Demeter or Bust
I got into paper pulp sculpting entirely by accident. Originally I wanted to make paper to use in collage, and began armed with Nita Leland's and Virginia Lee Williams' book Creative Collage Techniques. After reading their section on making handmade paper for collage I set about ripping discarded office paper, which I soaked in water and pulped in an old blender. I flattened the pulp on a window screen that someone had put out on the curb for trash pickup. Excess water drained into the kitchen sink.
I discovered that by adding acrylic paint to the mix, I could take pulped, colored paper and make it into shapes that held together. I no longer flattened my pulp on a screen but mixed it with gesso to create a messy white clay that I could sculpt.
When we moved to Florida we found a "lawn" of sand that blasted Mary's legs when she explored the yard. Any trees that had once graced the property had been cut down. Almost three years later the sand is mostly gone; our gully is filled; and we have a variety of young trees, shrubs, and volunteer plants that make the place look lively. But in the beginning I wasn't sure how we'd fare.
If ever there was a time to call in the gods, this was it. And who better than Demeter, the Greek goddess of growing things? We had a nice little spot between our newly-planted dwarf elm and our honeysuckle-draped lamppost where I pictured her sitting, face tilted toward the sky and arms raised. I figured enough coats of gloss medium might help her withstand the weather.
The bust -- whose paper component comes from junk mail -- had to be done in about a dozen layers, each requiring hours of pulping and sculpting followed by days of drying time. And that's when I learned how much difference humidity makes.
Though still skeletal -- surely the goddess of fertility is more zaftig than that -- the bust has its basic form. Theoretically, outer layers would then attach it to arms, neck/head, and pelvis.
Theoretically. Until the mold moved in. I answered with an arsenal of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, followed by an additional coat of gesso. By this time I was also a couple of layers into building Demeter's derriere, barely enough for a cheeky curve. Thinner layers. Given enough time for each to become bone-dry, perhaps they'd thwart the microorganisms.
Even if I could conquer the mold there was still the matter of density. That anorexic bust alone tips the scale at ten pounds. When I gave it to someone to heft and he was afraid he'd drop it I assured him the piece was hard enough to withstand a pounding. If I completed a full-sized sculpture, would I be able to move it?
Demeter or Bust
I got into paper pulp sculpting entirely by accident. Originally I wanted to make paper to use in collage, and began armed with Nita Leland's and Virginia Lee Williams' book Creative Collage Techniques. After reading their section on making handmade paper for collage I set about ripping discarded office paper, which I soaked in water and pulped in an old blender. I flattened the pulp on a window screen that someone had put out on the curb for trash pickup. Excess water drained into the kitchen sink.
I discovered that by adding acrylic paint to the mix, I could take pulped, colored paper and make it into shapes that held together. I no longer flattened my pulp on a screen but mixed it with gesso to create a messy white clay that I could sculpt.
When we moved to Florida we found a "lawn" of sand that blasted Mary's legs when she explored the yard. Any trees that had once graced the property had been cut down. Almost three years later the sand is mostly gone; our gully is filled; and we have a variety of young trees, shrubs, and volunteer plants that make the place look lively. But in the beginning I wasn't sure how we'd fare.
If ever there was a time to call in the gods, this was it. And who better than Demeter, the Greek goddess of growing things? We had a nice little spot between our newly-planted dwarf elm and our honeysuckle-draped lamppost where I pictured her sitting, face tilted toward the sky and arms raised. I figured enough coats of gloss medium might help her withstand the weather.
The bust -- whose paper component comes from junk mail -- had to be done in about a dozen layers, each requiring hours of pulping and sculpting followed by days of drying time. And that's when I learned how much difference humidity makes.
Though still skeletal -- surely the goddess of fertility is more zaftig than that -- the bust has its basic form. Theoretically, outer layers would then attach it to arms, neck/head, and pelvis.
Theoretically. Until the mold moved in. I answered with an arsenal of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, followed by an additional coat of gesso. By this time I was also a couple of layers into building Demeter's derriere, barely enough for a cheeky curve. Thinner layers. Given enough time for each to become bone-dry, perhaps they'd thwart the microorganisms.
Even if I could conquer the mold there was still the matter of density. That anorexic bust alone tips the scale at ten pounds. When I gave it to someone to heft and he was afraid he'd drop it I assured him the piece was hard enough to withstand a pounding. If I completed a full-sized sculpture, would I be able to move it?