Allison Rae :: Artist, Illustrator, Etsy Purveyor » Balloon http://www.timeticking.com An occasional blog to document scraps of my life, artwork, and the work of those I admire Sun, 21 Nov 2010 18:31:35 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.1.1 le ballon rouge http://www.timeticking.com/2009/02/14/the-red-balloon/ http://www.timeticking.com/2009/02/14/the-red-balloon/#comments Sun, 15 Feb 2009 02:34:21 +0000 Allison Rae http://www.timeticking.com/blog/?p=64

Ahhh, this. It’s beautiful and you should watch it. It’s about childhood and balloons and Paris and colors and more. Directed by Albert Lamorisse in 1965. According to imdb, the only short film to win a non-short film Oscar, ever (it won Best Original Screenplay).

]]> http://www.timeticking.com/2009/02/14/the-red-balloon/feed/ 0 everything you do is a balloon http://www.timeticking.com/2001/10/02/everything-you-do-is-a-balloon/ http://www.timeticking.com/2001/10/02/everything-you-do-is-a-balloon/#comments Tue, 02 Oct 2001 06:58:59 +0000 Allison Rae http://www.timeticking.com/blog/?p=33 Life shifts in small handfuls of time. From north to south, the point of origination feels so different from the destination. I like the in-betweens. I like the ride, the feeling of being nowhere in particular. From the Holland Tunnel to the farm-to-market roads, inside the bookends rests a childlike state. I am bound to nothing except a trajectory. 

i t ’ s  a l m o s t  l i k e  c u l t u r e  s h o c k , i  c a n  s m e l l  t h e  t r e e s  a g a i n

Last night I left the sheets in the wash and fell asleep on the mattress. My dreams were stripped bare. I awoke at 3:37am and wandered outside; the air was actually cool. That smell! It was back, that particular seasonal smell perched on the cusp of summer and autumn. I would bottle it if I could (along with its winter-to-spring analogue).

I’ve been spending far too much time on playgrounds lately. For some reason, returning to painting demands that I act like a five year old again, at least within the confines of my own imagination. I want to run with fistfuls of dripping paintbrushes, trailing them across everything in sight. I drop the brushes and keep running and running and running and running. Then stop. A crack, a pop, and just like that I’m gone again. A never-ending game of tag. The notion of anywhere but here rears its head yet again. It’s not 2001. I’m not getting older. I don’t live here, I don’t live anywhere.

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