My final Book-Art piece:
A paper cutting house in 3D, which comes alive, flowing out of the book via random words and sentences that form a poem. A poem about my family. My home.
Took me about 15 hours in total.
Book 1: [link]
Book 2: [link]
Book 3: [link]
Book 4: [link]
Book 5: [link]
Final Piece: [link]
Book 7: [link]
In case you can't read it:
A young man. He was about nineteen.
His eyes. Wisdom. Ideals. Honest. Had so much intelligence and so much imagination.
We all recognized him as the King. Strong and proud. He was really only a boy.
Finding himself far from home. To travel. Bus.
When, a respectable young girl. A woman. One’s heart would have missed some beats:
Face narrow. Her voice, her voice flowed past.
Her mouth. Smile. For he, he was winking. Her lips and cheeks were brighter than paint. New friends.
Listened to every word. And, without speaking, had fallen in love. And from early morning to late evening. Everywhere the perfume. Of her own beauty.
Kindness. Real kindness; friends. It was impossible. And it did not matter how much.
These two people. A great love. Passion. Long letters, over many years. Formed a beautiful friendship. They had found. Love. Meant to be.
for she was one of those women who, cared. Who was greatly loved by him.
Now, in the autumn. A ring. She was asked. She replied. “Yes.”
Engaged. Bride. Wife. His wife.
Their home was ready for them. A home, a place. Of flowering bulbs, where people live speaking easily. Their hearts are warm. Happy.
While the winter fell. The dream, the time. Would change. A photograph.
Glowing she rose. A boy, very black of hair and very white of skin, just like himself. Father. Mother. They took great delight. Their son. He was loved. There had been a fullness of life.
He had been born and brought up. In. A. Wonderful. Home.
When. Twelve months. Surprising that by August. His wife had just gone to the hospital to have a baby. Her baby. Her child. A daughter. A lovely creature. With watchet-blue eyes. Chestnut-gold hair.
She softly settled beside it like a mothering dove: as a work of art. Mother. Loving mother.
Brother. Two happy children. Were both loved. When they were little creatures. Growing up to the world. The whole world. Friends. Better than perfect. Family.
Loving this lovely home. Always.