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Showing posts from September, 2012

Showdown in Kitschtown

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Rapunzel and the Tower of Song

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Book Covers - the sequel...
After scoring the cover of Northern Frights 5 - I did several more with the same figure...
I think my motivation was to sell the paintings, since I had gained a bit of notoriety with the original image.
They're still for sale if anyone's interested.

I did managed to sell a few more covers over the next while, most notably to a now defunct and very interesting Toronto magazine called NFG. I disagree, BTW. I think the magazine and my cover images were both pretty fucking good.

At any rate, I don't think they lasted long after publishing my work. Cross my fingers that my covers didn't play any part in driving people away.


Sculpture Site (with Book Covers)

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For years, my Facebook friends could check out my sculptures through my profile. Last year I started posting a few sculptures on this blog, which is nice because it lends an attractive graphic element to these pages in lieu of book covers - those are coming! They just - in the words of Bjork - haven't happened yet.

I do have some book covers I've illustrated (as opposed to covers for my own books) that I could post - in fact, here are a few right now...



But I've gotten away from  the main point of this blog entry - which is to talk about the new sculpture page I've just started with my business associate, Jill Lum and my life-partner, Laura Belford.

It's called Sculptor's Touch and I think there's a need for it - since there are very few sites where sculptors and hobbyists can get together to talk about the tricks of the trade, tell each other where to find the best tools, recommend different tools, techniques, workshops, shows - and display their work in a…

Penetration Dance

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A Short Story by DLSproule

Dad and I were in the upper garden, on the grounds of the great house that had once claimed the best view of the harbour. Course, the house was gone – one of the ones we burned down after the coons got Aunt Sally.
Our mountain’s shadow loomed out over the water of the bay, the sky above us tinting such a rich blue, that it seemed to have extracted all the colour from the sea. The horizon behind us burned red.
“Sailor’s delight,” Dad said, as I hefted another bag of carrots onto the wheelbarrow.
“Hey, John Lennon,” Dad told me. “Go fire up Yoko.”
Our Honda generator howled like Yoko Ono when she ran. Least that’s what Dad said.
I once asked why anyone would listen to her and he told me, “Nobody did, ‘cept Lennon.”
I looked at the sacks of root vegetables we’d amassed, and then down at the roof of our house. “It’s early yet. And there’s too much for you to take in by yourself.” “We can’t risk missing the broadcast.”
We’d los…