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Prayed for . . .

I prayed for you tonight I woke up yesterday morning and felt the urgency to pray Perhaps it means something perhaps it means nothing I suppose it means that I still care even though that hurt you created has left a scar on my heart But that being said . . . though I may never see you again though I don't know where you are if you ever stumble upon this blog at least you will know that I have been praying for you

Forget Me Not

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I am not some porcelain vase that sits in a china cabinet to be seen, but not touched "well, I don't want to hurt her feelings" is the common answer As if I needed your concern I am used to the hard knocks I have broken but I always heal I am irreplaceable I am beauty I am creativity forget me not my tears mourn loss the loss of creativity that is what hurts creativity isn't like a box of tissues to be used at your discretion it belongs to me it is borrowed—yet never returned you are discussing my soul that's personal verbally abused when our creativity doesn't measure up your words break the porcelain long into the night I pay the price tears wet my cheeks as I replay each remark in the morning we begin again forget me not it whispers to me a bud opens forget me not I sit on a windowsill my creativity soaks up the sunlight my porcelain is cracked but I am beauty forg

Make it a blue. Make it red. Make it a Pony.

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There are few things that annoy designers more than having non-designers telling us how to design. I have this poster up in my office—it makes me laugh, on those days when I am being told how to design. Which is usually on a daily basis. It helps keep the irritation down as you work on cover mock-ups and have people walk in on you and give their expert opinion.   They aren't going to like that one. The certainty in their voice annoys you—the eye roll is quite appropriate at this point [as long as it is towards your computer monitor]— it isn't done yet, you find yourself saying— they might like it when it is finished. Besides, you mutter to no one in particular, the final decision is the Art Directors, not yours. We recently had a rush job that had to make a specific [unrealistic] deadline. It was one of those wonder jobs [that fell from heaven] where the upper-ups had been talking about it for months—and then "suddenly" decided that they wanted it no

Unwanted

You know that kitten you didn't want to take care of? The one that you dumped at the corner of White Hall and Beaver Creek Church Road—near that big red barn. He was going to be a beautiful cat with long white hair and black splotches along his back. I'm the one who found your unwanted kitten. He was huddled on the side of the road—soaked from the early morning rain. He cried piteously as I scooped him up—he had been hit by a car not long before. I put him in a shoebox with a soft towel and scratched his tiny head as I drove to the vet. He purred. His injuries were extensive. He already had an upper respiratory infection and was bleeding from his nose—but we suspected that was more from the impact than from the infection. His left femur was crushed and the base of his tail had been ripped open. You disgust me. He wanted to live—he was fighting . . . hard . I wanted him to live. I wanted to see him grow up into that handsome cat he was going to become. But no, I ha

The Art of Redesign

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The word redesign makes me cringe. I don't like redoing anything—it should be done right the first time—not five times past the first. Inwardly I grieve for what can not be. But what can one do? The Committee has spoken—the change must be made, even if I strongly disagree with their decision. Once you get over your disappointment—you have to decide what to do. Artists have to have thick skins in order to survive—but that doesn't mean that we are immune to the hurt. After all, what does one do with a rejected design? Sometimes you can salvage the design—such as in the case of the cover Looking for a City —I was able to utilize the original background image from the rejected cover in the final design. This didn't make the redesign process any easier—but at least I was able to focus more on the type design instead of worrying about what was going to go behind it. Then there are times when you can't salvage anything from the rejected cover. And you wonder, a

Roses are Red

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When I was growing up, I was taught that . . . Trees are Green Roses are Red Sky is Blue Barns are Red Clouds are White Flowers are Yellow Violets are Blue My crayon and marker drawings stayed true, until my parents enrolled me in a two week summer painting class. Our teacher (bless his heart) was very traditional and always said "like so" after every instruction. Apparently, I was the rebellious child and he saw it as his duty to curve my unruly artistic ways. "Barns are not green ." He emphasized the last word as he studied my masterpiece. Our assignment had been to copy his painting. The rest of the class had done just that—and to them he gave praise. But as I was dutifully coping his painting, I decided that a red barn would blend in with the burnt umber treeline. And so, mine was green. It was my first artistic rebellion, but it was most certainly not my last. Trees are Whimsical Roses are Elegent Sky is my Backdrop Barns Protect