This is one of the small format pieces I am bringing up to Portland for Guardino Gallery’s Little Things show. The opening is right after Thanksgiving.
the tailor’s garden (a short story)
The tailor loved buttons! She admired them for their simplicity, their usefulness, and the way they were simultaneously similar yet each peculiarly unique (this one worn smooth, that one chipped, this one knobby, that one ridged), much like people are different yet the same.
One warm afternoon, after she’d finished sewing a long row of particularly bulbous black buttons onto a fine wool jacket, she got the notion to try a little half hearted experiment. The tailor chose a rather feminine looking brown button from her collection and carried it outside to her little garden plot. She chose a sunny spot beside the rosemary bush, tilled the warm earth with her hands and planted the button.
The tailor chuckled at herself as she watered the spot for the next eight days. The laugh was like a swatch of hopeful sturdy cotton, stitched through with amusement and disbelief. But on the ninth day, before the laugh had a chance to rise in her throat, before the watering can had begun it’s wet work, the tailor glimpsed a pale green tendril unfolding from the planted place.
The following day, the tendril had leaflets. Then a sturdy stem grew, and in a week’s time the tailor saw a heavy red bud begin on the tip of the stem. When the surprisingly large flower opened, the tailor let out a peel of laughter that sang of roller coaster rides, shooting stars, and wild animal sightings.
Art Chics Sale next weekend
lists in the night
the many tasks fluttered in her head
circling flocks
bumping into one another
breaking apart
merging
giving birth to new to dos
so she wrote them down
she generated lists
packing lists, grocery lists, studio to do lists, gardening lists,
chore lists
that night, as she slept restlessly
a spontaneous origami event occurred
the lists all folding themselves into the shape of a figure
a rustling, whispering, eyeless figure
that stood in the dark at the foot of her bed and watched her
she heard it’s paper lungs expanding and contracting in the stillness
and remembered all the many tasks she had yet to do
spider
Who among us does not experience at least the tiniest twinge of fear upon glimpsing that eight legged anatomical wonder scurry out of sight between the folds of the bed sheets or the crack between the couch cushions? Spider liquifies the innards of her prey and sucks them dry. Spider’s limbs function with hydraulic rather than muscle power. Spider often beheads her mate in her post-coital rapture? rage? hunger? boredom? (difficult for me to infer where exactly she’s coming from on that one). Spider makes her own yarn and knits impossibly delicate traps in precarious and treacherous locations.
Spider undoubtedly possesses super powers. If it isn’t fear I feel for her than its certainly a generous heap of respect and admiration.
what's inside?
Paint brushes, gold fish, beer, nuts and bolts, fire flies, pickles, avocado pit sprouts... I am back to putting things in jars, and I am oh so happy to read your suggestions!
in the beginning...
I recently stayed up late to paint and clothe this Barbie in the dia de los muertos style. As I cut and stitched the little flowers and lace, as I painted the tedious white lines of skeletal patterns on her plastic limbs it was like I was eight again. I have no great love for barbie in my adulthood. I actively redirected my own daughters toward other, less socially loaded playthings. Still, I can’t deny that as I embroidered the little blue nubs on barbie’s top, as I pinned the velvet scarf onto barbie’s hair, I remembered all the odd fitting outfits and weird head pieces I made for barbie when I was a child. I recognize the beginnings of what I do now in all that tiny improvisational stitch work and I must admit, I began with barbie. I owe her a thank you.
By the way, I am looking for an exceptionally tall bottle to fit this beauty in. Look for her on a shelf in Tacovore!