I finally got around to collaging the paper ephemera I bought for 2 euros at the flea market at Rue De Levis plaza, around the corner from my brother's apartment. The red type caught my eye. Using this as my starting point, I rummaged through some boxes and binders on the table and chose a few pieces with similar tones that might work together.
These three pieces are tiny, measuring between 1.75 and 2.5 inches on the long side. I don't mind working at this scale because, to be honest, my workspace is the size of a pull-out desk tray underneath where the small television sits in our bedroom. I added a ballpoint pen and my eyeglasses just for context. Cleanup is easy. After putting away the glue, scissors, and unused papers that I collect in a clear envelope, I sweep the remaining cutouts with my hand and brush them into a trash bin.
What I've learned through the years is to follow where limitations will take me creatively. That's how I ended up photographing "And the Rain Fell" and storm clouds passing the TransAmerica building with an iPod camera. That's how I came up with my hybrid collage process because of the space limitations in our home.
Singer-songwriter and artist Joni Mitchell contracted polio at a young age, which weakened her left hand. She couldn't press hard enough on the guitar's fretboard to produce standard chord sounds. But that didn't stop her from singing and writing her own songs. She learned open tuning and from there developed her own distinctive sound that musicians of all generations continue to learn and play.
I remember being mesmerized by Josef Sudek's melancholy window still lifes at an exhibition in New York City many years ago. I found out later that he had lost his right arm in World War I. Imagine the sheer weight of an 8x10 camera and maneuvering between operating the lens and changing film holders with only one arm. He didn't let his limited mobility stop him from making photographs.
There are countless other unnamed artists and everyday folks who have had to piece together their lives by working with what they had.
I grew up in the Philippines where "making do" was the norm. Dustpans were made out of Baguio cooking oil cans cut diagonally in half with a piece of plywood glued or nailed on as a handle. Dried coconut husks were used as floor polishers. Small pieces of soap were stacked together and fused with a new bar so that nothing was wasted. We never had answering machines in Manila, so my parents' old notepads from their previous jobs were used to write down phone messages. One-sided printed sheets were repurposed, using the blank side for scratch paper or for drawing and scribbling. Perhaps this early exposure to creative constraint-thinking shaped how I approach my own art today.
Although the willingness to see limitations as possibilities instead of restrictions isn't a popular concept, there's tremendous freedom that can be derived from this mindset. Creativity doesn't necessarily require abundance—it only asks for our gentle attention.
Here are three more collages made for no rhyme or reason or theme to follow. They're simply the results of what becomes possible when you embrace working with what you have.
In the spirit of working with what we have, my Marica notecards transform small collage pieces into meaningful connections. Created to honor my sister's gift for small, thoughtful gestures, each card carries both art and intention.
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I like these small creations. The scale to materials ratio give them a 3D effect, which is really lovely.
Lovely work yet again. I love the thought of working small. And thank you for the card! It arrived this morning, a little damp but thankfully still legible. Hugs from afar.