flakes
I am a flake and I draw—though I never run—with scissors.
We're all flakes, in our own ways. We have small, repeating patterns in our lives, that, when exposed, reveal the beauty, the humor, the pathos, the perfect rhythms of being.
Making flakes started as a way to relate to the teens at p:ear. In winters, Flakes proved a cheap, easy and crafty way to engage young folks. Out I'd come with paper and scissors and we'd make flakes with which we'd festoon our windows. I soon discovered that if I could "flake" abstract shapes and bubble letters that became bubble names and phrases. That discovery launched a 15+ year tradition of making “name flakes” for the youth at p:ear. Even the process itself was beautiful—art as vernacular for forging a connection with a kid. Here they were, connecting, possibly for the first time, with a stranger, an adult, an untrustworthy type, and they were opening a custom flake bearing their very name. "Unfolding their inner-flake," as we joked, provoking laughter, wonder, and joy. Sometimes we explored animal or insect shapes, which became totems for a kid. We’d press them under books, decorate them or not and, often as not, tape them in p:ear's windows, among their dozen brother and sister flakes.
We're all flakes, in our own ways. We have small, repeating patterns in our lives, that, when exposed, reveal the beauty, the humor, the pathos, the perfect rhythms of being.
Making flakes started as a way to relate to the teens at p:ear. In winters, Flakes proved a cheap, easy and crafty way to engage young folks. Out I'd come with paper and scissors and we'd make flakes with which we'd festoon our windows. I soon discovered that if I could "flake" abstract shapes and bubble letters that became bubble names and phrases. That discovery launched a 15+ year tradition of making “name flakes” for the youth at p:ear. Even the process itself was beautiful—art as vernacular for forging a connection with a kid. Here they were, connecting, possibly for the first time, with a stranger, an adult, an untrustworthy type, and they were opening a custom flake bearing their very name. "Unfolding their inner-flake," as we joked, provoking laughter, wonder, and joy. Sometimes we explored animal or insect shapes, which became totems for a kid. We’d press them under books, decorate them or not and, often as not, tape them in p:ear's windows, among their dozen brother and sister flakes.
A few years ago, maybe five, I had a student named Mouse. I loved and love Mouse—an incredible, talented poet, a sensitive soul, a generous wit. So, on one fine, rare snow day, I decided I’d make a Mouse Flake. It suddenly occurred to me to make a pictograph instead. Of course! And then I made a Cat Flake. And then I realized I could flake anything. Later that evening, I got into a terrific argument and ended up at a bar and—as if by magic—with paper and scissors at my disposal. I went to town, cutting out Dirty Word Flakes and the "Fuck You" Flakes which have since become all the rage.
