Rachel Richardson – författare

GEL PRINTING is packed with practical instruction and exciting ideas to get everyone started with this new and very accessible monoprinting technique. With very little equipment (and no press) needed, it explains how simple prints can be made quickly and easily, and shows how more in-depth and advanced techniques can also be explored. Some 26 exercises cover making prints with stencils, natural materials, mark making and image resist, as well as using art materials and combining layers and techniques. This beautiful book will serve as your companion as you learn and enjoy making versatile and vibrant prints with just a gel plate, roller, ink and paper.

How should we raise our children in, and for, a world that is burning? Rachel Richardson’s third collection, Smother, interrogates this impossible question. The poet, raising young daughters and grieving the death of a mother friend, documents a string of record-breaking fires across the California landscape and the rage, sorrow, and detachment that follow amidst the pervasive smoke. Environmental and physical predation—on the earth and on the female body—weave through the book in layers.But these are not poems of giving up. The poems in Smother gather accomplices in grief and mothering, seek out guides and girlfriends, remember the dead, keep watch at the firebreaks, and plant new trees on the burn scars. From lyric forms to moments of prose and documentary collage, these poems sing their song of resistance made from the music that is available to us now.“Within that vasttriangle, land that appearsto be hanging only by a flimsy hingeto the continent, the burn scarshaving leveled the grasses, having pushedthe elk elsewhere up the ragged edgefor reeds, the hearts of some downed treesstill smolder. This is what I go for. To walk inside it,to know what remains of the kingdom.”—from “The Map Is Not The Territory”

How should we raise our children in, and for, a world that is burning? Rachel Richardson’s third collection, Smother, interrogates this impossible question. The poet, raising young daughters and grieving the death of a mother friend, documents a string of record-breaking fires across the California landscape and the rage, sorrow and detachment that follow amidst the pervasive smoke. Environmental and physical predation–on the earth and on the female body–weave through the book in layers.But these are not poems of giving up. The poems in Smother gather accomplices in grief and mothering, seek out guides and girlfriends, remember the dead, keep watch at the firebreaks and plant new trees on the burn scars. From lyric forms to moments of prose and documentary collage, these poems sing their song of resistance made from the music that is available to us now.