Art is happening!
Menacing figures are looming and glooming and zooming and outside it is dark and blustery and rainy and foreboding. What started as innocent graphite lines on toothy, pressed cellulose pulp became a host of disapproving critics who started glaring and hooting and cawing and kicked in my front door. It’s a flurry of feathers over here! They’re rattling the chandeliers and pulling my hair and pecking the walls and clawing the curtains and running up my phone bill and raiding my fridge and terrorizing my cat. Good lord, they are frightening! Run, penguin girl, run!