ONE MORE YEAR

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I am currently illustrating a passage from Salvador Plascencia’s novel, The People of Paper:
Saturn waited. He watered his grass. When she did not show, he spit the thinning carpenter nails from his lips and onto his yard. Five hours later, still no sign of her, he tossed two fistfuls of chestnuts onto the lawn, their prickly husks anchoring them to the soil. And two days later, when she had yet to arrive, he shattered six bottles and swept the glass shards into the grass. By the end of the week the lawn had become so treacherous that it penetrated the soles of his shoes, cutting his feet and soaking his socks with blood. 
Mediums include watercolour, felt marker and gouash on yupo (synthetic) paper.

I am currently illustrating a passage from Salvador Plascencia’s novel, The People of Paper:

Saturn waited. He watered his grass. When she did not show, he spit the thinning carpenter nails from his lips and onto his yard. Five hours later, still no sign of her, he tossed two fistfuls of chestnuts onto the lawn, their prickly husks anchoring them to the soil. And two days later, when she had yet to arrive, he shattered six bottles and swept the glass shards into the grass. By the end of the week the lawn had become so treacherous that it penetrated the soles of his shoes, cutting his feet and soaking his socks with blood.

Mediums include watercolour, felt marker and gouash on yupo (synthetic) paper.

Antonio split the spines of books, spilling leaves of Austen and Cervantes, sheets from Leviticus and Judges, all mixing with the pages of The Book of Incandescent Light. Then Antonio unrolled the wrapping paper and construction paper and began to cut at the cardboard and then fold.

She was the first to be created: cardboard legs, cellophane appendix, and paper breasts. Created not from the rib of a man but from paper scraps. There was no all-powerful god who could part the rivers of Pison and Gihon, but instead a twice-retired old man with cuts across his fingers.

Antonio was passed out on the floor, flakes of paper stuck to the sweat of his face and arms, unable to hear the sound of expanding paper as she rose. His hands were bloody, pooling the ink of his body on the floor, staining his pants. She stepped over her creator, spreading his blood across the polished floor, and then walked out of the factory and into the storm. The print of her arms smeared; her soaked feet tattered as they scrapped against wet pavement and turned her toes to pulp.

— an excerpt from the prologue of The People of Paper by Salvador Plascencia.