Here we are thigh-deep in autumn. I’ve received a small human since the last post. His name is Cosimo. He looks like an old man who forgot to put his dentures in. After we named him, we read a book called The Baron in the Trees about a boy named Cosimo who lives his entire life in the branches, climbing from one to the next like a monkey without ever setting foot on the ground. No one savored autumn like that guy, I betcha.

Side note: the color of baby poop could put larch leaves to shame. It’s like electric disco mustard. It’s like if pollen could talk but only swore filthy cuss words.

This month, in the service of humility and transparency, I’m going to show everything I have drawn or painted since Cosimo’s birth. It’s much more inflating to show the polished gems, and not the rough cuts. But I have no polished gems. I’m human, tired, covered in the holy trinity of newborns (spit up, poop, and pee). So this is what happens in between the perfectionist miniatures and the peacocky murals:

In the vein of polished artwork, here are a few dandies to keep you salivating like a tree sucking all of its chlorophyll towards its thirsty trunk:

And finally, in the vein less of autumnhood and more of motherhood and not at all of robinhood, a piece by Lenka Clayton, who conceived An Artist Residency in Motherhood, which essentially proves that if you think you can’t be a mom and also make art you’re full of electric mustard disco poop.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this month’s exposé! My flowchart-making brain factory has clearly had some energy budget cuts this term (see below). Til next time: Yes, you can do all sorts of things with breastmilk, like paint and make cheese.

Shmugs,

Khara