Tag: Acid Art

You will find moments in your past that shape our vision. Dealing with my childhood photo albums, I catch a glimpse of Anna in the early grades, a basic girl who, if she were alive, will not understand how during grade 4, she was pointing the right way to freedom of expression. You will find there’s lesson here which will come in handy for moms and dads and grandparents.

We have often wondered if Anna’s life may have taken an alternative turn had she lived her early grades within the sixties once the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed with the aid of ink blotters in class. Children of the fifties, we learnt writing the difficult way–with steel-nibbed pens which we drizzled with ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience in a mud-bath. It took us months to understand the ability of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; if you wanted to save lots of time, you would be far wiser to try out the tortoise.

But Anna wasn’t any turtle. Her mind moved quicker than light; she was figuring a way to Bali once we were stuck within the grade 3 reader; within the fourth grade, when those of us with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she may find anything passionate than Japanese prints.

I remember Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an action of God and that the writer would find his share of godliness within the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. From the three, the blotter was one of the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is dependent upon the way you control a lot of it.” There were anything more that would have to be controlled also, in accordance with Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down at the child, her eyes blue and hard above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”

When Anna viewed her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew a quick, thin line over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.

I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For a while, it seemed as though Anna had learnt her lesson. However, if I peered more closely over her shoulder, I remarked that it turned out the blotter that’s absorbing her interest. She had dribbled a place in the top right-hand corner of the sheet; she stuck the nib in the center of the location and watched the darkness grow; several details together with the nib along with the blotch has been a little bit of chocolate, its center dissolving in a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches around the absorbent paper plus much more dabs before entire blotter turned into some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.

Away from her desk came more blotter sheets. As opposed to holes, she made lines on this occasion, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from one corner to another location; she paused just good enough to thicken the guts stretch without having to break the flow before entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths along with the blotter sat to be with her desk as being a chocolate web.

It turned out an early on version of Acid Art, so distinctive it made flowing hair stand on end. But Sister Mary Michael can’t quite see that.
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You can find moments in our past that shape our vision. Dealing with my childhood photo albums, I catch a look at Anna noisy . grades, a quiet girl who, if she remained alive, won’t know how even in grade 4, she was pointing the best way to freedom of expression. There is a lesson here that comes in handy for fogeys and grandparents.

I’ve often wondered if Anna’s life might have taken an alternative turn had she lived her early grades from the sixties in the event the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed with the aid of ink blotters at school. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing hard way–with steel-nibbed pens which we drizzled with ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience in a mud-bath. It took us months to find out the skill of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; if you wanted to avoid wasting time, choosing far wiser to experience the tortoise.

But Anna wasn’t any turtle. Her mind moved faster than light; she was figuring a way to Bali when we remained stuck from the grade 3 reader; from the fourth grade, when folks with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she might find nothing more passionate than Japanese prints.

I remember Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an act of God which the true writer would find his share of godliness from the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. With the three, the blotter was the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is determined by how you control a lot of it.” There was clearly much else that would have to be controlled also, according to Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down on the child, her eyes blue and hard above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”

When Anna looked at her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew an easy, little difference over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.

I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For a time, it seemed as if Anna had learnt her lesson. When I peered more closely over her shoulder, I realized that it was the blotter that has been absorbing her interest. She’d dribbled a location at the top right-hand corner with the sheet; she stuck the nib in the heart of the location and watched the darkness grow; a few details together with the nib along with the blotch had been a part of chocolate, its center dissolving in a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches around the absorbent paper and more dabs before the entire blotter become some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.

Beyond her desk came more blotter sheets. As opposed to holes, she made lines this time, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from corner to the next; she paused just good enough to thicken the center stretch without having to break the flow before the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths along with the blotter sat for my child desk as being a chocolate web.

It turned out a young form of Blotter Art, so distinctive it made nice hair stand on end. But Sister Mary Michael cannot quite notice that.
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You will find moments in your past that shape our vision. Going through my childhood photo albums, I catch a look at Anna in early grades, an abandoned girl who, if she were alive, won’t know how even just in grade 4, she was pointing the right way to freedom of expression. There exists a lesson here which will come in handy for folks and grandparents.

I’ve often wondered if Anna’s life may have taken an alternative turn had she lived her early grades from the sixties once the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed with the aid of ink blotters at school. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing the hard way–with steel-nibbed pens which we dipped in ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience into a mud-bath. It took us months to understand the skill of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; if you really wanted to save lots of time, you would be far wiser to try out the tortoise.

But Anna had not been turtle. Her mind moved quicker than light; she was figuring a means to Bali when we were stuck from the grade 3 reader; from the fourth grade, when those of us with older siblings counseled me agog over Elvis, she might find nothing more passionate than Japanese prints.

Going Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an act of God which the actual writer would find his share of godliness from the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. Of the three, the blotter was one of the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is determined by the method that you control a lot of it.” There was clearly anything more that should be controlled too, in accordance with Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down on the child, her eyes blue and difficult above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”

When Anna viewed her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew an easy, thin line over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.

I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For some time, it seemed as if Anna had learnt her lesson. When I peered more closely over her shoulder, I pointed out that it turned out the blotter that has been absorbing her interest. She’d dribbled a spot in the top right-hand corner in the sheet; she stuck the nib in the heart of the location and watched the darkness grow; a couple of details together with the nib and also the blotch was a bit of chocolate, its center dissolving into a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches around the absorbent paper plus more dabs prior to the entire blotter converted into some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.

Beyond her desk came more blotter sheets. As opposed to holes, she made lines now, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from corner to another; she paused just of sufficient length to thicken the middle stretch without breaking the flow prior to the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and also the blotter sat for my child desk like a chocolate web.

It absolutely was an early on sort of Acid Art, so distinctive it made nice hair climb onto end. But Sister Mary Michael can’t quite observe that.
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