Glove's Labour's Lost: The Big Glove Project
It felt like winter when I walked the dog this morning. His breath came out in puffs of white, like a steam engine. It may officially be spring, but winter is hanging on.
Which is fine, for I need you to think about winter for just a little longer. I'd like you to help make something of my Big Glove project. Many of you sent me snapshots of lost gloves spotted on the streets of Washington and elsewhere this past winter. All the photos, close to 60, have been uploaded to this Web site: www.sendspace.com/file/ghwta4. If you click there you can download the whole set of .jpgs in a zip file.
Then what? Well, that's up to you. You can do whatever you like with them. Arrange them into a collage. Make a "wanted" poster. Compose a slide show or a humorous PowerPoint presentation. Manipulate the images in any way you see fit. When you're finished with your glove-centric masterpiece, e-mail it to me at email@example.com or send me a link.
Then I'll put it up so everyone on the Web can enjoy it. I'll pick a winner -- or maybe we'll have a vote -- and I'll treat that person to lunch. (If you don't live in the Washington area, I'll figure out some other prize.) Let's say the deadline is May 15.
If you decide that pictures aren't enough, I have some words for you. Paige Ponsard was among the readers who sent in glove photos. She also sent a poem that her mother wrote, one that takes the lost glove as its inspiration. Perhaps it will inspire you to create something glove-related. Feel free to incorporate it into your work, if you wish:
By Susan Heath Ryan
Forgotten in the frantic search for a subway token half of a leather pair crooks one finger and beckons me to rescue it
Unnoticed by those who already lost gloves -- don't need a reminder of their carelessness -- it lies alone -- worn out
I'm aware of other dismembered garments -- on sidewalks -- postured against a wall of graffiti in a public stall -- pointing the way down an alley -- left on a cold park bench beneath bad news and spilt coffee
One five-fingered wool corpse lies near the root of a city tree It got stepped on as it reached out to hold someone's hand A memory stirs of warm, red wool I wore that fateful winter
until its mate left to join all these other lost loves
Lovely. Please forward this to your creative friends. I'm curious to see what might come out of this oddest of artistic media.
Posted by: L8yF8 | April 16, 2009 12:19 PM | Report abuse
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