I once again direct your attention to my rejected set.

Are two journal entries with it too attention whore-y? Maybe so. I made the skirt, shirt, and brooch in this photo, and the sheets are from my bed at home.

I've been trying to remember how to make free-spine books. It's been years since I made a book, so I used some shoddy materials to jumpstart my memory.

Some guy on livejournal is using me as his avatar. Weird.


What did I do for this long holiday? I've been painting flies and listening to Maria Callas sing about murdering her husband and children. Sadly, I've yet to see Medea performed live. That, and stress out about my stuff waiting to clear customs tomorrow. When it does clear, I don't know how I'll transport it from the airport to my house, and I don't know where I'll put it in my house, but I do know that I'll be making belts, floggers, and dildo harnesses all bloody week, as I've now been twice back-ordered.

Say something nice about me and shit



Or say something scathing and cruel. Just say something because I don't understand the reasoning behind this.

Also, customs brokerage should suck my dick. I hate pretending to be a grownup right now.

Should you be reading this, diptegenarian Illinoisan, I hope that I did not contribute to your decision to delete your journal. If I embarrassed you, I apologize and I'm willing to delete my past journal entry if you wish. Please let me know. My plan was to try to convince you to send me your old clothes, because I'm always on the hunt for more materials. But perhaps I'm a bit too much of an opportunist.

Currently, I'm in the process of printing and carving for my next show, Solecist at Kayo Gallery. I'm also at the baby stages of a collaboration with a local comic book artist, and I'm beginning to suspect that he's far more talented than I am. My intention is to become more talented by proxy, or through osmosis. This is the shirt I made him after he gave me the Zardoz shirt:


Yet again, I ventured onto Frontpage. But this time, it was because I had scanned some new images to use, and knew that my harddrive is going to commit sepakku at any moment. I had to get those images online before they dematerialized, especially as the amount of guff the scanner gave me was not something I was willing to put up with twice.



Nerve has a monthly photo contest, each month with a different silly theme challenging photographers and models to come up with something sexy. I won third place in last month's contest, whose theme was "Laundry." The judge called it spacey and that I looked vaguely unhappy. Evidently, these are positives. This month's theme is "bubbles," and even though I'm all psyched to try again, I'm at a total loss for ideas.



Thanks to the Westboro Baptist Church for informing me of the existence of the word "irrefragable." It was committed to memory by whispering it under my breath as I did laundry, telling the modest little piles of separated colors in one word that it was incontestable, and could not be denied.

That shortness of breath and rapid heart beat? It's because I'm far too excited for my own good to go see The Wolfs perform tonight, in only a few short hours. The lead singer manages to have an eerie resemblance to Charlie Brown, yet can sing songs about specific sexual positions without being creepy. Most of the lineup for tonight is from Salt Lake City, so I'm preparing to be assailed by great waves of nostalgia and sentimentality when I get to the bar, especially since summer is speedily approaching Phoenix, reducing its inhabitants to reverse eskimos, baring too much skin and constructing their lives to facilitate maximum exposure to A/C.

My desire to be back somewhere with tolerable weather is of such power that I was actually manifested in SLC. Yes, my sister saw me walking across the street last night.


It was, admittedly, in Tracy Strauss's painting form, but I take it as an auspicious sign. That, and the plane tickets, destination SLC.



While searching for a particular article about me, so that I could cite it in my press clippings, I came across two somewhat perplexing things. Firstly, there is a racing horse named Lady Camilla Taylor. I hate horses. They are horrible animals and I hope to stay as far away from them as can be physically managed.

This is secondly:

Huh.

Huh.

Quoted, not linked, because being an aspiring Lothario doesn't merit mockery and unwanted attention, in my mind anyway. My reaction to reading this was alarm, but not really of the sort that one would expect. Sickly Constitution? Really? I've always thought of myself as rather hale and hardy, albeit with an irritating belief in the merits of sunscreen, but healthy nonetheless. I don't foresee a romance between myself and this young scribe, but I'm somewhat baffled that my age, a difference of 6 years, is such a barrier. Six doesn't strike me as that big a difference. I once dated someone that much younger than me. He looked chokingly beautiful with his shirt off, played the cello, and I snuck him into bars when I should have known better. Evidently both of our friends had adviced as against it because of our age, and perhaps they were right as he and I don't really talk anymore. It's likely that I'm thinking about the cellist because Rostropovich just died.

But then, maybe that kid talking about a different 26 year old Camilla altogether.

Additionally, the first entry reminds me of how much I loathe eighties teen movies and the way their conceits have infiltrated society. Yeah, I'm talking about you, John Hughes.

Pretty new things in my shop. I've got big elaborate plans for my website, which will be implemented later in the week.

I'm finagling a trade out of Abbyjane. How does she make those beautiful birds and how does she keep them from toppling over? Some sort of black arts, I suspect.

Oh, and if you've got old button up shirts that you don't want, then I recommend giving them to me. I'm nearly out!

I hate updating my website. It seems like it will be such a treat when I wake up and think about how I need to finally switch out the old stuff, and show off all my shiney new stuff. But it is not a treat at all. Frontpage was not designed as an intro to web design, it was designed as a highly effective means to leech the souls from its hapless users.

After all that soul-leeching, I've now got some new (and some old) shirts for sale, new wristbands, and finally posted the teacups and a hideous internet abortion that I will continue to direct potential patrons to.

My upcoming solo show in July at Kayo Gallery is simply too exciting for words. I'm working on new pieces for it and sewing like crazy. And somehow, I want to engineer some sort of demonstration on medium and technique. When you understand how something is made, it completely changes your approach to it and the manner in which you think about it, or so I think. Understanding the process makes it approachable and, depending on the process, gives it that edge of artisanship or let's you know that a preschooler really could have made it.

Last night, I met with dancekitchen, and I gave him a shirt that was not even half as awesome as the Zardoz shirt he gave me. And then I neglected to get a picture of him in it even though I had brought a camera expressly for that purpose.

I've got a new goal for the year. A new way to measure myself and probably find myself short, but it's the attempt that matters. Or so I think, but then, I'm addicted to fear of failure. It's my cocaine.

Last night, I drove.

In a car.

All the way to Willowhouse.

It was terrifying.

In other news, there's a picture of my work in the LA Times. They've got the wrong title on the piece, but I don't fucking care as long as they spelled my name right.

Last night, I had a dream about one of my favorite internet comics. Mr. Jeffrey Rowland, true to form, wore an animal costume throughout the dream, and we ate large tomatoes together. His animal costume got sticky in a completely nonsexual way. Now I really want some tomatoes, but not those stripmined grocery store atrocities. I really want to eat some homegrown heirloom tomatoes, with all their weird colors and amorphous blobby shapes.

Onto more relevant blog subjects. Friday was the second reception for "Culpable" at Trunk Space Gallery. It went amazingly well. I sold quite a few pieces, and all to people who I was happy to have bits of me in their homes.

Image heavy, so you with slow computers be forewarned.

Welcome to the Dollhouse: Studio Visit with Camilla Taylor in Phoenix New Times

I'm very pleased with how it came out, even if I think I came across as a little more bubbleheaded than I had hoped. And they're safety goggle glasses, not granny glasses (although it's quite possible that a few grannies wore them before me). But she didn't play up the bondage gear, thankfully, and never misquoted me. All in all, one of the best interviews I've done in quite a while.


Last reception for my solo show is this Friday at Trunkspace Gallery, 1506 NW Grand Avenue, Phoenix, AZ.

One of my bestest friends in the whole wide world visited Phoenix for one night last week. He played music so loud that it could be heard crystal clear at the bar next door, and he played it to a crowd of about seven people. It was an awesome show, nonetheless. The other touring band playing with him had members who were terribly allergic to cats, and even though I've been thinking about adopting a cat recently, hypothetical cats do not affect them. I let them stay at my house in addtion to Ryan and his two roadies, because they had no other catless options.

Bang! Bang! fell asleep almost as soon as they set up their kit, and four hours and probably just as many hussies later, Ryan and entourage fell asleep too, after giggling loud enough to wake the neighbors and making one of the hussies sleep in her car outside. My living room could barely contain so many people, and they looked like a puddle of greasy puppies in dire need of toiletries and hot water, all bunched together on the floor.


Due to my ridilculous love for books on tape, one of my older brothers introduced me to podcasts a little bit ago. I had heretofore thought that they were only available to people who owned an mp3 player, stupidly not realizing that my computer routinely plays mp3s. I've already listened to every episode of Mysterious Universe, and some more than once, and I'm slowly working through Learn Japanese. So now I need something else. Any recommendations on other free podcasts that don't sound like bored monotonal college students with too much free time?

An article recently came out at in a college paper about vegan sex toys, for which I was interviewed. They used a pretty stupid picture for it, though. I haven't read the author he interviewed, Peyser, but I don't agree with his description of being vegan and dating. Maybe he's actually hideous, and that's why it was such a trouble for him when he was single.

Last week, Giulio came to my studio and photographed me barefoot and in blue coveralls for Phoenix New Times. Initially, I had put on slim pants and a tight black blouse, and it became evident to myself how ridiculous it was to be in a messy studio dressed like that. The photo should come out along with accompanying article on Wednesday night. I hope I don't come off as a pretentious shut in, that is, I hope I don't come off as myself.

I got point vectored by Erika Moen:


And thank you thank you thank you to the lovely person who bought me a copy of "Memoirs Found in a Bathtub" by Stanislaw Lem.

The smoking ban in Phoenix goes into effect on Tuesday. I am so excited.

I added yet another rejected set to the "Hopefuls" section. This one I don't think has a chance, and it was shot ages ago. But seriously, look at that hair. That is some freaking awesome hair. I look at that hair, and I recall how often I had to bleach out my natural color to achieve that anime lavender, and then I think about how much I don't want to invest that much time into my hair ever again. And, I'm ridiculously proud of the panties I made.

So give it a looksie, but don't invest too much lobbying into it because I don't expect anything else to come of it





The turnout for my show last night can only be described as abysmal, but I sold 8 pieces outright, with two ore promised to people when they get the cash, so who the hell cares how many people turned up?

I did the only sensible thing after the show, and got wasted at the tiki bar next door with my friends. I have this funny habit when I get drunk. Inebriation turns me into an overprotective mother hen, and I become overly concerned about everyone's wellbeing. I take it upon myself to make sure the passed out girl gets to bed, and that she doesn't fall asleep with her shoes on. I prevent my loquacious friend from insulting the doorman, or sleeping with the married girl. And then I sober up and stop caring about people and whether or not they sleep in shoes.

The next reception for it will be even better, and I'll have five new pieces that I intend to finish by then.



For the opening, I made a sign and framed it, and hung it on the wall. It read "You may gently interfere with their lives." Giving people permission to touch art started out by just making them nervous, and eventually grown men were lying on the floor talking to inanimate objects.

I had set up all my creatures in two opposing armies, facing off across the room from each other. Everyone after than placed them into little groups, and made sure each creature had a friend. I tested this by placing a few in corners on their own, and sure enough, the next person immediately cooed over them in concern, and either brought another guy over to keep them company, or ushered them into a larger group.


(thanks to Jeff and Jefferson for the photos)