It's like 200 degrees in my studio, at 1:30 in the morning. I'm due to board an international flight tomorrow, and I have junk to do before I can leave. But amid the sweat and the hustle, there is something I have to do. Which is foreshadow an awesome visual artifact, courtesy of Francesca R., the charming and prodigiously talented daughter of a dear old friend of mine (among other things, a China specialist; details for another day).
As I was preparing to send my friend, with whom I had been out of touch for 18 months or so, a few issues of Spartan Holiday, I emailed him to make sure I had the right address. When he replied, he made the observation that the energetic Francesca, whom I have met, was furiously making booklets and textual-visual items. So informed, I sent extra copies, for her to tear apart or do whatever she liked with them.
Months ago, in the midst of major family transitions of several sorts, this card arrived (quelle une sharp reader!) along with a stapled opus about a snowflake with a magnificent sense of self. I'll be getting back to her soon, and will also be giving GT readers a peek at the work in question.
The dotted line that leads to the arrow near Santa's butt is traceable to a bee-like insect. I am hopeful that Santa is meant to be distinguishable from Professor Red. (Judgment call.)
Francesca's narrative begins:
I am a Snowflack.
I am made of Woter.
I am pritey. I come at winter.
I am the best snowflack in the world.