On my way to class

This is my school bus. I know that my photo is flipped, but I wanted
to make sure I didn’t miss the bus.

I am taking The Sculptural Book at The Corcoran. As you can imagine, I
am extremely excited. And a little nervous, but that’s okay. I
couldn’t decide between this one or a week long class at The New York
Center for the Book about displayable books. I went with the one
closer to home.

I have a problem with being compulsively honest. I am worried that I
am going to go in and introduce myself and admit that I am trying to
make a giant popup book of The Red Sea by next Sunday. And I made the
burning bush last week. That would instantly make me the freak of the
class. I am going to refrain and keep quiet.

Let’s just say that I have a certain quality that attracts the most
eccentric people in the room. I try to keep my guard up, not only when
walking down the street, but also in semester-long classroom settings.
Jen, a tad high-strung OB/GYN turned psychiatrist, told me that I must
have a high level of endorphins, or whatever you get from a runner’s
high, because I was the calmest person she had ever met. That’s
probably what attracts certain people to me. I do have to tell people
when I am stressed. I do get a little frazzled, but I hide it well.
That’s what makes me a good Southerner. And why I am prone to
mysterious rashes.

Last semester, I kept my respectful distance from someone I grew to
love. And you know what? She looked at my work in the first or second
class and said, “You’re a book artist.” The next time she said it, I
asked her if she was a psychic. Anyway, by the end of the semester, I
made by book out of an ols shower curtain and my teacher recommend
that I go to Penland. The rest is history.