Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Seattle Model Search is on!
Under The Root is on the hunt for neck, arm, leg models.. message me or share with someone you think may throw wishes, and come Spring romp with us! xo
Friday, April 4, 2014
Friday, January 31, 2014
Fairy Tale About The Wicker Chair
written by Hermann Hesse
A young man sat in his solitary attic. His greatest desire was to become a painter, but first he had to overcome quite a few obstacles. To begin with, he lived peacefully in his attic, grew somewhat older, and became accustomed to sitting for hours in front of a small mirror and experimenting with painting self-portraits. He had already filled an entire notebook with such sketches, and he was very satisfied with some of them.
"Considering htat I never went to art school," he said to himself, "this sketch has turned out rather well. And that is an interesting wrinkle there next to the nose. You can see that I'm something of a thinker or something similar. I need only to lower the corner of the mouth a little. Then I'd have my own special expression, quite melancholy."
But when he reexamined the sketches sometime later, most of them no longer pleased him. That was irritating, but he concluded from this that he had made progress and was now placing greater demands himself.
The young man did not live in the most desirable attic, nor did he have a very agreeable relationship with the things lying and standing around this attic. However, it was not a bad relationship. He hardly noticed the objects and was not very familiar with them.
Whenever he failed to paint a good self-portrait, he read for a while from books and learned what had happened to other people who, like him, had begun as modest and completely unknown painters and then had become very famous. He liked to read such books and read his own future in them.
So one day he was again somewhat sullen and depressed and sat at home reading about a very famous Dutch painter. He read that this painter had been possessed by a true passion. Indeed, he was frenetic and completely governed by a drive to become a good painter. The young man found that he had many traits in common with this Dutch painter. As he read further, he also discovered many that did not exactly fit him. Among other things he read that whenever the Dutchman had not been able to paint outside due to bad weather, he had painted everything inside, even the tiniest object that met his eyes, unflinchingly and passionately. One time he had painted a pair of old wooden shoes, and another time an old crooked chair--a coarse, rough kitchen and peasant chair made out of ordinary wood, with a seat woven out of straw, quite tattered. The painter had painted this chair, which nobody certainly would have considered worth a glance, with so much love and dedication and with so much passion and devotion that it became one of his most beautiful pictures. The painter's biographer found many wonderful and appropriately touching words to say about this painted straw chair.
Here the reader stopped and contemplated. That was something new that he had to try. He decided immediately--for he was a young man who made very rash decisions--to imitate the example of this great master and to try this way to greatness.
He looked around in his attic and realized that he had actually not paid much attention to the things among which he lived. He did not find a crooked chair with a set woven out of straw anywhere; nor were there any wooden shoes. Therefore he was momentarily dejected and despondent, and he almost felt discouraged, as he had often felt whenever he read about the lives of great men. At those times he realized that all the little indicators and remarkable coincidences that had played roles in the lives of the others had not become apparent in his life, and he would wait in vain for them to appear. However, he soon pulled himself together and realized that it was now his task to be persistent and pursue his difficult path to fame. He examined all the objects in his little room and discovered a wicker chair that could serve him very well as a model.
He pulled the chair closer with his foot, sharpened his art pencil, took his sketch pad on his knee, and began to draw. After a couple of light first strokes, he seemed tohave captured the form sufficiently, and now he inked in the thick outlines with a few firm and powerful strokes. A deep triangular shadow in a corner attracted him, and he painted it full of strength, and so he continued until something began to disturb him.
He worked a little while longer. Then he held the sketch pad away from himself and examined his sketch carefully. His very first glance told him that he had completely failed to capture the wicker chair.
|John Foster Dyess|
Angrily he drew a new line into the sketch and fixed his eyes grimly on the chair. The sketch was still not right. It made him mad.
"You demonic wicker chair!" he screamed violently. "I've never seen a beast as moody as you are!"
The chair cracked a little and said with equanimity, "Yes, take a look at me! I am as I am, and I won't change myself anymore."
The painter kicked it with his toe. The chair swerved backward to avoid the kick and now looked completely different.
"You dumb chair!" the young man exclaimed. "Everything is crooked and wrong about you."
The wicker chair smiled a little and said softly, "That's what's called perspective, young man."
The painter jumped up. "Perspective!" he yelled furiously. "Now this clown of a chair comes and wants to play schoolteacher. Perspective is my affair, not yours. Remember that!"
The chair said nothing more. The painter stomped loudly back and forth a few times until someone began pounding beneath the floor with a cane. An elderly man, a scholar, lived under him, and he could not bear the noise.
The young man sat down and looked at his last self-portrait. But it did not please him. He found that he looked more handsome and interesting in reality, and that was the truth.
Now he wanted to read his book again, but there was more in the book about the Dutch straw chair, which irritated him. He now felt that the writer had really made much too much of it, and after all...
The young man looked for his artist's hat and decided to go out. He remembered that he had long ago been struck by the fact that painting was not very fulfilling. One had nothing but bother and disappointments, and in the end even the best painter in the world could portray only the simple surface of objects. For a man who loved the profound aspects of life, it was no profession for him in the long run. And once more he seriously thought, as he had done many times, about following an even earlier inclination and becoming a writer instead of a painter. The wicker chair remained behind in the attic. It was sorry that its young master had gone. It had hoped that a decent relationship could finally develop between the two of them. It would have liked at times to speak a word, and it knew that it certainly had many valuable things to teach a young man. But unfortunately nothing ever came of this.
|James Gulliver Hancock|
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Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Week 2 of the Armoire Wonderment Inventory Clearout
The decision has been made to offer a leap and bound discount every week on Wednesdays. I personally agree with Wednesdays most of the time. They do not stand in the way and open a breathe of aire like the tallest perch you can see from your window. Yes, Wednesdays will do. As each week may be juxtaposed with new ideas, so flies the weekly design love from our Under The Root shop.
This is week two of a bit more brilliance by the continuation of 50 percent off an entire section of the ready to ship designs. The prices all reflect the decrease. This discount will be ongoing for one week, until next Wednesday begins the succeeding design choice on the chopping block. There are nearly 40 pieces ready to go and sparkly and new. The sizes range from small to large with the measurements listed with each design. There are lingerie drawer satchets, arm spats, and blindfolds too.
The authentic reason for these peculiar discounts is to deplete the materials in our stock, for the next evolution can certainly use some padding of the kitty. We have aspirations for using organic hemp in our designs.. possibly added organic materials as well. That's right, it is time to move into a more sustainable, extra whopping, super monster fireflies on these pieces. Yes, there will continue limited, one of a kind materials in the work for some designs, but I am ravenous to push the envelope of what is possible with hemp... and it is essential to inquire for your assistance in the purchase of materials process. You receive our designs at out of the ordinary prices as we build the revenue for extraordinary materials of the future.
read more or purchase...
Monday, January 27, 2014
The project of KT Niehoff. It is the container for her creative works in all forms: performance, commissions, writing, film, teaching and research. Lingo expands and contracts in numbers depending on the demands of the work, yet is centered around a reoccurring cast of characters who have been instrumental in the creation of Lingo's vision.
In the last three years (2009-present), these bravehearts, lunatics, magicians, actors and yes, dancers, include: Bianca Cabrera, Shaun Kardinal, Aiko Kinoshita, Jody Kuehner, Ricki Mason, Michael Rioux, Kelly Sullivan, Ivory Smith, Aaron Swartzman, Evan Ritter, Scott Colburn, Markeith Wiley, Ben Delacreme, Joanne Whitzkowski, Alex Martin and others.
Lingo Productions has been presented internationally in Canada (Dancing on the Edge Festival, Vancouver BC), Japan (Alti Buyoh festival, Kyoto / Tori Hall, Osaka), Ecuador (Alas de la Danza, Quito - with support from Arts International), Germany (as one of four companies chosen to represent the U.S. at the 2004 Tanzmesse, Düsseldorf) and Cuba (Cuidad en Movimento, Havana). Nationally, the company has been presented by venues including On the Boards, Seattle, The Joyce SoHo, NYC, SUSHI, San Diego, Alverno Presents, Milwaukee, Jacob's Pillow Inside/Out Festival, The Southern Theater, Minneapolis (through an NEA funded touring initiative Niehoff created called SCUBA), The Oregon Britt Festival and Vanderbilt University, Nashville, as well as many colleges and universities throughout the U.S.
Lingo's artistic integrity has been recognized by such institutions as The National Endowment for the Arts, The National Dance Project, The National Performance Network, Meet the Composer, Seattle, Washington and King County Arts Commissions, Arts International, The Bossak/Heilbron Foundation and the Jack Straw Foundation.
Just as I found this womyn.. there was a moment of clarity in the future for her work.
excerpt written by Mariko Nagashima for Seattle Dances
Friday, January 24, 2014
|Enjoy Life, It's Delicious|
written by Aimee Bender
found within Fairy Tale Review
I once knew a girl who wouldn't eat apples. She wove her walking around groves and orchards. She didn't even like to look at them. They're all mealy, she said. Or else too cheeky, too bloomed. No, she stated again, in case we had not heard her, our laps brimming with Granny Smiths and Red Deliciouses. With Galas and Spartans and yellow Golden Globes. But we had heard her, from the very first; we just couldn't help offering again. Please, we pleaded, eat. Cracking our bites loudly, exposing the dripping wet white inside.
|Apples of New York|
It's unsettling to meet people who don't eat apples.
The rest of us, now, eat only apples, to compensate. She has declared herself so apple-less, we feel we have no other choice. We sit in the orchard together, cross-legged, and when they fall off the trees into our outstretched hands, we bite right in. They are pale green, striped red-on-red, or a yellow and orange sunset. They are the threaded Fujis, with streaks of woven jade and beige, or the dark and rosy Rome Beauties. Pippins, Pink Ladies, Braeburns, Macintosh. The orchard grows them all.
|Pommes De France|
We suck water off the meat. Drink them dry. We pick apple skin out from the spaces between our teeth. We eat the stem and the seeds. And for the moment, there are enough beauties bending the branches for all of us to stay fed for awhile. We circle around the core, teeth busy, and while we chew, we watch the girl circle our orchard, in her long swishing skirts, eyes averted.
One day we see her, and it's too much. She is so beautiful on this day, her skin as wide and open as a river. We could swim right down her. It's unbearable to just let her walk off, and all at once, we abandon our laps of apples and run over. Her hair is so long and wheatlike you could bake it into bread. For a second our hearts pang for bread. Bread! We've been eating only apples now for weeks.
We close in; we ring her. Her lips fold into each other; our lips skate all over her throat, her bare wrists, her empty palms. We kiss her like we've been starving and she tilts her head down so she doesn't have to look at us. We knead her hair and kiss down the long line of her leg beneath the shift of her skirt. We pray to her and our breath is ripe with apple juice. You can see the tears start races down her face while our hands moe in to touch the curve of her breasts and scoop of her neckline. She is so new. There are pulleys in her skin. Our fingers, all together, work their way to her bare body, past the voluminous yards of cloth. Past those loaves of hair. We find her in there, and she is so warm and so alive and we see the tears, but stop? Impossible. We breathe in, closer. Her eyelashes brighten with water. Her shoulders tremble like doves. She is weeping into our arms, she is crumpling down and we are inside her clothes now and our hands and mouths are everywhere. There's no sound at all but the slip of skin and her crying and apples in the orchard thumping, un-caught: our lunches and dinners and breakfasts. It's an unfamiliar sound, because for weeks now, we have not let even ove single fruit hit dirt.
|Apples of New York|
She cries through it all and when we're done and piled around her, suddenly timid and spent, suddenly withered nothings, she is the first to stand. She gathers her skirts around herself, and smoothes back down her hair. She wipes her eyes clear and folds her hands around her waist. She is away from the orchard before we can stand properly and beg her to stay. Before we can grovel and claw at her small perfect feet. We watch her walk and she's slow and proud but none of us can possibly catch her. We splay on the ground in a circle instead as she gets smaller and smaller on the horizon.
She never comes by the orchard again, and in a week, all the apples are gone. They fall off the trees and the trees make no new ones. The air smells like snow on the approach. No one dares to mention her but every morning, all of our eyes are fixed on the road, waiting, hoping, staring through the bare branches of an empty orchard. Our stomachs rumble, hungry. The sky is always this same sort of blue. It is so beautiful here.