I should transfer it to Denmark, since I live here now. But the point, of course, is that without realizing it, I'm slowly letting go of many of the American, or Californian, or even Texan signifiers that were formerly and unthinkingly a part of my behavior, speech, and wardrobe. Even the term "letting go" implies too much awareness of the process. I am losing them, they are leaving me, as I grope for the simplest words and find myself saying things out loud that I've only read in books or articles during the last four years.

Sense of self, as it turns out, is a moving target.
Fortunately, the beach was just as I remembered it.

return

At some point, I woke up. My first night of sleep back in Denmark, and clearly I had failed miserably; I could hear a man laughing in a nearby apartment. Andrew seemed to be sleeping. Had I only managed two or three hours of sleep? No light came in through the curtain. But then, and I don't think I closed my eyes, Andrew's alarm went off -- it was nearly 8, and I had, in fact, slept through the night, though it had been impossible to tell because of the darkness lingering outside.

Greenland.

River.

Many things, many things. First - the new book. Conceptualized on and off over a year or so, but written, created, and printed in Basel in August, during the 10-day International Printmaking Residency that I organized at druckwerk. Surrounded by friends.

Basel, in summation.

Friends, in summation. In a minivan.

Conceptualization, in summation.

Alps, hard to summarize.

Hand inking a river, in brief.

Sad to see 'em go, the friends. Nice to be home, of course, but you know, missing, all that. Nowadays I go to the print shop and work on editioning the book. Took some pictures of the first book I assembled:

The shop here, called Al Hambra & Sons, where I have my press and sell my work (theoretically), is a nice place to come every day. Friendly people, lots of space. We officially opened the boutique to the public on August 23rd, it felt like a big success. We were all worn out after, seems like a good sign. Still working on a website, but so far we've got this.

preparing for the opening

looking in

setting up displays

I have acquired a bit of wooden type, exciting. I've even had a chance to use it already. So despite the fact that the dark falls noticeably earlier every day, I've got plenty to keep me busy.

c'est arrivé

et, voilà!

Viborg-ing

So at the end of May, I went to Viborg for ten days to have a little retreat, in order to come up with some new projects to make. (It's been a while.) It was incredibly nice. I stayed at the Brænderigården, a former brandy distillery that is now a contemporary art museum, where there is a graphic workshop and a "villa" where visiting artists stay. I was the only person around at the villa, and so had a lovely perfect quiet room to stay in. The museum is situated just on the edge of the lake, and is a quick walk from the center of town. The night I got in, I had a lovely long walk around the lake. It took me a long time, of course, because I was dawdling, taking pictures of things, picking leaves off nice-looking trees and bushes, and the like.

Just down the lake from the museum is Vingaards Officin, and during the week I went there to meet the guys, see the presses, and take proofs of the linoleum blocks I had been cutting.

MEGAN MAKES A MESS

At Vingaards, I had the chance to print myself a little logo using some of their incredible type:

How about that Ø. Yes.

But one of the most special parts of my time in Viborg was my visit to the west coast of Denmark with my new friends, Bent and Bodil. Bent I know from Druckwerk, he worked as a typesetter before his retirement, and Bodil worked at a library. She retired just three months ago. They are both from the west coast, and knew just where to take me.

This beach is just near the town of Ferring. There is so much wind out here that you don't see many trees. Just down the beach is a lighthouse, called Bovbjerg. It's a nice view from the top. Looks almost like the drive from Half Moon Bay down to Santa Cruz. Know what I mean?

On the way to the lighthouse there was this special thing:

WHEN WILL THIS BUNKER BECOME PART OF THE SKY

Painted blue by an artist who lived out by the ocean, tired of looking at the same old grey WW2 bunkers, standing out against the green grass and yellow rapeseed and of course the ocean and sky.

We walked back along the water's edge, pausing to pick up many interesting rocks along the way.

granite!

After our walk, Bent & Bodil magically produced a folding picnic table and camp stools, and a very lovely homemade lunch including freshly baked bread, cheese, yogurt, and a tasty salad. Plus, how perfect, a tiny bottle of wine. They set up in a lee provided by a museum dedicated to the artist mentioned above. The sun was out, we were protected from the wind, and a lark hung in the air nearby making its special lark-noises.

Scenes like this make me excited for my retirement! Or, at the very least, for my next trip out to western Jutland. 

Press Installation!

It has arrived.

After a day on the pallet, two massively strong dudes arrived to move it into place. I think they brought special equipment for the job, but then decided to just muscle it over. There was grunting involved.

Nearly sculptural.

Anyway, then I cleaned it, as it smelled vaguely of horse shit.

And after that, and a few days of head scratching and general procrastination, I finally put ink on the press! Yesterday. Finally. That's a feather lino block I cut while in Viborg.

Breakfast, dinner.
Cherries that were formerly in the bowl, I have just eaten. Summer solstice approaches. Writing and reading, farting around, snacking off of other people's plates. Two days ago I made a joke about becoming a scary grandmother, serving people salad using my bare hands, whether they wanted salad or not. Then, last night, without thinking about it, I did exactly that! Or, nearly. Dreams can come true, is what I'm saying.

CASE IN POINT.
It has happened, of late, that I have moved into a big lovely storefront on a wide, tree-lined street, a quiet but major thoroughfare that begins at a hip and trendy corner, and ends at the entrance to a park. In this storefront, which is possessed of two huge plate glass windows and several rooms comprising over 2000 square feet, several other artists-printers-designers and I are in the process of turning the space into a workshop and boutique. I don't have any pictures of this yet. Part of the reason for this is that my press has not yet arrived from the countryside, and so I have as yet had nothing to focus my attention and affections upon; the other reason is that our building has recently erected 5 stories of scaffolding, then covered that with sheet plastic, so at the moment the light isn't so good. But they've given us two months rent-free to make up for the inconvenience. Anyway, we need time to get everything set up.

The press I will be receiving is being cleaned and oiled, just now, by a new friend of mine who lives in Viborg, a city 4.5 hours west and in the middle of the part of Denmark that is attached to Germany. He, Bent, is involved with a working museum of printing and book making out there, called Vingaards Officin, after the German printer (Herr Weingarten) who came up to Viborg during the Reformation. The museum is currently housed in an old garage and has no fewer than 3 Intertype machines (for casting lines of type from lead - also known as a linotype machine), two Heidelberg presses, an Eickhoff (Danish-made) cylinder press, and a small Korrex cylinder press. And type. And some friendly guys, retired from their jobs as printers and binders and machine-fixers and teachers. One of them, it turned out, had grandparents who had moved to Austin, Texas, maybe a hundred years ago. Back when it was a tiny town! They had a son, this guy's father, and then eventually moved back to Denmark, leaving sweet, hot, dusty Austin far behind. I visited this place not too long ago, but that will be another post.

printed in Viborg.

Today, I begin a short project with Concerto Copenhagen that will take us to Potsdam, near Berlin, for the weekend.

Also, today, rain, after several weeks of perfect weather. On days like this, I can take a taxi with the bass and feel no guilt. Thanks, rain!