Miscellaneous Copier Collage Works

I don’t have anything in this style that’s worth it’s own post yet, but here are some of the pieces I’ve done recently that showcase various techniques for using a copier to make collages.

I started by copying images and cutting them into simple collages, like so:

Then, in this example, I copied the collage onto a separate piece of paper, then ran that piece back through the copier the opposite way so that it copied onto itself upside down.

I really like the result of this, and ended up using this technique to create a sort of backdrop for other elements, like this example that incorporates another image, as well as the scraps I’d cut out for the precious collages.

This also involved moving the original image a tiny bit so that the copy is blurred. This creates an interesting effect, especially with the line shading of these images.

I’ve also experimented some with copying low-contrast textural background elements onto pieces. In this collage, I began with an image of a waterfall and shook the paper as it copied to get the the wave effect. Then, i copied images of shells and other sea creatures onto the wave at a low contrast. Finally, I cup out an image of some monks and copied them into the middle at a high contrast so they were the darkest part of the composition.

Last but not least, I simply copied an image of a stairwell at a relatively low contrast with a plastic bag over it. It gave it a weird old photo-grain effect that I’m really happy with.

Overall, I’m very happy with the results of these experiments so far. I’m excited to see where this copy art takes me.

The Witch-Mother’s Dress

My mother gathered her dress like a memory
Tattered and withered with age
Laid it’s caress in a pattern of symmetry
Lit up her censor with sage
Fear bothered at her like falling pinecones

She took her scissors to sever the fine lace nape
Eyes polished riverbed stones
Yes, by this dress would her firstborn escape
To the far north where every witch goes
When Salemites come sweeping another town

By the strange firelight, flurries alighted
To no avail, they kissed the gown
Tracing the rubies she sewed alongside of it
They pulled the thin fabric down
Cotton swayed about them like butterflies

So was the garment impressed by her vibrancy
Filled with the light of her eyes
Lovely the dress, the violence of it’s primacy
Born as a token of flight
She held it’s shining form to the window

Soft little cries drew her mind from the planned escape
She let the swaying cloth go
Her fingers spidered over the bone crib she’d made
Her child’s eyes wide and aglow
I cooed and babbled at her solemn frown

She took me up from the crib with a heavy sigh
Smiled at my murmuring sounds
Sang lullabies in the still autumn silence
To drown out the noise of the crowd
As the mob descended on her hollow

Animals quiet, the forest forewarning her
My little arm brushed her throat
My mother nodded, the sounds of the morning birds
Gone up in torchlight and smoke
She crossed the little room to the garment

She laid her child on the cloth and drew it about
Wrapping me up in her scent
Wide-eyed and mouth gaping, how close the crowd was now
Singing their hymn as they went
My mother opened the window to dawn

She took a last look as the little face of me
Curled when the curtains were drawn
Quivering lip, the witch took a moment to breathe
Ears crucified by their song
She let me go as the dress swayed and swelled

Framed by the sun, I remember my floating on
Carried by my mother’s spell
Up in the clouds with their furrows and trailings long
Wrapped in the sage’s sweet smell
Passing to the north’s dark and open arms

She watched me float on the breeze she’d arranged for me
Fingers caressing her charms
Now the crowd traipsed like a storm in the willow trees
Brimming with hatred and harm
At the front of them, a weeping handmaid

Some of the townsfolk put force to the doorknob
They screamed o’er the din the crowd made
“Come ye, and look on this widow, witch! Hear her cries
For you have stolen her babe”
The door hinges groaned and gave to their weight

Backed to the back wall, my mother grinned viciously
Tasting the spice of their hate
As they pulled her to the light, she sang blissfully
“I’m afraid you’re all too late!”
The handmaid that birthed me choked on her cry

Then was my mother’s neck looped by a heavy rope
She screamed with mirth as she died
They say she lasted an hour before she croaked
Smiling until her last sigh
And she twitched for days after she was gone

Ah, but the witch will not rot in her earthen tomb
For she lives on in her spawn
Though I was born of the handmaiden’s womb
In truth, it’s the witch who lives on
I drown in fever to finish her work

Author’s Note- This poem constitutes yet another less-than satisfactory attempt to create a good story through a highly structured poem form with a dense rhyme scheme and strict adherence to syllable count per line. I’m posting it because a) it has a few lines I really like and I think the story is pretty interesting, and b), so I can look back and see how my narrative poetry progressed. I’ve had more luck recently with freeverse, so I’ll get back to posting some of that soon. 🙂

The Angel of Disfathoming

Do not undress to fear or doubt my love,
her         whisper in       your ear.
that leaves your will to leave the house undone
You have shown her form to me, my love
you have        let her in
and turned me to an angel of my own
until the coffer rings for you, my love,
i will keep disfathoming
alone and forever

memory                                is                           a funny thing
that comes                          abrupt                    a strange thing
to me                            without                     a warning
suddenly    sort of            carving           me     up in smoke

Memory that comes to me suddenly
sort of is abrupt, without carving me.
A funny thing,
a strange thing,
a warning,
up in smoke.

Memory is a funny thing
that comes abrupt, a strange thing to
me. Without a warning,
sort of carving me up in smoke.

in the middle                 of the night
of the memory             a piece severed
a thing little              filled with fright
a sort-of-me            is tethered
that picks between
her ribcage
and her hip

Two Words at Once

picture a language where
every  l e t t e r
represents one single
sy lla ble.

and each letter could be
with every other letter
to form a new symbol
so that the
total number
of symbols
was the number of letters
times itself.

and the symbols stood for
the two syllables
comprising them
being spoken
at once.
so that instead of just
writing a
you could write
two words
at once.

words within words
telling tone
and underlying intent
and pronunciation
and nuance
and all thought
in the page.

harder to write         easier to express
harder to learn         easier to want
easier to lie              easier to tell the truth

harder to tell the difference
harder to care

and would there be
even to this?
a third level

moving in those
perfect words
like the
your throat
without your