I forget that the armature stage of sculpting, in this case with wool, gives me a rash. I feel the pressure of giving a piece a good, solid foundation that I don’t have to fix later.
This piece will be auctioned off to benefit the Cartoon Art Museum. It’s an honor to contribute.
These are the first two of maybe lots of pictures of this sculpt. They don’t look like much, do they? But they will.
(Not pictured: after wrapping the armature, I noticed a major problem in it, and most of the wrapping seen in the second picture was undone.)
Possible Totally gonna be Steven Universe spoilers after the cut!
[image: cartoony pink lion leaping]
2016 is the year that said to 1943, “Now you’re really gonna see something.”
I’d be crying about my ideal princess, if I wasn’t so tired, in front of other people, and overwhelmed.
I was called “Princess Lea” in high school, and I owned it. Leia was a badass teenage princess. She dragged Vader, lied like a carpet to Grand Moff Tarkin, blasted her way out of jail, rescued men (the Sulk is Strong with the Skywalker males LUKE, KYLO), and beat bad guys. Then Leia became an admirable general; tough, careworn, kind, and grieving. Leia’s journey, Carrie Fisher’s journey, has see-sawed from young and addled (Carrie Fisher was addled, not Princess Leia) to fierce and wise, and giving no fucks about men bitching that she wasn’t a kid anymore.
Carrie Fisher could write, too, true and funny stories. My best friend Lisa read me all of Wishful Drinking in a marathon phone call because once she started, she couldn’t stop reading it, and I kept asking for another chapter until the last page.
I understand Carrie Fisher’s and the Princess/Admiral life arc so well. Any girl who grew up alongside them does.
Pretty much like everyone else who values, well, values, I’ve been depressed/horrified (horpresstified?) since the election of Putin’s Pet, and the cabinet picks that have followed.
Watching a couple episodes of the near-future sci-fi anthology Black Mirror. Did. Not. Help.
I use a program called Freedom to save me from the addiction of the refresh button on Facebook, and from wallowing in the 140 characters at a time swamp of Twitter.
But even with the expulsion of Twitter and the hobbling of Facebook, today I was still in a trench of gloom. I was leaving the house to go to the Y, and told my daughter (through her bedroom door) I was going. She said okay sleepily. I told her she also had a package and she was insta-perky: “Oh boy!”
She went from drowsy to excited so fast I laughed. Which made her laugh. Which rocketed me out of my gloom trench and into happiness so fast that I could see how low I’d been, which made me want to cry.
(Warning to new readers: I’m a crier. If you like criers, I’m one of the best. I cry when I’m sad, when I’m angry, and when I’m frustrated. I leak for almost any occasion.)
Tonight, I pretty much made Twitter impossible to get back into, which gave me the kind of relief that standing up to a bad situation does.
Since you can’t see my relief, have a picture of my kitten, Umbra.