new

These are some paintings in progress I worked on at the end of the summer/beginning of fall. None of them are finished at all, but the top one is probably the closest. The artwork I have been doing lately seems a bit more intuitive/impulsive and less conceptually driven than in the past. I consider design, composition, color, and leave the rest to the part of me that is smarter than my everyday self. I think if I work this way for awhile, I will get an idea of where I want to take my work and bring more intentionality back into it.

Soon I am going up to Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan to work for awhile. I will have time and space to focus on making artwork and writing poems. I can't wait. I am looking forward to lots of snow, learning to snowboard or ski, and staying in. Sitting by the fire, reading lots, drinking hot chocolate.

This will be a good year. I have no resolutions as such, but do intend to be very productive.

silver beach

These are photos of my grandparents and my mom's family from 1966. I love the colors and clothing and poses. Somehow candids taken today just don't capture life quite the same way.

christmas collage

this is a collage I made as a christmas gift for my sister.

some works-in-progress to be uploaded tomorrow.

happy almost new year everyone!

broadside

This is the completed broadside I did for the poetry reading at the Kalamazoo Book Arts Center. The poets all signed the broadside too, but that's not pictured here.

great alternative christmas tree

this year's tree, originally uploaded by ATLITW.

I would keep this up year round!

Kalamazoo people--the best thing coming

Featuring poets:

Lily Brown
Amanda Nadelberg
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

and presenting a commemorative broadside
with works by each poet created by artist Nikkita Cohoon

view the current exhibition:
A Celebration of Michigan Prints


free and open to the public!

--

Lily Brown was born in Boston, Massachusetts and currently lives and teaches in Chicago, Illinois. She holds an M.F.A. from Saint Mary's College of California, and her poems have appeared in Fence, Pleiades, Octopus, Typo, Tarpaulin Sky, and Handsome, among other journals. Her first chapbook, The Renaissance Sheet, was published by Octopus Books in 2007, and her second chapbook, Old with You, is forthcoming from Kitchen Press this winter.

Amanda Nadelberg is the author of Isa the Truck Named Isadore (Slope Editions, 2006). Her poems have appeared in journals like Conduit, Vanitas, Typo, jubilat and No: a journal of the arts. A graduate of Carleton College, she is currently attending the Iowa Writers Workshop.

Born and raised in Seattle, Joshua Marie Wilkinson is the author of three books and two more are forthcoming: The Book of Whispering in the Projection Booth (Tupelo 2009) and 12x12: Conversations in 21st Century Poetry & Poetics (Iowa 2009). After stints in Prague, Spain, Turkey, and Slovakia, and some years in the Arizona, Colorado, and Ireland he has recently settled in Chicago. For the last 5 years he's been making a tour film about the band Califone with Solan Jensen called Made a Machine by Describing the Landscape. And three new chapbooks--A Brief History of Gossip (Dos Press), Cold Faction (Further Adventures), and Until the Lantern's Shaky Song (Cinematheque Press)--are all forthcoming. He teaches creative writing and literature at Loyola University.

artists i'm digging

Craig Atkinson is an artist working in the UK and also the shop owner of Cafe Royal Press--a great line of t-shirts, zines, and other great things. His website showcases some of his work, as well as his sketchbooks--both as images and videos.




I love the combination of found images, collage, and drawing. His sketchbooks have a very lived in look. You can tell he is constantly recording his surroundings in a unique way.

Joe Baglow is another UK artist I really enjoy. Much of his work is in book form and full of strange juxtapositions and quirky illustrations.



Although his website appears to be in Danish (I'm guessing), Gitte Bach's drawings speak for themselves. I love how fresh his simple graphite drawings are. I often use drawing as a means to an end, but this makes me reconsider.



Camilla Engman has been one of my favorite artists for awhile now. She has great paper collages as well as wonderfully layered paintings. Recently, she paired up with artist Elisabeth Dunker to create Studio Violet, a wonderful collaboration between the two.





More of my own work soon.

imbibing

loving: blueprints, architecture, found geometric shapes

as well as organic ones

I am learning to take notice. To take where I am and make it worthwhile. A corner of my bedroom is my workspace (it often spills out from that corner). My back is constantly hunched over one thing or another. I am writing and thinking and making marks. Appreciating brushstrokes. Learning to layer. Drinking coffee. Recording, making notes.

inspired

My new goal is to take my camera with me more places. I encounter a lot of great designs in antique and salvage stores, but only have my phone to document them most of the time.




I love each of these individually, but even the arrangment and the nails they are hanging on is great.









I saw these when we went apple picking today. I love how the letter forms look stacked side by side and on top of each other.

the website is finally up! please go visit

http://nikkitacohoon.com

fingertips

i am starting to read again. there are lots of possibilities but nothing has been realized yet. i half think of things. the other half is a little hard to grasp yet. but i trust it will be closer soon.

lots of nothing and too much

currently:

:: working on my new website nikkitacohoon.com
:: applying for gazillions of jobs
:: living at my parent's house
:: repainting the room I live in (it's covered with little girl graffiti and sponged flowers)
:: setting up a studio in my parent's basement

hope to soon:

:: find a fulfilling job
:: move into an apartment (maybe with an extra bedroom i can use as a studio)
:: read, write, & create lots

i know i've been missing for awhile, but i'll try to be around more often, so keep visiting!

the great frontier

These last couple years have been full of really short chapters. Or maybe not chapters, maybe section breaks.

memphis

[sb]

chicago

[sb]

italy

[sb]

memphis (finale)

[sb]

michigan

[sb]

minneapolis

[and now I think it's time for an end to the chapter]

It's nice that the future can be so uncertain but so full of potential at the same time. I am looking forward to my upcoming (plane/road) trip on thursday, spending time with my family and seeing old friends in michigan later this may, getting married to the best person ever, starting a new life with him and in general.

I can feel things bubbling in my mind, ideas of where I'd like to take my artwork, things I'd like to make and do. I'm thinking drawings on found or old paper (or objects?), something that already has a history attached to it and gets recontextualized when something new is added to it. Various collage elements, lots of layers. I want to do something with momentum, something I can come back to again and again, but still has enough room to evolve and grow on its own. I think I need to do some writing and sketching and photographing and I think going home will be a good time to do that. I will be unpacking and repacking and sorting and sifting and I hope it will all come together.

For now, I will try to enjoy the solitude. Allow little comforts, let things germinate. Big things are coming.

don't observe, ignore, shut up

I'm tired of all the blogs whining about National Poetry Month.

I want a home.

printmakers and thiefs

My favorite etching plate is a line etching I did of my friend in Italy. I wish I could do a portrait of every single person I care about on a small plate like that, drawing from life, directly onto the (with a layer of the red transfer paper) plate.

Last semester I had the idea of doing a series of memory drawings of different objects and people and impressions. The problem is my memory drawing is shit. I hoped it would be that good quirky shit drawing, that is not actually shit, but just a little off in an interesting way. Unfortunately that idea was only good in theory. Maybe I'll write a series of memory drawings instead of actually drawing them. Then everyone could just imagine how awesome the drawings could be. Probably, if I just drew more in general, I could do drawings without too much appropriation. Maybe the secret is that all those people with the seemingly spontaneous drawings do it the same way I do. Steal steal steal. Although is drawing from life stealing? Not that there's anything wrong with that . . .

my job hat is hanging on the hook

I know it's been awhile. My sister surprised me with a visit so I've been playing the (perhaps a little boring) hostess this week. Also performing some very exciting poetry experiments in the meantime. With my internship nearing a close, my upcoming nuptials this summer, and the question of where Ian and I will be after that, the you have to become a grownup monster has been breathing down the back of my neck lately and bashing him with a club doesn't seem to deter him. Sometimes I get very excited thinking about all the possibilities . . . start a fine-art/poetry press? become a working artist/printmaker/writer/etc.? work at a (non-fine-art) press or do something editorial? get a completely unrelated day job that allows time to do am mixture of all those things? . . . but sometimes those possibilites can be daunting. Too many choices, and too many directions. So it's nice to remember that there are many others out there who have faced the same thing.

A great interview with Marcia Zia Priven on decor8 today. I especially loved when she said:

There is no definitive choice. Nothing has to remain the same and you can always change your job, your direction, your life. Really. And trust me, I’ve done it many a time. I’ve had gallery shows of my paintings, been a store owner, a set painter, a set decorator, production designer, a lousy novelist and had a brief job at a photo studio in which I was fired after 2 months.

We have become so career driven that we tend to think our jobs are our life, not just an aspect of them that offers a little padding and security. Sure, it's nice if it can also provide motivation or inspiration, but we still go on when the workday ends and thank God. I suppose artists don't get off so easily because that's not something that ever shuts down, but a little perspective can go a long way.

"April is the cruelist month"

happy poetry month everyone!



does anyone have special plans for this month?

I think it'd be great if poets had something like nanowrimo, in which people write a novel in one month. poets would write a bookish amount of poems during the month of april and then get together at the end to share the shining bits. maybe next year.

What sort of lamb?

It's that time of the year where I go outside wearing a sweater even if it is really too cold for that. Because I keep hoping if I act like it is Spring, I'll find out that it really is Spring. Then days like this happen. Inches of snow on the ground, my car covered, and the wet nasty stuff coming down in chunks. You and I are not friends Snow.

Fig 1 is a

{
Maybe the best thing is to immerse yourself in things you barely, if at all, have the capacity to understand.
}

loving random

Good things about this weekend:

:: Last nights poetry reading at The Beat
:: Sleeping in
:: The Ten Commandments is on tonight (I know, I'm a nerd)
:: Working on my book

with what eyes? --sappho

List of remains left in my keeping:


Jar One
Remains stationary:



He sat it on a table, empty with possibilities. When she saw it, she told someone else to take it home. She did not know how to fill it and she could hear it laughing. A series of (one big?) jar poem(s) I am working on:

List of remains left in my keeping:


Jar One
Remains stationary:



He sat it on a table, empty with possibilities. When she saw it, she told someone else to take it home. She did not know how to fill it and she could hear it laughing.



Jar Two
Stored on a chain that hangs from left wrist:



Grandfather’s eyeballs are of course contained here; the blue is not so brilliant, glazed by death and no longer shaded by lids. A scrap of purple robe our mothers stole one Christmas absorbs the moisture that tears create from time to time. The gold plated pipe creates negative spaces to keep my own eyes from hazing. His flowered davenport was a tight fit but we saved it for the power it gave him to sleep.

In reviewing the contents I’ve decided to keep his sight for myself.



Jar Three
Sits between the two front seats of my car and I rummage through it habitually:



Nothing but buttons.



Jar Four
A two part mixture given to me by my mother:



Here too, a set of eyes because she always remarked on my hawk-like vision. We made silly putty impressions while we mastered the English language with a sharp tongue.



Jars Five Through Sixteen
Marked MEMOROBILIA—BASEMENT—STORAGE, rescued from darkness though it temporarily resides in my bedroom closet:



Hundreds of eyes; brittle illuminations with acidic stained backings; tattered photo corners; cobweb writing I try so hard to decipher; the last letter she wrote, her own eyes on the future (vision so impeccably clear), or was it her mothers she later projected?

These have yet to be properly catalogued, an incomplete list.



Jar Seventeen
The smallest in the collection, gripped often in right palm like some sort of talisman:


Holds only air but weighs heavily anyway.



Jar Eighteen
A beacon similar to a jar in Tennessee (not in my possession), guarded by one of the dogs who roams Pompeii:


Here some bone fragments—unidentified—clatter against the glass and long for sunlight.

Strategic blog names

Somewhere out there, an AOL search user is very disappointed because they thought they would find the key to time travel by visiting my blog. I wish I had an answer for you.

This is not the first query.

The best poems

involve lists.

Like these two from the last Summer's issue of Jubilat

This is an excerpt from a poem called Entry Forbidden by Deborah Gulob which borrows from a manual of "Conditions for Mailing" put out by the U.S. Postal Service. One of my favorite lists was for Italy.

Italy
Artificial flowers.
Bells.
Bonnets.
Chloroform.
Hair.
Leeches.
Ribbons for typewriters.

I can't think of a more beautiful list. I suppose Italy has enough bells of its own.

Kate Hall's poem, Dream In Which I am Allowed 12 Items reminds me childhood lists and games in which we tried to bend the rules, but so much better...

like an overloaded purse let me keep
the tools I have saved
needle-nosed pliers, severed
bird wing, cat-gut sutures let them be
tools let tools count as one thing

This weekend is a good time for some list-making of my own.

This is Spring.

In the North, we drive with our windows down as soon as it gets close to 40°.

frame by frame

I stumbled upon this video and fell in love. It is so simple, but the music pairs so well with the images and there is something about hand drawn animations that I really love. It reminded me of a video I saw at the Venice Bienalle last summer by Francis Alys. He filled a room full of the individual cells from the animation. The video is not the best quality, but it gives you an idea.



The juxtaposition of the lyric with the different postures of shoe shining is brilliant. In person, the subtleties of the animations were great. You can see in the gallery that each drawing is rather detailed. It's done on a translucent paper so it smudges easily, but to nice effect. A very feel good piece.





Images from Design Boom

I wish I could post my own photos from the Bieanale here, but my camera was long out of service by that point.

sketches from my roma moleskine

Since Italy has been on my mind lately, I thought I'd share some sketches I made there last summer. If you want a closer look, you can view them on my flickr set: paper bits.colors.collages

text in dialogue

A new show is up at The Beat coffee house today. I watched the artist, Annette Hartman, install and took a closer look. Many of the pieces are text oriented and very graphic, though sensitive and lovely. I enjoy her use of color and that each piece has something attractive and unique about it, while still dialogging with the others around it.

Much of the photos seem to focus on text in pre-existing environments, while other examples seem to be extracted from unknown sources. The justaposition works well, and the installation of each piece from a wire hanging at different levels on the wall creates an interesting conversation.

You can view more at annettehartman.com

dogs of pompeii find comfort in historic shade

blurred memory
the dust settled at my feet

eruption—thought—burial—
no regret welcoming
postured for adoration
filed away
with numbers
huddled in a cage

outside we thought some fossil
just a dog molar

Tuesday has become my favourite day of the week this winter. Given my internship and current non-employment, I have a long weekend (Friday night through all of Tuesday). Friday and Saturday are usually spent vegging and sleeping, and often not reading because that is what I do all of Wed, Thurs, and Fri. Sunday and Monday are spent doing any number of odd things, often still indulging in the weekend-ness of it. By Tuesday though, I am usually ready to read and write and think and fully immerse myself in those things (not that this does not happen on other days, but lately Tuesday has seemed more conducive to it).

After a week-long (short) stint with me in Minneapolis, Ian returned to Florida yesterday. Although a little lonely, this Tuesday has been especially kind to me, with little niceties such as:

:: Almost 50° weather today! It is sunny and a little wet, but the air is so light and refreshing, and so welcome after such a long spell of cold weather--it makes everything seem more attainable.

:: Good coffee. I just finished a perfect mocha at a local coffee shop here. The sunlight sneaks its way in and the music seems to bounce around the room and I find myself wishing I had remembered my sketchbook so I could transcribe the patterns left on my glass from the foam. Somewhere between crocheted lace and spiderwebs.

:: This video, via Black*Eiffel's blog:



:: A stack of manuscripts, photocopied poems, and library books to peruse

:: A whole day to soak it all in

I hope you all have a wonderful Tuesday too!

darkness is true vibrance

i encounter poems in all the wrong places.

a common trend among all of us to sidestep capitalization

as if it makes words softer, or lets them slide by

(they still know how to bite).



Photo inspired by Molly's photo set on flickr, evidence of reading.

another bridge, another passageway that leads to nowhere

I keep thinking about Venice, and how I can't stop it from sinking and maybe I don't want to.

, originally uploaded by Pie in her face.

(Photo courtesty of Talia Bromstad)

i found this letter-pressed coaster in the Minnesota Center for Book Arts gift shop with this great drawing by Georgia Lune.

text on the back reads:

se caso con
your breath
is like coffee
on my pants
it's not in
the right place
it's not
in my mouth
(xavier cavazos)

this weekend i am learning to appreciate minneapolis. tonight i went to a reading at mager's and quinn bookstore and sampled some great wine and food as well as i heard some surprisingly impressive poetry. i read some books and manuscripts. i requested books from the library (to save time and hopefully parking money....the books will be waiting for me so i can scoop them up and take them home). i added some old favorites like Anne Carson and Jorie Graham, as well as some I don't know as well like Thomas Transtromer and my friend, Amanda Nadelberg.

tomorrow: reading and writing at a newly found coffee shop.

tuesday: letters.

last weekend:

Rummaging through files

I wrote this one day in the Chicago's downtown library. I found it in my files tonight. I never gave it much thought, but it's kind of interesting. Comments and suggestions welcome.

At a timid time of day, just half past a shadow with no function, he tells a secret to no one in particular. There is no canon and I forgot the function long ago.

No canon, he says. No emotion either. He lost that too.

If I tilt the arm with the shadow twelve degrees to my left, I may shift said shadow and find a new answer (if answers are what I’m seeking).

So he protractors the appendage and finds, not an answer, but a question, not in words, but in a careening spasm in his filium terminale where before all was calm.

The question vaults along the spinal chord to the Medulla omblongato, causing an upset in the synaptic equations occurring along dendritic arbours.

In his fourth ventricle, a longing develops, defined in certain mathematical values, obscuring the longing so that the man senses only the logic.

The longing passes to the third ventricle without the man’s knowledge or consent and he thinks, whatever the time, he should be leaving now.

Using that same arm priorly tilted to disseminate shadows, he adjusts the angle so that the rim of his hat obscures his visage. He had allowed for his forehead to show for a moment while that longing crept inside him, but the longing causes a discernible chill; he thinks it best to cloak all he can.

Today he is walking down one of those sidewalks that no one sees anymore—cobbled stone and it is wet so there is a slick scraping of rubber sole and stone creating a sound that pleases him, lack of canon and all. A bit of gravel crunches under his feet and though it is a simple sensation, he thinks of destruction and smiles. These little acts keep him going. There is nothing else.

Home. An archaic idea. Number 172 East Rommely. More accurate, locative. One can’t locate home. He hates that. It won’t be home for anyone after tonight.

His key unlocks the door. He waits for the day when it won’t. He always expected her to change the locks on him. He wouldn’t have minded. He’d like a new address.

Through the foyer and down the hall, he sees her legs. They are bare save for two mismatched socks that bunch around her ankles. The left foot taps to an unknown and nervous rhythm. The left foot always does that. He’s tried to still it to no avail.

He walks down the right side of the hallway, so he will see more of her sooner. He stops when her elbows and forearms come into view. One elbow is leaning on the kitchen table. He can’t see the hand yet, but imagines it is acting as a cradle for her head. He allows his eyes to rest at the wrist of her other arm. It falls lank across the table, completely still, seemingly dead. No discernible pulse. He’s sought it out before. It was the only thing about her that ever gave him pleasure. There’s still something beautiful about that wrist. Maybe he should stay just for the bones in that one forearm. It might be worth it. He’ll know the answer to the question marinating inside of him once he enters the kitchen.

Her foot has stopped tapping; that’s new. Welcome.

She looks at him without smiling. Exhales the smoke from a cigarette.

We never needed a canon, she says.

He decides 172 isn’t a horrible number and throws his hat on the table.

dabbling

I created a header and footer design for a weekly email Milkweed sent out. While I explored some more playful options, this ended up being the right fit for the newly designed e-verse weekly. Let me know what you think.

letters and words

I received a letter from a poet friend the other day. It was full of her thoughts and observations, the kind that people don't always communicate in every day life. The kind of thoughts that require being written because it creates that space for thoughts to expand. It reminded me of an article I read awhile back in The Kenyon Review about a book of Amy Clampitt's letters. We have record of so many past author's correspondence. And I wonder what kind of paper trail, if any, will be left behind by poets and writers of our generation.

There is an inherent importance to letter writing that I think we've overlooked lately with the abundance of online communication systems. The immediacy of e-mail and blogging can also lead to quick thought. Letters require time; one filters and carefully chooses what to write down because there is an element of permanence or finality that you don't really find on a computer. It is easy to delete or copy and paste to rearrange. No crossing out, no smudges of ink, no trace at all of the deliberation that can go into the writing of a sentence. That trace, imprint, record, is something tangible and necessary, especially for writers.

So, I think it's time we start writing again. I don't have a proper desk, but all the other elements are there.

Believe me I've tried

If I could put my life into one of these I would.

homemade mustard pretzels

Since I used some dry mustard powder for a soup recipe today, I thought it would be a good idea to make some mustard pretzels. I couldn't find a recipe quite to my liking (most include honey or use prepared mustard) so I devised my own. The results were successful, although a bit spicy.


This makes a small batch, probably 3/4 of the bag of pretzels. I used Rold Gold Tiny Twists, but you can use any pretzel of your liking.

For the coating:

1.5 tablespoons mustard powder
1+ tsp garlic powder (I think I used more than this, but I am a garlic fan)
a dash of salt
1/4 cup vegetable oil

Sprinkle the mustard powder into a small bowl. Then add the oil, garlic powder, and salt. Mix together.

Put pretzels into a pan. I used a small roasting pan. Drizzle the mixture onto the pretzels and stir up using a spatula, making sure to coat all of the pretzels. At this point, I found I had enough mixture to add more pretzels. So I did. The spatula is good for scraping any of the mixture that falls to the bottom, ensuring maximum coating.

You may choose to sprinkle some additional mustard powder once they are coated in the liquid. I found it resulted in a more authentic mustard pretzel. I also added a little more garlic and then mixed it all up again.

Bake at 200º for one hour, stirring every 15 minutes.

Enjoy!

winter whites...hint of spring (i wish)

on a positive note, my house now has heat!

paper bits, winter whites

I hung up a paper clothesline in my room. It's still being added to.

Winter White

I am participating in a Winter White photo event via the Glass Doorknob. I haven't had time to get out and shoot yet, but here's a little taste of a past winter.




These are both photos I took from my house in Michigan a couple years ago. One of the prettiest winters we've had.