Collection: #2

Getting started on collection #2 (yet to be named but the theme is apparent). I think I might love this one even more than the first…?! In any case, I whittled away a lovely evening with Auchentoschan and my pencils (photos from INSTAGRAM):

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Collection: Debut.

Here is the complete first collection: a lovingly-curated 5-piece showing with a decidedly haute theme: Balmain, Manolo, YSL, Vogue Paris, and Tom Ford–gang’s all here!

Click on each one to purchase in the shoppe:

1 - Balmain - 2-2   2 - Manolo5 - AnyaRubik   4 - YSL7 - TomFord

Behind The Scenes: Merchandising Day.

It’s #MerchandisingDay here at Old Man Art Shoppe HQ! The prints are hot off the press and ready to be styled as to give potential buyers a better idea of how each print might look in their homes.

Click on each image to purchase it in the Etsy store.

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The Launch: Old Man Art Shoppe.

It seems so surreal that it’s finally happening, after a year of talking about it and a lifetime of thinking about it. I never imagined that opening an online shop via Etsy would entail this much blood, sweat, and tears. But that’s the price for anything that’s worth anything. And like anything that’s worth doing, you just DO IT.

My OCD self spent a year worrying about fine-tuning every minute detail: should the curve of the pipe in my logo be more/less severe? Should the Pinterest icon be arranged to the left or right of the Instagram icon on my business card? Is five pieces enough for my first collection or should I up it to six? There came a point (at approximately 1:18 am on August 28, 2014) when I said, fuck it and clicked “Open Your Shop” on Etsy.


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A Charade.

Some people drink to forget. Some people forget with no help at all. Probably because there’s nothing to remember; it was all a charade. In a life filled with upgrades trailing acquisitions following merciless discards, I should have known better than to expect more. In the beginning, a feeling haunted me that I would end up the shadow of an upgrade; never did I stop to think I would be left in the wake of a downgrade. A charade was all it was: I was another acquisition on a checklist of Things To Get. Acquire and parade, acquire and parade.

The playground.

She gazed longingly and apprehensively at the playground, glittering bronze in the orange evening sun, at once an inviting oasis of glee and yet a terrifying cage of a monster, bizarre metallic limbs of jungle gyms and monkey bars beckoning her to come forth.

The side of her knee was still tarnished with the sticky crimson aftermath of a wound sustained from going down the big metal slide, and though the cut has since formed a thin top crust of blood and amber, it throbbed against the open air, threatening to spew forth yet more of her innards.

Her gaze turned to the swings, rusty links dangling from metal beams. She thought of the time she spent perched on the black rubber strip of a seat, piercing the blue sky as she soared pendulously upward, carefree and alive. Her thoughts darkened with the recent memory of being dropped sacrilegiously from mid air as one of the chains broke from the big metal beam from which it hung overhead. She remembered hanging high above ground for a frozen second, seemingly suspended in time and space, before dropping traumatically on the sharp teeth of gravel shards below like a helpless bird slingshotted mid-flight.

She looked around the playground; the joys of the familiar merry-go-round and teeter-totters were gone and in their place, landmines.

She averted her watery eyes from the playground she knew so well. She wanted to step onto the pebbly gravel to run and jump and play again but her fears held her back. She wanted to be wrong but the abundant chapters of injuries suffered from recent visits have rendered her too terrified to find out.


Words on a screen.

I stood in a large room, brightly lit with the morning sun. You entered the room, a blank canvas in one hand and paints in the other.

Paint something, you said. You were always so good at it.

And so I did. I used only black and white because I no longer know my way around colour.

Why don’t you try mixing the two, you suggested.

And so I did. Smudged the black over white repeatedly until charcoal appeared.

I don’t like it, you said. Make it black and white again.

I froze. I don’t know how, I whispered.

I saw your mouth form the words: I’ll be here to help you.

The room blackened with smoke as you turned and left.

As I choked on the smoke that was enveloping me whole, you watched through a small window. Don’t worry, you said over and over. I’m here to help you.

Help me, I pleaded.

I’m here, you replied from the other side.

Everything fades and now all I see is black.

I can’t tell if it is because the room is black or I am blind, or if I’ve shut my eyes in defeat.

Watching for you in the rear view

I waited in my car, glancing anxiously up at the rear view mirror, watching for your reflection to come bobbing around the corner again.

After the quick and uncomfortable dinner came an even quicker and even more uncomfortable walk. My dad has golf balls for you, I said. Sure, you said. As I handed them over, I felt the familiar heaviness in my chest. The kind of suffocation you feel when you sense a wall, but don’t know why it’s there or how to penetrate its sterile surface.

Nice to see you, you said as you gave me a one-armed hug. There were many things I wanted to say and protests to utter but I kept my silence and got in my car. I watched in the rear view as you rounded the corner, dressed in heather charcoal grey, back down the street from whence we came.

I sat there, in breathless, heavy silence, eyes flickering up at the rear view and willing you to come back into view with a changed mind–on post-dinner plans, on everything.

I sat there, with the engine running for what seemed like an eternity, before I dragged myself away from that strip of road, next to the railroad tracks, peppered with the blooms of community gardens. In that moment I knew you were not going to come back. Not tonight, not ever.