Countless cubes: How "Mise en place" came to be

In trying to summarize piles and pages of notes for my BookArtObject project, Mise en place,  I have been asking myself "where hasn't it been?" in the two+ years since I chose my title. I mean this conceptually, theme-wise and media-wise.

There have been "countless cubes" over the last couple of years, both for this project and others that popped up along the way. The photo above shows a selection of mockups, mostly from the later stages; the row of four cubes at the front comprises a full set. And here, at last, are some notes on this whole process, beginning with why I chose "Mise en place" as my title...

Most of the one-hundred titles had already been taken by the time I discovered Edition 4 of BookArtObject (BAO), but "Mise en place" was an easy choice for me. I am fascinated by the role that food——and, in the context of my title, its preparation——plays in our daily lives, and in the last several years it seems the line between the studio and the kitchen has begun to blur for me. The kitchen can be such a creative space when you consider how many variations you can get from even the most basic set of ingredients simply by varying which herbs, spices and other enhancements you pair them with. And I enjoy the challenge, or "game," of seeing what I can come up with based on what's on hand at any given time.

Though I once considered myself a reluctant cook (I begrudged that cooking took me out of the studio and consumed so much time/had to be repeated day in, day out), I've come to see the appeal——its immediacy/spontaneity, for one. In the studio, the work is often so painstakingly precise. There’s a lot of experimentation, which is accompanied by an equal measure of anxiety, because taking an idea from concept to completion is not usually a smooth process. In the kitchen, though, I don’t worry about whether a new soup, a spur-of-the-moment pasta sauce or my favorite pork roast will come out okay; it just about always does (and is quickly forgotten on the odd occasion that it does not). I find a certain satisfaction in organizing the ingredients, as well as doing the repetitive tasks entailed in mise en place——and the "presentation" of the completed mise en place can be as visually pleasing as the presentation of the meal itself. I like, too, that getting everything in place first allows me more freedom during the actual cooking part; the hands are busy, but somehow the mind is freer. Many a studio dilemma has been solved while chopping onions...

Just as in the studio, I have my favorite kitchen "tools" (a flat-ended wooden "spoon," the marble mortar & pestle, a rubber spatula, the rollicking mezzaluna). I also take pleasure from my collection of containers——curvy white porcelain cups that are perfect for mise en place, a large yellow ceramic bowl I use for hand-mixing, a set of laboratory-inspired glass measuring containers. I believe that material, shape, size and color affect——and have the potential to enhance——experiences, and am always conscious of such qualities. I am the kind of person who would, for example, rather pour tonic water from a tiny glass bottle than a liter-sized plastic one (into a short glass the same shade as the rind of the sliver of lime!).

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Many of the actions that take place in the studio parallel those involved in mise en place, so my initial thought was to make comparisons between the studio and the kitchen. I considered a book with left-hand pages devoted to mise en place in the kitchen, with right-hand pages portraying similar actions in the studio (choosing ingredients versus choosing materials; organizing kitchen tools & equipment versus those for a studio project; measuring & cutting things to size). I collected bits and pieces with the idea creating a series of collages to portray the commonalities between work in the studio and kitchen; I played with abstract designs that derived from the creative process that occurs in both spaces; and I spent a lot of time photographing ingredients, crockery and other kitchen accoutrement.

As I went about exploring these and other ideas in the studio, I made a point of paying attention to what happened each time I went into the kitchen: I noticed the thoughts that floated through my head as I was preparing meals, the aesthetics of the experience——how the process engaged my senses.

I examined blossom-like artichokes and leathery pomegranates, heavy in my hand...noted the clinking of the shiny stainless steel bowls, cool to the touch...appreciated the reflections and light captured by the glass measuring containers. I breathed in the delicious smells when zesting an orange or grinding a handful of cardamom seeds with the mortar and pestle, discovered the star-shape that appeared when slicing an apple through its middle (then succumbed to the nostalgia for those back-to-school days of every childhood autumn while grating it for apple cake). I noticed how the tears that fell when slicing an onion refreshed my skin...listened to the rhythmic chop, chop, chop, then the sizzle, when I slipped them into the warm olive oil, enjoying how they instantly filled the house with that welcoming and familiar "nearly-dinner-time" feeling.

As I took time to appreciate the qualities of the ingredients, tools & containers, the content for my BAO title began to reflect my direct experience of doing the mise en place for our meals, and I found a new enthusiasm for spending time in the kitchen. Once I decided my artist's book would be primarily kitchen-based, I played with different ways to convey the concept of mise en place: taking the reader through the mise en place for a recipe step-by-step...writing a text about a specific kitchen experience...creating original designs/patterns printed with ingredients/items from the kitchen.

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Ideas came and went, but Mise en place found its form fairly early in the process: four gradated cubes, ranging from 5x5x5 to 8x8x8 cm (just under two-inches-cubed to a bit over three-inches-cubed), which could "nest" within each other. The nesting idea was of course borrowed from the ubiquitous measuring cups, measuring spoons & sets of mise en place-type bowls that are stacked when not in use. Once I settled on the cube structure, I experimented with different nets (i.e. the organization of cube faces). These I printed onto A3 paper to serve as the basis for sketching out ideas and notes before trimming/folding them to see how they played out in three dimensions.

The imagery of "the voluptuous curves of a pear" was with me from the very beginning, as was the desire to use text creatively. When I came up with the idea to shape the text to follow the curves of a pear, everything finally started to fall in place.

Another image that I am quite fond of is the pomegranate, a fruit that has perhaps inspired more contemplation for me than any other ingredient. I love the leathery red skin, the little "crown" left behind by the blossom, the experience of removing the gem-like seeds, with their contrast of sweet and tart as they burst in my mouth. Deseeding a pomegranate must be one of the more intense mise en place tasks! From quite early on I wanted to somehow include a text about the process of extracting the seeds from a pomegranate, to explain how I consider it "a meditation of sorts——a reminder to pause and notice the beauty of everyday moments." The text wraps around the largest cube and can be read one long line at a time, by spinning the cube.

After exploring several media for conveying the content (drawing, collaging, printing from handmade stamps), I eventually gravitated toward designing on the computer. One reason was for the sake of practicality: this was my first experience creating an edition (as opposed to a one-of-a-kind piece), and being able to replicate everything seventeen times (the number I chose for my edition) was vastly simplified by being able to design and print digitally. In choosing this route I was able to avoid the scanning/reproducing step, which never seems to replicate an original painting/drawing as well as I would like. Another benefit was that computer-generated text allowed me to include more content on the relatively small "page" dimensions than hand-written text would have. I chose the streamlined Avenir Next Condensed for much of the text, and contrasted it with the more flowing, though still compact, Respective; the shaped text is Myanmar MN. The palette was inspired by the illustrations of the fruits & vegetables.

Working with Adobe Illustrator (most of the illustrations were complete by
this point, but some of the individual elements can be distinguished)...

I created the text/images in Adobe Illustrator (I must say I quite enjoy "drawing" with the "pens"), then printed the cubes with Epson UltraChrome K3 inks on Epson Radiant White Watercolor Paper. I tried many papers, of various weights and textures, but my Epson performs best with fine art papers that are coated. I needed something that could be scored & folded easily, but was sturdy enough to hold the form of a cube, and finally discovered the 192g Epson "watercolor" paper (though, oddly, the texture of the back/non-printable side is more similar to watercolor paper than the coated side).

In the spirit of the mise en place concept, I had (a bit cheekily) considered at one point simply letting each BAO recipient do the full assembly, but opted instead for fairly minimal "interaction" on their part. As I mentioned in an earlier blog post, the cubes would have arrived already trimmed & scored, and packaged in one of the papers used for wrapping oranges (in any given crate of oranges a handful will be wrapped in colorful paper printed with the name of the fruit producer &/or address &/or logo/design). In keeping with the kitchen-theme, each paper-wrapped package was then tied with a length of kitchen string.

A reminder of the packaging up of Mise en place

...and of the contents of each package once opened

I arranged the cubes such that when the package is turned over to undo the paper the largest cube is on top (recognized by the title/definition of "mise en place"). Under Cube I are Cubes II, III & IV, respectively. I folded each cube into an accordion, for its initial "reading" (see photos below), but these are easily assembled into cubes——one of the side faces has a flap with a strip of double-sided adhesive to join the tab to what becomes the adjacent side.

The top & bottom faces fold in to complete the cube; I suggested the recipients use a bit of glue on the edge of each flap to permanently close them, although if the top flap of each is left unattached the cubes can be nested. In the photo below you can see Cube III nested within Cube IV, with Cube III stacked on top of Cube IV (and earlier trials behind them).

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One thing is definitely true: I have come to enjoy and appreciate mise en place——and my time in the kitchen in general——considerably more since taking on my BAO title. And along the way, other things have become clearer to me...for example that, as much as I love the getting-my-hands-dirty kind of studio work, I have a great time designing on the computer too. I've also realized that I want to continue to pursue both my love affair with photographing food and a growing interest in experimenting with/developing recipes. These discoveries have guided me toward a couple of new long-term projects.

I am also thrilled about my growing collection of books from the other artists in my group; it’s always wonderful to see images on the web, but there is nothing like holding a piece and experiencing it with all of your senses. My thanks to all of the artists for the many months of inspiration as each book was completed and posted on the BAO blog—and to Sara Bowen, BAO's founding artist.

Signed, sealed & delivered

Countless cubes and months later, my title for BookArtObject Edition #4, Mise en place, has finally been designed, printed, scored, trimmed, folded, packaged up & sent into the world.

The process of creating a finished book from that first tiny seed of an idea is always quite an undertaking. I was grateful for the loose deadline afforded by BAO; though I feel I somewhat abused it, the piece was able to take as long as it needed to find its natural conclusion.

I finished production of the BAO edition just before leaving for the US in early June, and decided I might as well send them from there since the recipients in my BAO group all live in North America. But I didn't actually manage to get them mailed until the day I flew back to Italy——too much going on, and too many people & places to see! Everyone should have received them by now, so here are some photos...

The image above shows what each artist in my group would have found once they loosened the kitchen string used to tie up the small package. (The wrapping is one of those papers encasing the odd orange here in Italy; these are always kind of special to find, so I collect them.) I also included a note written on a flat card printed with the pomegranate that appears on the first/largest little booklet-cube in the set. Via email each artist received instructions on how to assemble the accordion-folded booklets into a set of four gradated cubes ranging from 5x5x5 to 8x8x8 centimeters (just under 2" to a little over 3").

I am continuing to sort through the notes I kept during the project, so more on the process/evolution/method/media——plus photos of the cubes assembled——yet to come...

Putting (the final touches) in place...

Twenty-five+ months later, I am finally finishing up the final edits & last round of test prints for my BookArtObject (BAO) edition. I have mentioned my work on this project infrequently here, but it has been an ongoing part of my studio routine all this time.

Each edition of BAO has used a selected text as its starting point; the first year it was a poem by Rosemary Dobson, Learning Absence (1986), and the most recent is a series of one-hundred titles that artist Sarah Bodman chose for her book of short stories, An Exercise for Kurt Johannessen (more details about this on the BookArtObject website). Many of the titles had been claimed by the time I found out about this project, but I was quite excited by the one I ended up with: "Mise en place." At the time, I had little idea where I would go with this seed of inspiration, but I did know that I was constantly finding parallels between the studio & the kitchen—and that I was becoming more & more interested in what took place in the kitchen.

One aspect of Edition 4 of BookArtObject that I appreciated was the loose deadline. The artist's books I had created in the last few years had mainly come about in response to the calls for submissions at art galleries, which meant that deadlines always loomed too close to allow me to "live" with a concept for a while, to let it evolve organically (or to live a normal life during the frantic experimentation & creation phases!). It was a painful way to go about the pleasurable pursuit of making books.

While I'm afraid I have in fact interpreted the generous deadline more loosely than was expected—most of the artists have completed their editions by now, and a couple of exhibitions have already been held—I am finally close enough that revealing a snippet or two should be just the push I need to finish. I don't want to give too much away before the other members of my group receive their copies, but in this post you will find a few images of a print I made to check the content (independently of the final format, so as to see it in a fresh light), as well as some of the initial notes I dug up from way back when. I found it interesting to see what survived—and remained important—through this very long, convoluted (but enjoyable) process. 

It feels good to have made what I hope is the last to-do list for my edition of seventeen!

The tip of the iceberg

My latest artist's book: Where Sea & Sky Meet.

This post's title references the number of things I had hoped to share this past month versus the few that I will actually have time to record before March draws to a close. I am so impressed by all of the artists who manage to document & post not only their finished work, but also their process, somehow keeping a thread running from day to day (or at least week to week). It amuses me when I think back to my original plan for this 'reinvented' blog: to put together twelve (!) entries each month. I have been exploring a dozen different themes/elements each month this year, and envisioned being able to write about/photograph everything for Arzigogolare. Hmmm...

Which brings me to my word for this month...reassess. It took most of March to find the right word, but it seems fitting now that I have a better grasp of how 2012 is progressing so far. Some projects have been let go; others have surfaced.

One recent piece is a new artist's book, Where Sea & Sky Meet, which I created as a submission for a two-year-long traveling exhibition (the acceptance announcement has not gone out, so I still don't know if it will be among those chosen). This is yet another—the third—variation of an exploration of Venice through photos (and a brief text). I have retained certain elements from one book to another—a bead-embroidered ribbon, a large selection of photos & a similar text/title—but the central themes that guide the individual books differ, which in turn influences the structure and many other design details.

I actually had the chance to return to Venice earlier in the month, and was very much looking forward to gathering new imagery to mine in future; it seemed like the perfect way to celebrate the completion of another artist's book featuring Venice. But then the submission deadline was extended—giving me much needed extra time—so I gave up the trip. Perhaps it was just as well, as plenty of past photos are still awaiting their chance to become part of various projects.

In some ways I almost felt like I'd been to Venice anyway; it's funny how working with images and text relating to a place can make you feel as though you've been immersed in it. I still remember experiencing this sensation each afternoon when I would pick up my daughter from preschool...only back then, while living in Pasadena, I was 'spending' my days in Florence as I worked on the earliest versions of The Piazzas of Florence. There was always a brief adjustment as I reentered the real world again. How lucky I am to actually be spending my days in Florence now, even if my mind might briefly be elsewhere...

{Click here for more photos + details of Where Sea & Sky Meet.}

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Meanwhile, we've been having another glorious month in Florence—not at all like the usual marzo pazzo, 'crazy March', with the sun and rain clouds playing hide-and-seek all month long. The city is so alive, becoming fuller, and louder (in a nice way), by the day. It won't be long before the primroses and pansies retire from excess sun exposure, but they're still brightening up the windowsill.

The impromptu garden that 'grows' along the sunny southern edge of Piazza Santo Spirito during the monthly flea market.

We brought home five creamy/white primrose plants from the market.

Pansies & lavender lined up on the windowsill before planting.

The Seeds You Plant

My main studio table early in the process of creating The Seeds You Plant.

I'd like to introduce my latest artist's book, The Seeds You Plant. This is the piece I had mentioned in my 'Emerge' post (which takes the form of a sestina). I love playing with words, and poetry has always intrigued me. It is a luxury―and, sometimes, a misfortune!―to be able to use as many words as one wishes, so I really admire how poets manage to condense complex thoughts/concepts into so few words.

By its very nature, a sestina is actually a rather convoluted type of poem, but the natural structure created by the six repeating words appeals to me. My first thought was to choose words that I associate with Florence―water/river, bridge/link, piazza/square, etc.―but somehow (I'm not ever sure exactly how this 'evolutionary' part of the process occurs, though it always does) I ended up building a sestina around a favorite quote by R. L. Stevenson. It may have been the quote's everyday presence in my studio for the past seven+ years―or maybe it was the desire to use a wooden spice box to house the poem; the box's six compartments seem like a good place to store seeds, which are evocative of growth.

Initially, I played around with small green 'pillow' boxes to hold mini-booklets with each of the poem's six stanzas. I also experimented with seed packet enclosures that contained cards printed with the stanzas, as well as hexagons and accordions that could be arranged into six-pointed stars. Then, as I was sifting through my collection of papers, I came across a marbled paper in shades of green, brown and black; not only did it contrast well with the box, it also made me think of the earth and things growing. I wasn't sure if I would use it to line the compartments or as the covers or endpapers for miniature books, but I knew that it would play a role in the finished piece.

Meanwhile, as I worked on the poem, I realized that Stevenson's quote could serve as the envol (a three-line stanza that concludes the sestina, in which the six chosen words also repeated in a certain order, this time with two per line). This meant the word order for the preceding six stanzas was now determined. Arranged as the envol, the quote, "Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant" became:

Don't judge each day
by the harvest you reap,
but by the seeds you plant.

'Judge', 'day', 'harvest', 'reap', 'seeds' & 'plant' were therefore designated as the end-words that would alternate through the course of the six main stanzas.

At first, I didn't really care for the word 'judge'―it seemed harsh and out of place with the meditative gardening metaphor that I was using to describe my thoughts about the creative process―but then I found myself thinking about how important it is to trust yourself when it comes to such things. So, running through the poem is a thread of how only you can be the judge of what you wish to reap from the 'seeds' (dreams/ideas) you plant―not the voices of your childhood, not your neighbors, not society. I love to see how something that at first seems like an obstacle can instead become an integral element of a project.

To house the stanzas I finally settled on hard-covered accordions decorated with the marbled paper. But then I came across some cherished scraps of washi paper that my mother gave me years ago: one is black with tiny gold dots, and the other has little gold flowers scattered thickly across a mottled orange background. As the lines of the sestina began to take shape and the growth metaphor became more central to the poem, I decided to use the dotted paper to cover the first book, which represents the 'seed'. The flowered washi paper worked for the fifth book, which represents the 'flower', the marbled paper seemed appropriate to express 'roots', and I carved little stamps to create papers for the 'stem'- and 'leaf'-themed books. The sixth one, which alludes to the 'fruit', or the reward (and allows the cycle to repeat), has a pattern of foliage, flowers and fruits. Each phase in the growth cycle also repeats on the back of the accordion, taking the form of relevant words/phrases and simple images on a hand-colored background.

Since the sestina is very structured (and was actually quite a challenge to write!), I am hoping to spend some time simply exploring the fun of words in their purest form, to see where it leads. Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge's Poemcrazy, which is shown on the left of my studio table in the top image, is one catalyst in this quest. I have found a lot of inspiration in her short stories/meditations about words and poetry, and am looking forward to experimenting with her ideas one of these days soon...

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Please click here for more details & photos for The Seeds You Plant.

The Seeds You Plant ( my latest artist's book)

Forty day & forty nights

Visions of letters have been dancing through my head lately. During this period of Lent, known here as Quaresima, the latest seasonal treat in the local bakeries are quaresimali [shown in the photo above]. Composed of sugar, egg whites, flour, cocoa powder and miscellaneous ingredients that vary from one recipe to another, the cookie batter is piped into the letters of the alphabet before baking.

The story of the cookie’s origins possesses that same elusive quality I have stumbled across time and time again when researching anything pertaining to this country’s far-reaching history. One source claims that nuns at a convent near Florence invented the Tuscan version in the mid-1800s; their choice to shape them into letters is said to be symbolic of the words of the Gospel. I’ve also read that the cookies assumed the form of letters to amuse the younger set, for whom they were mainly intended. In any case, the light and not-too-sweet quaresimali were once the only sweets allowed during the period of Lent; while perhaps austere compared to other dolci, they are nonetheless satisfyingly crunchy, with a whisper of chocolate. The inclusion of cocoa powder may seem out of place during Lent (I can’t help but think of Joanne Harris’s novel, Chocolat), but tradition says that it was added to make the cookies dark in color, out of respect for the religious season of mourning.

I imagine the bakers in charge of piping out endless alphabets during these forty days must trace letters in their sleep, but my excuse for breathing and dreaming letters more than usual lately stems from the days and nights I spent working on an abecedary (which I recently submitted for consideration in an exhibition of abecedaries at a Denver-based gallery). I find the concept of these books that follow the alphabet, unfolding one letter at a time, to be very inspiring—it’s a solid structure with endless possibilities.

I love the potential inherent in the design of an artist’s book, and notice the same kind of parallels I used to appreciate between my Treasure Boxes and buildings (a basic structure/exterior, an interior and the accessories/decorative details). Despite the intimate scale of a one-of-a-kind book, the cascade of decisions can feel overwhelming. But ultimately it’s satisfying to see a book through from beginning to end—to have control over every choice, from the theme, content and layout, to the size, medium, binding type, construction and cover. And I enjoyed the process of letting it evolve in a way that balanced the designated structure with the available time (of which there never seems to be enough for this kind of thing) and materials.

In fact, I was thrilled to be able to salvage just enough ‘scraps’ of the creamy, heavyweight Rives paper that first brought me to the path that led to The Piazzas of Florence. I still remember that July day, nearly eight years ago … I sat in the light of a sunny window, admiring the paper’s slightly toothy texture and deckled edges, knowing I just had to create something from it. I am fascinated by books that open in unexpected ways, revealing new layers . . . little surprises . . . so I started experimenting with miniature books whose pages folded out. I ended up with chapters that began with a historical background of each of Florence’s main piazzas, which was then followed by pages that unfolded to reveal different types of increasingly more ‘personal’ information: excerpts from the writings of past travelers, watercolored maps that could be personalized by readers, ‘Invitations’ to inspire creative expression and blank space to use however they wished. When I was ready to present the proposal for my ‘interactive travel guide’ (the original concept for the book that eventually became The Piazzas of Florence), the package included a mock-up chapter showing how the various elements worked together—which I constructed from the gorgeous Rives paper.

But back to the abecedary . . . One of my goals for each of the places in my multimedia Cities project is to create a one-of-a-kind book. For this one I chose to focus on the familiar, but endlessly enthralling, city of Florence (I can’t imagine ever running out of ways to express the many rich layers that characterize my adopted home). From the Arno to the Bridges, the Cupola, Dante and so on, I interpreted each element through an arrangement of photographs and accompanying text (for which I used Arno Pro, a font named for the river that I cross almost daily). After several rounds of experimentation, I decided on a modified accordion binding, a format I am drawn to because it can either be experienced like a traditional book or expanded for display in a series of ever-changing forms.

How good it was to work with paper again, to let my hands guide me wherever they were so inclined. Even photographing the book was rewarding as I manipulated the accordion folds into different shapes, allowing me to appreciate the sculptural quality of the piece. [Please click here to see a few photos.] Although I am very happy with the end result, I can’t help but reflect on other things I would have done if time had permitted (an inevitable part of the creative process). For example, I had originally envisioned individually hand-designing the letters, as well as creating collages to complement the photographs that portrayed each letter’s theme. I wish there had  been more time to contemplate the cover too but, in retrospect, I like how the juxtaposition of corrugated cardboard with the more refined gold and cream-patterned paper alludes to the contrasts that are intrinsic to Florence.

Now that the deadline has passed and my studio and life have regained some order, I am no longer breathing and dreaming the letters of the alphabet. But still, I find my brain wandering restlessly through the night, turning over ideas for other artist’s book: I am already planning the next one…

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New growth is emerging from tender buds and birds have been twittering among the trees and the rooftops as local temperatures begin a general upward trend. But, as is typical of marzo pazzo (crazy March), winter isn’t ready to blow out of town just yet . . . in fact, snow flakes have been flurrying through the air much of today. A visit to the enticingly sunny Pitti ‘Beach’ over the weekend lasted about five minutes before the bone-chilling wind sent us inside. And after spending yesterday afternoon standing in near-zero temps while my daughter participated in a middle school triathlon, we could hardly wait to get home to our cast iron radiators, feather duvets, hot water bottles and steaming bowls of stew. After we had warmed our numb feet and purple hands and noses, we indulged in tiny cups of potent hot chocolate served with a handful of crispy quaresimali—the perfect accompaniment.