Midnight at our house

I have now decided that what it takes to hand paint 123 Little Red Poppets to look exactly the same is:

1. many hours
2. the mind of a serial killer

The many hours I'll do. Ok. So I fudged a little--took some liberties, painted them slightly differently from each other.
Not terribly, but slightly, e.g. dolphins. Dolphins all mostly look alike to humans, but different to each other.
And, likely, vice versa.

Owww. My back. Funny. It's the tiny detail stuff that gets me. Not the lifting of the wiggling 4 yr old, or diving, or moving of a bookcase I know should've waited for the Pete unit.

Before I forget, while I'm whining about the pains of artists... We often have problems with our hands getting dry and itchy from the work. I discovered recently that the Gold Bond foot cream contains urea, which is a very effective ingredient used to treat serious skin conditions. Works great for 'artist claw.' Really great. My hands hardly look like artists hands at all. I've moved up to fisherman, or farmer.

It's a process.

Anyway. One hundred twenty three poppets are ready to march out the door tomorrow, the last of the winter sale shipments. I don't mind painting them, really. Eventually, the Little Red Poppets will be painted by others (good, hand-picked others) and will say 'SlaughterHouse Studios' on the bottoms instead of my name. It's the way things go. Still, it's better that I've done lots of Little Red Poppets on my own. I know them. They will always be mine.

Ok. I'll admit it. I do have the quiet chuckle of a serial killer at times.

And painting poppets can provide time to think, and listen to music like the new "ecdysis" by Miho Hatori, who was once half of Cibo Matto. This album is, in my mind, somewhere between Cibo Matto and Bjork, which, in my mind, is just fine.

This household runs late. The kids are asleep, but midnight means time for food, The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.

g'night