Roots, I spend a considerable amount of time contemplating them, rendering them, speculating their unseen pathways underground. I like to imagine my own growing root system, a tangle of invisible threads connecting me to the people and places I love.
Meet Lena
My recent display of flagrant affection for my chop saw got me thinking about the tools of my trade; there are many, but (for me) none so precious as Lena, my sewing machine. She may be little, and yes, she’s yellow, but she is powerful. For those of you with tool amor, Lena is a Viking Husquavarna. She is among the final generation of her kind to be made in her native homeland, Sweden. When Lena and I are sewing together I often feel the arctic wind in my hair. So without further rambling: a Toast to Lena and all the fantastic tools that make our varied work lives possible!
Laying in the layers
I love this process, laying on the strips of fabric, building up layers of soil or sky. Oh, there is that cheetah shirt I got at a clothing swap, a gift from my mother in law, the hem of Mara’s old silk dress, a scarf from Iris....
She told her ukulele things she’d never tell another soul.
After yesterday’s window framing efforts, I’m sticking with my hammer and chop saw today and building frames for this series of thread sketches. It is exquisitely satisfying to successfully create (even rudimentary work) using a new set of tools. My chop saw and I are not yet great friends but the potential for a fruitful relationship is there and it thrills me. I am lucky enough to have such a blossoming relationship with my little ukulele as well.
let in the light
This sunday our rotating family work crew spent the day at our house, yippeee!! We put a window in my studio, among numerous other fantastic home improvements. I am so excited to have more light in my work space. Today I finished framing out the interior. Great practice for building my quilt frames.
rough morning
We started our day with a funeral. It was the backyard variety, a burial for Evenstar, one of the newer members of our chicken flock. Nonetheless, death is still shockingly final. We found her sick last night, a shadow on the lawn. I was skittish and a bit freaked out about picking up her hunched form in the near darkness. I think I was afraid of finding gruesome damage. My 10 year old, in her gentle certain manner, reached for her unhesitatingly. She slowly stretched each wing to check for injury, felt Evenstar’s belly, and then carried her to the house, all the while murmuring reassurances to the bird. I stood there in the damp grass for just a moment, awed by my daughter’s calm compassion.
pencil to paper
I am sketching women in various introspective situations for a series of small pieces I am making for Guardino Gallery in Portland. I may be skirting dangerously close to Hallmark cards with these, but I am thrilled at how a few drawn lines and well chosen words can potentially open the door to complex and divergent stories. What is this woman worried about? How did she build her boat?
