Patefacia and the Crickets of Kearney Street

The walls turn grey around Patefacia as the light outside grows dim. She is lost again, in her thoughts. 

...On and on until a tiny song slips through the litany and swells into the chorus of crickets.

It is night. Patefacia lays flat watching the callous, pock-marked ceiling, darkness slithering around her still shape like smoke. The bed is soft and does not move underneath her. The window is open and offer no apologies.

Each cricket strums with no notion of improving the song. Patefacia soaks in their chorus, spinning with the great, blue earth.



I still need to get quality photos of this book. I was so excited to finish it I wanted to see it all together. Doing the lettering with a brush was really challenging. I feel like brush script should run across the page like a herd of Lipizzaner horses in the Alps but it is hard to be that free while writing over a painting. I did have some ideas for other ways to integrate the text in my next book.