An Illustrated Fashion Blog by Angie Rehe

21 days out of hibernation and going strong.  It appears the combination of hanging out with friends and pushing to the side any thoughts that lead to Worrytown is a winning one.  Ignorance is indeed bliss!

Of course there’s been little pep pills along the way, like beginning the latest term of the Patsyfox Drawing Salon, which never fails to attract an exceedingly agreeable bunch of folk.  And then there’s golden moments like Alannah Hill letting the whole world see how truly delusional and, well…stupid she is.  Golden! What?  Mean?  You forgot/didn’t know the story of her asking me if I was a lesbian in a job interview??  I have a license to loathe.

But it’s not about any outside amusements anyway, it’s about the space inside my head.  And I like it here in the dark.  It makes the light even brighter.

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It’s been 11 days since I peeped out of my hibernation cave and decided to stick a toe out, and who would have thunk it – spending time with my friends and choosing not to think about the plethora of things that I could quite reasonably worry about actually makes me feel better!  Genius!

So perhaps it is true that we choose to worry?  In which case, I now choose to kick my heels up and give a *%@#! Take it away Doris…

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Start sharpening your pencils, because the 2nd round of The Patsyfox Drawing Salon kicks off in just 2 weeks!  Yes, just try to contain your excitement.  Will I still be putting Ikea stools together when the students arrive this time?  Will there be any life left in the projector globe now that I’ve discovered watching movies on my loungeroom wall?  Will Fantales still be the sweets of choice? Will there be a new custom soundtrack this round?

Classes will again be held in the fabulous surrounds of Nevada Duffy’s studio/retail space (see the gorgeous pics), and this time we have a level 2 course as well, for people who’ve already completed an introductory course, or who are more experienced illustrators, or even advanced.  Again, classes will be kept teeny tiny so everyone gets lots of lovin’.

Find out more at The Drawing Salon, or even more by asking me at salon@patsyfox.com.

Check out the beauty of the first round.  If I’m lucky some of the Patsyfoxers might have something to say…

Above (L-R): Lesa, Tia, Norah, Samira, Hiroko

Below (L-R): Samira, Hiroko, Jennifer, Lesa, Norah.  Bless!

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There’s not a lot in my house that you could say is aimed at kids.  In fact, one thing.  I bought it 3 million years ago when I was doing a Dip Ed, and we visited a children’s book gallery type thing somewhere outside of Melbourne.  I was completely taken with the exhibition of illustrations from a book called Shoes From Grandpa, by Mem Fox (illustrations by Patricia Mullins).  They were the most beautiful little collage illustrations ever – almost completely collage.  So I bought the book, despite being 20 yrs out of its demographic.

Anyhoo, the point I’m getting at is that I’ve always been considerably precious of this book, having never seen it again.  In fact, it was even at the centre of a primary-school-style tug-of-war between myself and my ex’s daughter, who took a liking to it.  I won, natch.

Oh the point – yesterday while perusing the bargain bins as I waited in the queue at the post office – there it is!  On sale for 2 bucks!  I’m just saying, if you’re a fan of tissue paper…

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OK it’s official – I cannot stand not stinking having a cat in the house.

I dream of Patsy, I think I see Patsy out the corner of my eye, and no lie, cats of the street have been coming into my yard and peering at me through the window.  Seriously.

I’m not surprised, I cannot remember a time when I have not been obsessed with cats and wished I could grow my own tail.  Look, here’s me at about 10, a duplicate of the photo I sent in to Simon Townsend’s Wonderworld in hopes of winning a Thin Lizzy record (I wrote him a special note in the event of me winning a record, indicating that’s the one I wanted – how endearing of me.  Surprisingly, I didn’t win anything.)  Ah the 70s – rockin the Stubbies shorts & velour sweater.  And yes, those are whiskers on my face.  Sadly the tail is hidden behind me.  Note the shadow of Suzanne and her boyfriend-of-the-time.

In terms of human relationships, there is a respectable time which should pass before you launch into your next relationship.  Ok, except for those girls we all know who manage to swing a la monkey bars from one boyfriend/husband to the next without ever having to plug in the electric blanket.  But what of pets?  How long do I wait until I can get another cat?  Because I am wasting serious hours surfing the net porn-style looking at cute pictures of cats, and I am “this” close to stealing Dr Mary’s ball of fluff Minky.

Do I wait until I stop being shocked not to see her sitting on the couch when I walk through the lounge in the morning?  Until I stop getting excited to see Whiskas on sale?  Is there a mathematical equation involving how long we were together (14.5yrs)?

How long is long enough?

P.S. Yes I realise the cat looks like a Teddy.

P.P.S.  Thank you to all you gorgeous people who left such lovely comments and commiserations about poor Patsy, comments which I couldn’t get myself together to answer, sigh.

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Big sigh.  Friday, the day after my stinking birthday, Patsy had to be put down due to age-induced illnesses.  Cry.  Sure she was completely demented and drove me insane but that’s the game!  We pretend we don’t like each other but secretly I carry around pictures of her, and she shadows me from room to room.  Not to mention she is the namesake of this blog…

The things I miss already:

Patsy running out to greet me (read: demand feeding) at the sound of my car in the street, or my footsteps up the street.

Squeeze-hugging Patsy until she clawed my neck.

The sight of Patsy controlling dogs by sticking her claw in their nose then casually looking away as if not to notice.

Patsy talking back to me.

Patsy pissing only in plug holes (ok except for the two pay-backs in my studio).

Patsy jumping vertically 3 feet in the air every time my new toaster ejected the toast (admittedly violently).

Patsy.

Things I won’t miss:

Patsy trying to kill me by wrapping herself around my legs and screaming feed me when I’m trying to make my morning coffee.

Finding out only a year ago that Patsy drinks my cups of tea and glasses of water when I’m not looking – eeuuuw.

All my black clothes (ie all my clothes) having a slight angora finish due to all surfaces in the house being coated in Patsy fur, and Patsy’s favourite place to sit being anywhere my clothes are.

Patsy hiding up the chimney when I need to leave the house, then setting the alarm off when I’ve arrived wherever I was going.

Generally feeling like a slave to a lump of fur.

A life in pictures:

Not only was Patsy pretty, she was very well read.

She loved to shop but found it very tiring.

Patsy considered herself a hunter, despite never moving past the stare-and-wiggle-your-arse position:

When communing with nature, Patsy became calm and wise; at one with the force.

Patsy had always fancied herself as a Warhol silkscreen

She never quite accepted the line from the modeling agency that the birthmark on her nose would prevent her making it.

Had Patsy been a little easier to get along with, I may have successfully married her off to Jen’s unfeasibly handsome cat Ted:

Goodbye Patsy, sob.

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Maybe it’s because she looks like a girl from a Sid James film, or maybe it’s just her cuteness, but in the same way you can pick an Australian overseas (scowl/bad posture), there’s something instantly British about this bunny.

Carry on then.

They just don’t make films like this any more.  Oh hang on, yes they do.

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Given that I had the day off today because of Betty’s birthday, I christen bunny of the day Birthday Bunny.

Happy birthday Betty, and while your reign over Australia did nothing for me when I was trying to get an english work permit, at least I get a day off a year courtesy of you, so thanks.

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Before cats became my pet de choix, there were rabbits.  Lots of them.  But ours was a star crossed relationship, because no sooner was one replaced after succumbing to myxomatosis, than the next one would dig its way out of my little rabbit palace.  Why the desperation to escape?  What was so bad about getting hosed down on a hot day?  A lot, according to my brother Tex who ran screaming at me to get the hose off the *!@##! rabbits, and admittedly they did die of shock or something shortly after.  Cats proved a lot hardier.

But the bunny du jour is a little more grown up – Playboy turns 50 this week, and to celebrate I’m spending the next week drawing bunnies, beginning with my favourite bunny of all – Debbie Harry.

So I guess I’ll be going at it like a bunny.

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