Random Thursday: Art for Art’s Sake

Thank you all for the comments, e-mails and support this past week.

Janie is home from the hospital, and—except for a slight hiccup when the power went out we had to take her to a friend’s house for her 10 p.m. breathing treatment—all is well.  Or nearly so.  She’s bored now, which is an excellent sign!

She helped me arrange this post yesterday morning while we were waiting for the nurse to orchestrate her release, thought when she saw the title, she said, “Who’s Art?  This is my post.”

Yeah.  She’s on the mend.


Deadlines = Inspiration


Yes.  Yes he did.

Don’t ask me how I know . . .


Celeste Doodles!

I don’t usually venture onto tumblr because the formatting stuns my bloggified brain, but I’m following Celeste of Celeste Doodles, because holy cow, the imagination on this woman.

She draws Girl Scout cookies as Girl Scouts. She creates Vulcan fashion, genderswaps the Star Trek crew, imagines them as bounty hunters, drops other characters into the Federation Academy, and gives Nichelle Nichol’s Uhura a decent uniform.  She even gives us a glimpse of the future of our favorite cartoon characters, all grown up.

I didn’t have time to beg permission to share her art here, so I’m going to link to her archives, which will give you a thumbnail overview of her work, and also link to Janie’s favorite three images of American Girl dolls as twenty-somethings, because she insisted, and I can’t blame her.


Gastronomical Art

9-way pbandfab

I thought the white stuff was cream cheese, but I was told in no uncertain terms by Watson that it’s marshmallow fluff.

It was interesting to note, at least to me, that her expression of disgust at the idea of cream cheese and peanut butter was the same as mine at the thought of marshmallow fluff, period.

So I thought I might as well take a poll:


Body Art!

Body Art

Get it?


Dear Mr. Watterson

When Janie was just learning to read, she would take one of our many Calvin & Hobbes collections, sit in a corner, and puzzle out the words by looking at the panels.

Then she would bring the book to me and we read them together and laughed, though I would always tell her that Calvin was not a role model.

And now, when we can’t find Sunny, she’s in that same corner, reading about a toy tiger and his little boy.

It’s no surprise that we aren’t alone in our admiration of Bill Watterson’s brainchildren: