Sunday

Happy Sunday. I designed this psychedelic cross for a lady at my grandparents' church who cross stitches crucifixes for christenings. This weekend I've been sewing, sewing, sewing and it might not ever stop.

Slow progress

The Edge has taken over for a couple of weeks. Now it is back to the final project with gusto.

Letterpress in progress

Here's some work in progress for the Edge of Print exhibition. I typeset and printed the type at the wonderful Hand & Eye letterpress and foundry. Above is a drawing I made there, looking past the two Heidelbergs out to the street. I am so pleased to be returning to Hand & Eye for my reportage illustration project! 

The Edge of Print

http://theedgeofprint.tumblr.com/

https://twitter.com/#!/edgeofprint

Introducing 'The Edge of Print', an exhibition exploring process, limitations and edges. A joint show from Kingston design students, this has been such an exciting project to work on and we can't wait to show our outcomes at the Stour Space in Hackney Wick, bang opposite the new Olympic stadium. Show begins on Thursday and lasts all of March. Visit http://theedgeofprint.tumblr.com/ for sneak previews and work in progress. The super invite to the private view is featured on this week's It's Nice That - Things here . See you there! 

Making things

 Playtime worktime: experiments from the last month in the studio.

Ice

Best use of energy saving bulbs ever at Morelli's ice cream parlour, Broadstairs.

Commuted sentence

Roofs that top buildings like sad caps. Chimneys that quit the habit. Livers touched by fumes and exhaust, tired limbs and overworked minds. Slippery paving, sticky stones and guiding rails unwilling to let go. The walls are flypaper and sooner or later we'll get caught, trapped in amber light that does not harden to rock but melts like honey, leaving only a bothering slick on the pavement. 

Washed and brushed and sluiced over morning juice hawked from forecourts. Fuelled by overpriced oats, yogurt souring the teeth on the Waterloo and City line. The wait is ossified time, bodies slaked in lime and cast together slightly wet at the edges from coffee. Fingers wander ridges and lids pressed up erupt with steam. We disembark two by two into the light and bite of day from night, coughed up gravelly steps soundtracked by glottal stops. Gingerly resting hands on chill rails, hoping for sales, cursing the wind that carries our ship to every port of call then dies suddenly, becalmed just when we think we're getting somewhere.