Starbucks illuminated manuscript

Oh man. This book is like a drug. I hate to leave it. Each time I work on it, it attaches itself more thickly to me. I HATE leaving my own paintings. I always know where they are, geographically.

The book is now to the point that when you hand it to people, they go, "Ohhhh," and their faces soften and they turn the pages very gently, one by one. And they don't want to give it back.

I know JUST how they feel.

Their was a court illuminator in, like, the 13th century, who did a beautiful calligraphy specimen book for the king. Each page had perfect, confident, masterful lettering designs. It was a work of art. Calligraphia Ornamenta, I think it was called. Anyway, a hundred years later, a court painter very delicately went through and ILLUSTRATED the whole thing, adding ladybugs, roses, drops of water, and leopards to the lettering. If you look at it now, you can't believe it wasn't done at the same time.

That's how this book is. Someone writes... and art wells up around it. Someone makes art... and journal entries appear, nestled into it.

I dreamed about the spreads all night last night -- one slow one after another. I have, all my life, had dreams that I am poring over an illuminated manuscript, an artist's book, spending an hour on each page. When I wake, I can see the pages. Sometimes I make them.