Tag: Blotter Art

There are moments within our past that shape our vision. Going through my childhood photo albums, I catch a peek at Anna in the early grades, a basic girl who, if she remained alive, will not know how even during grade 4, she was pointing the right way to freedom of expression. There exists a lesson here links in handy for moms and dads and grandparents.

I’ve often wondered if Anna’s life could have taken another turn had she lived her early grades within the sixties if the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed with the aid of ink blotters in school. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing hard way–with steel-nibbed pens which we dipped in ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience right into a mud-bath. It took us months to learn the art of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; should you wanted in order to save time, choosing far wiser to experience the tortoise.

But Anna was not turtle. Her mind moved faster than light; she was figuring a means to Bali if we remained stuck within the grade 3 reader; within the fourth grade, when people with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she can find nothing more passionate than Japanese prints.

I remember Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an action of God which the writer would find his share of godliness within the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. With the three, the blotter was essentially the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing depends on the way you control the ink.” There is much else that would have to be controlled also, in accordance with Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down with the child, her eyes blue and difficult above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”

When Anna looked over her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew an easy, little difference over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.

I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For some time, it seemed as if Anna had learnt her lesson. However when I peered more closely over her shoulder, I pointed out that it had been the blotter which was absorbing her interest. She had dribbled a place on top right-hand corner with the sheet; she stuck the nib during the location and watched the darkness grow; a few details together with the nib and also the blotch had been a little bit of chocolate, its center dissolving right into a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches around the absorbent paper and much more dabs before the entire blotter changed into a sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.

Out of her desk came more blotter sheets. Instead of holes, she made lines this time, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion in one corner to the next; she paused just good enough to thicken the center stretch without breaking the flow before the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and also the blotter sat on her desk like a chocolate web.

It turned out a young form of Blotter Art Company, so distinctive it made flowing hair ascend to end. But Sister Mary Michael cannot quite observe that.
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There are moments inside our past that shape our vision. Dealing with my childhood photo albums, I catch a peek at Anna in early grades, a nice girl who, if she were alive, will not know how even during grade 4, she was pointing the way to freedom of expression. There’s a lesson here which comes in handy for parents and grandparents.

We have often wondered if Anna’s life might have taken a different turn had she lived her early grades within the sixties if the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed if you use ink blotters in college. Children of the fifties, we learnt writing the difficult way–with steel-nibbed pens which we drizzled with ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience right into a mud-bath. It took us months to find out the skill of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; in case you really wanted in order to save time, you’d be far wiser to play the tortoise.

But Anna was not turtle. Her mind moved quicker than light; she was figuring a way to Bali whenever we were stuck within the grade 3 reader; within the fourth grade, when folks with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she could find anything passionate than Japanese prints.

From the Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an act of God knowning that the real writer would find his share of godliness within the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. From the three, the blotter was the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is dependent upon how you control a lot of it.” There is anything else that would have to be controlled also, in accordance with Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down in the child, her eyes blue and difficult above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”

When Anna looked over her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew an easy, thin line over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.

I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For a while, it seemed like Anna had learnt her lesson. However, if I peered more closely over her shoulder, I remarked that it absolutely was the blotter that’s absorbing her interest. She had dribbled an area on top right-hand corner in the sheet; she stuck the nib in the center of the area and watched the darkness grow; a number of details using the nib and the blotch has been a bit of chocolate, its center dissolving right into a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches around the absorbent paper and much more dabs until the entire blotter turned into a kind of chocolate swiss-cheese.

Beyond her desk came more blotter sheets. As opposed to holes, she made lines on this occasion, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from corner to another location; she paused just of sufficient length to thicken the center stretch having to break the flow until the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and the blotter sat to be with her desk being a chocolate web.

It turned out an earlier version of Blotter Art, so distinctive it made hair get up on end. But Sister Mary Michael couldn’t quite see that.
More details about Blotter Art go to this useful web site: web link

There are moments within our past that shape our vision. Dealing with my childhood photo albums, I catch a look at Anna noisy . grades, a nice girl who, if she remained as alive, won’t understand how even just in grade 4, she was pointing the best way to freedom of expression. There exists a lesson here that comes in handy for folks and grandparents.

We’ve often wondered if Anna’s life could have taken a different turn had she lived her early grades inside the sixties in the event the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed by using ink blotters in class. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing hard way–with steel-nibbed pens which we dipped in ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience right into a mud-bath. It took us months to find out the skill of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; in case you really wanted to avoid wasting time, selecting far wiser to learn the tortoise.

But Anna was not turtle. Her mind moved quicker than light; she was figuring ways to Bali when we remained as stuck inside the grade 3 reader; inside the fourth grade, when individuals with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she could find no more passionate than Japanese prints.

I remember Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an act of God understanding that the real writer would find his share of godliness inside the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. Of the three, the blotter was probably the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing depends on the method that you control a lot of it.” There was clearly anything more that would have to be controlled as well, as outlined by Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down with the child, her eyes blue and difficult above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”

When Anna looked at her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew an easy, thin line over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.

I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For quite a while, it seemed as though Anna had learnt her lesson. But when I peered more closely over her shoulder, I noticed that it had been the blotter which was absorbing her interest. She’d dribbled an area at the top right-hand corner from the sheet; she stuck the nib down the middle of the area and watched the darkness grow; a number of details using the nib and the blotch was a part of chocolate, its center dissolving right into a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches on the absorbent paper plus much more dabs prior to the entire blotter become some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.

Beyond her desk came more blotter sheets. Rather than holes, she made lines this time around, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion derived from one of corner to the next; she paused just for a specified duration to thicken the very center stretch without breaking the flow prior to the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and the blotter sat on her desk as being a chocolate web.

It had been an early form of Blotter Art, so distinctive it made your hair stand on end. But Sister Mary Michael could not quite note that.
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