The book of Ann is the 12th FRIOUR project.

Who is Ann? For me she is a real person.
For you she's a mythical femail.

Let's construct together the book of Ann!

How does she feel? How does she thinks? How does she act? Is she a rebel? Is she a mother? Is she the salt of the earth?

Free size and medium. Text and poems are also welcome. Deadline for contributions is 31 December 2011.
All the contributions will be united in a time capsule.
Documentation on this blog.
Unfriendly femail mail art will be banned.

Mail address: The book of Ann, c/o Guido Vermeulen, Thomas Vinçottestreet 81, B-1030 Brussels, Belgium


Zoeken in deze blog

woensdag 5 december 2012

Buzzy in the box of the book of ANN

December 2, 2011: I adopted a new male kitten from a shelter in my neighborhood, baptized BUZZ (y). He followed Tarantino’s example: he’s another art lover, mail art adept and adopted himself the box with the book of Ann contributions as sleeping place (amongst many others)!
This box will become Ann’s time capsule...

vrijdag 30 november 2012


You asked … how does he feel?
I assume an -s- has gone missing. Is perhaps on a quest in the service of Ann.
Perhaps Ann is tender toward - s- , as a queen would be tender toward one of her knights.

You asked … how does she think?
With gut. In these labyrinthine tubes, in those gallant tunnels which scientists call our second brain, not the brain of facts but of insight. To say it briefly, Ann knows who you really are.

You asked … who does she loves?
Perhaps we have found our errant - s- , it has attached itself to love.

You asked … is she a rebel?
In the usual sense, no, not wearing it against her skin or on it, not showing it in the cut of her hair. She blends with the masses, so people tend to disregard her; this is their loss.

You asked … is she the salt of the earth?
Yes, without salt, we cannot live. Even the great mammoths needed salt. Their bones have been found next to salt licks, where they sank into the muck, dying to feed that natural craving. If we would die for lack of her, and I think we would, then yes to Ann as salt of the earth.

I have answered to my best ability. The storm is getting stronger, a clap of thunder. The dogs run to me, as they run to me, run to Ann.



From Sarah Jo Pender, USA; handwritten text in pencil which I reconstructed here below, hopefully without 2 many mistakes

At the door I hesitate, turning the knob.
Maybe I should run away, I think, I breathe deeply, sigh, and enter our apartment.
The back of Ann’s head is a hump on the horizon of our couch. It does not turn to greet me, but a disembodied voice mumbles from the television on her lips, I am not sure which.
She must be furious.
I plop my bag into the lap of a dining room chair and drape my coat over its shoulders.
‘What smells so good, honey?’I cringe at my using a term of endearment as it is a sure sign of guilt.
Still, Ann remains silent.

On the kitchen counter are a dozen miniature loaves of dark bread, lined in rows like little soldiers. The sink has disappeared under a heap of bowls, whisks, cups, pans and spoons. Flour dusts the countertops and the corner of the floor!
In the living room the television continues to talk quietly to my girlfriend.
‘Sorry I’m late. John had a flat tire,’ I opper to her and lean down to kiss the top of her head.
She screams. I fall over sideways, landing on my bad knee.
‘Oh my God, you scared me! Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people like that?!’
As I lay on the floor behind the couch, she peers down at me over the couch, wide-eyed, strands of her brown hair tickling her cheek.
She laughs. ‘What are you doing on the floor?’
‘You scared me.’
‘I scared you​?’
She looks around each corner of the room, as if expecting to find something or someone.
‘I thought you were a stranger. I peed on myself a little, I think.’
Her head disappears and I hear her footsteps pad down the hall. I crawl onto a nearby stool, rubbing my knee.

Ann returns wearing a pink bathrobe and holding a towel, walks past me, into the kitchen and yells:
‘Are you okay? Do you need first aid?’
She returns with a makeshift ice pack and hands it to me.
‘Thanks, babe.’ There I go again. Babe. When is the last time I called her babe? I might as well confess now.
Instead, I ask about the kitchen mess. ‘What were you doing?’
She pokes the end of my nose playfully.
‘Sneaking up on a beautiful woman watching a cooking show.’
I wince from pain.
‘And practising a dance called the WOBBLE.’
She laughs, I love her laugh. It’s not squeaky or whiney like some women, but not silly.
It‘s a little loud but genuine. Just like Ann. Such an authentic person. I don’t deserve her.
‘When you didn’t come home, I postponed dinner and instead used the rest of the pumpkins my mother gave us to make pumpkin bread for everyone. One for you, my mother, your sister and aunt, your boss, the loud neighbor...’
I cut her off. ‘The loud neighbor, John?’
‘Yes, maybe if we were nice to him, he won’t be so damned loud.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t see the connection.’
She smiles. ‘Sometimes people are bitter to the world and so they don’t care how others feel. If you remind them that you care about them, it confronts their world view. Some resist and some turn down their stereo volume.’
She leans into me and kisses my cheek. Her lips are warm and dry.

‘Ann?’ I bite my lips. I don’t want to hurt her.
‘Hmm?’ Her brown eyes blink at me, waiting.
‘I ...’ The words won’t come out. ‘I was late because ...’ I stumble.
Her hand waves me off.
‘No matter what excuse you give me, you won’t get out of doing the dishes. It’s your dish day and being late means you also forfeit my dinner day. I will, however, agree to you heating up leftovers, because I’m hungry.’To emphasize, her hand pats her belly. The neck of her robe opens slightly.
‘It’ not that I’m really sorry, I just ...’
Her finger touches my lips.
‘It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened, just don’t do it again. Everyone deserves to mess up now and then.’
She doesn’t understand how big I messed up though.

‘I’m going to shower while you fix dinner, deal?’
Her eyebrows wiggle at me. I nod and she pats my head like a dog before hurrying to the bathroom.
How do I fix this? Do I have to fix this? Is it even broken?
Maybe this is a GET OUT OF JAIL FREE CARD, but what if it’s not?
Maybe I should pack a bag and leave now and avoid a messy goodbye.
I ponder my options while I reheat lasagna from last night. Just as the microwave dings, Ann emerges with a towel-wrapped head, wearing tight jeans and one of my teeshirts. It reminds me of how close we are, how we share everything: space, a bed, clothes, food, apartment, love, a life ...
I need this. I need her. I need her more than I’ve ever needed anyone. Her words replay in my head.
‘Whatever happened, just don’t do it again. Everyone derserves to mess up now and then.’

I won’t. Oh, God. I won’t ever do it again. Just don’t let her leave me.
‘Hello.’ She waves her hand in front of my face.
‘Where did you go?’ she asks me quizzically.
I gather her small frame into my arms and hold her against me.
I whisper, ‘Some place I shouldn’t have been. I won’t do it again. I’m here. Where I belong. Forever with you, precious Ann.’
I pull back to look at her.
A smile draws up her lips.
‘Does that come with a side of breadsticks?’ She points to the microwace, ‘Because I’m starving.’

Ann is forgiveness, the best form of love.

9 October 2011
For Guido and his precious Ann

Written from the Indiana Women’s Prison. Fair justice for Sarah Jo, visit:

After a railroaded trial, a judge sentenced her to 110 years for two murders for which Sarah maintained she was not guilty. Six months later, Richard Hull pleaded guilty to the murders and subsequently testified that he had manufactured the main piece of evidence used to convict Sarah, and that she was actually innocent. Despite this revealing evidence a judge denied Sarah a new trial. We are now campaigning to aid her in financing a re-analysis of the evidence using new technology and prove that Sarah was framed for murder. We want JUSTICE and we want it now!!!


Holding Hands For Social Justice

In a series of public collaboration art projects, Sarah Jo Pender invites you to join Hands to bring awareness to social and criminal injustices.

Project #1: WHAT IS YOUR STORY? Share part of your life story as told through your hands.

Purpose: To collect pieces of our lives to illustrate the story of common humanity. HANDS will be exhibited to create dialogue about social stigmas and may later be used for an awareness campaign publication.

1) HOLD OUT YOUR HAND: Photograph, draw, finger paint, photocopy, collage, or outline your hand.

2) Show you hand performing an action, or Tell a story in words or images connected through your hands. * Submit anonymously if it allows you to share more openly.

P.O. BOX 36244

OR by 28th October, 2011

PROJECT #2: THE ART OF HOLDING HANDS. As the creator of HANDS, Sarah has her own story to share. Since 2008, she has been held indefinitely in solitary confinement, and is imprisoned for crimes that another person confessed to committing. Support Sarah's fight for justice!

Purpose: To connect Sarah to the outside world, human to human, one hand at a time.

1) Hold Out Your Hand: Create an image of your hand.

2) Share something about yourself, or Simply send your hand in silent support.

3) Write Sarah on your art to receive her hand in return.

P.O. BOX 36244

OR by 28th October 2011