Ornamental

process of inspiration - part 2

  every couple of years, when it gets to be this season of pining for the sweet smells of new growth and earthy moss and budding fruit trees in the spring, i walk over to my huge old antique armoire and pull out the denim jacket that my grandmother mimi embellished with her own freehand embroidery designs, back in the mid 70's.  this incredible work of wearable art was something she spent god knows how many hours, days, weeks, months stitching for my uncle bob, who at that time was living the big city life in the skyscraper vista of lakeshore chicago.  thankfully, this incredible sampler has ended up in my hands, and on occasion when march rolls around, then turns in its feisty, fussy way into the promise of april, i'll pull it out of its wardrobe darkness and wear somewhere that has birdsong and open sunshine.  every single time i pull it out to hold and touch the garden stitched across every spot of this lowly denim garment, my mind flips out all over again.  i can't fathom the amount of hand labor that my grandmother invested in this piece.  i'm no textile expert, never have been, although i, myself, was wont to stitch a few chambray shirts for myself and for friends, back in my high school years; my stitches could never achieve this sort of precision, this spot-on depiction of flowers and leaves, insects, birds.  there is a butterfly, a grasshopper, a perfect hummingbird.  i stare at the wings of a bumblebee and shake my head in awe.  amazing.  to say that talent runs deep in my family is an understatement, as vain a sentence as this sounds; my own creative efforts pale when placed next to the work of my grandmother, my mother, my sister.  anything they ever did was art in its truest form - cooking, painting, sewing, basketry, needlepoint, doll making, knitting - anything, and everything.  on this rainy, dreary morning, even walter is taken with the glory of this true work of art.  i'm thankful that i have it as a reference sampler to which i can turn, when the longing for stitchwork strikes.  my own efforts pale, so pitifully, in comparison.  but the desire is there, and i feel my grandmother's spirit and encouragement guiding me whenever i take needle and embroidery floss to cloth, to books, to jewelry.
  all of this - the inherited histories, the way that i strive to express myself in all that i do, seems to be a continuous thread that has woven itself all through this life i live.  and i'm happy to say that i truly love what i do, no matter how much of a struggle it can be at times, no matter how much i worry or fret.  all in all, when i've come to a point where i can stand and look back - at my life and decisions that i've made, as well as at a finished piece of art - i am finally, when all is said and done, happy with the results. 

i must admit that i put a heavier burden on my little "blue skies" endeavor when i shared with all of you the various steps involved, up to a point.  i worried, when it came time to sit down at the studio table, rather than comfortably curled up on the sofa with needle and thread, that whatever, however the necklace design decided to become would not be worthy to display (for that is how it seems, more often than not; this work takes on a life of its own, much like a character in a novel).  i worry too much.  i love this crazy, glorious piece.
i love the primitive embroidery, the chipped, worn mother of pearl.  i love the crazy baroque pearl clouds, the glint of blue in peruvian topaz, the soft hazy sky blue of african opal layered with antique mother of pearl sequins.  the birds.  the soft glove leather backing, the notion of a blue sky dream.  the word "remembered", found randomly on a little studio shelf.
when i look at these photos, i smile - like a kindergarten student - and think, "i made this!".  i do.  and it came about in its own honest way - not by being 'inspired' by another similar piece, not by someone telling me what to do, not by throwing together random bits of vintage jewelry findings, but by lovingly creating focal components and then step by step, allowing my heart to lead the rest of the way.  by remembering and honoring my longings for lost arts and connection, by letting a sunny day lead me to needle and thread, by letting needle and thread stitch me into something that came out of the sky and the clouds and the views from my window, into here.  right here.  and that, dear reader, is how this piece was made - from the view up over the mountain, from the emotions that washed through me as i stood on the deck that blustery day, from the desire to pick up blue floss and aged linen, from allowing myself a little sunday quiet and turning it into what you see laid out there on the studio table.  a sweet story, i think, a fable of birdsong and blue skies.  so here's a tender nod to my brother ben, who loved, so much, the wizard of oz, and who would always call, without a word, whenever the movie was on tv and hold the receiver up so all i could hear was dorothy, singing her young heart out, to the black and white sky.  to me.  xo

"and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true"

(added note, in afternoon:  after walter and i went for a walk in wet woods, i came back for one last glance at the jacket before folding it to put in the bedroom chair.  something told me to peek inside a front chest pocket, where i was surprised and delighted to find a yellowed, creased index card with my grandmother's sketch of the flowers, with their proper names.  what a find.  what a gift...)

process of inspiration

  a few weeks ago, i received an email from one of my regular readers - with some thought provoking questions that have led, ultimately, to this post.  in the letter, she said "You don't have to answer this if you don't have time.  I'll wait patiently for you.  I have tried making things.   And for some reason they don't look right to me.  I'm not sure what that is about.  So, this is what I want to know:  Is there any part of the process I should plan, like colors and choice of items?  Or is it better to go with the flow--just pick up things that move me and figure how to incorporate?  Can you tell me what you would do if you were just beginning to create? I don't want to copy others. I want to find my own style.  Thank you."  i pondered for a while - wrote back an abbreviated response - which wasn't nearly enough of an explanation of how i operate, when making art.  last week the weather, i think i said, was off and on - very blustery with fits of rain, then sun, then rain again.  cold, warm, windy, warm, cold.  rain.  lots of rain.  a little snow, in the night.  a friend brought back some lovely acrylic leaf branches for me from her trip to lake tahoe, and i walked outside the next morning to snap a photograph of the light shining through both clouds and leaves, while wind blew and temperatures plummeted from warm to a chill that soaked to the bone.  i played with the image, as i can't help from doing these days, and loved the look the photograph conveyed.  it captured, i think, the late winter's indecision of which way to go.  of waiting.  of searching for sunny spots in the house where i could sit.  of watching clouds roll up and over the mountain across the way.  over this past weekend, on a quiet saturday afternoon, i looked at the photographs you see above, and walked into the studio to begin pulling out stones that might suggest a feeling of blue sky, that might suggest emotional responses that blue sky might bring:  hope.  peace.  calm.  security.  i have a basket of antique lace that i keep at hand right there in the studio, within grabbing reach when i am in the throes of creating jewelry or book work.  the basket is one of those creaky little straw and silk hinged lid things from long ago - small in size, octagonally shaped, well loved and worn, found in a wonderful antique shop somewhere in a rural community of wisconsin a few years ago.  the basket itself brings back a lot of pleasant memories; the lace, gathered for the past thirty years, has been added to with gifts from friends and makes me feel good just seeing the various textures of handmade trimmings all mixed together, like an old fashioned cotton and silk and linen stew.
 what you see there, something i'm trying NOT to do these days, is bits of findings and already-wired beads and buttons from two separate pieces of jewelry, two completely different projects that are not completed.  this is where i get myself into trouble - when i don't put things back at day's end that i did not use, when i don't clear the table so that i can have a fresh start the next morning.  (i'm making a mental note to walk in there when i'm done here and clear the little disorder that has begun to clutter the table.  small steps - but important ones, to me).  this time, though, i've enjoyed having the lace and ribbon left out, to perhaps carry from one project to the next; the lace reminds me of clouds, of course, even though i will not likely use it for the blustery blue sky piece that will be coming together this week.  at any rate, i thought of the photograph, with its one bit of blue sky showing from underneath all those rolling, grey and white clouds, and began pulling out the beads i thought would work for what i want to do.  african opals have a sweet, soft blue to them, and look beautiful with white pearls; blue and white, when combined,  always say blue sky to me.  and then, i began pulling out random bits and pieces that are still in the plastic craft box that i carried with me to colorado; i associate these special trinkets, pulled from stacks of trays and plates on that disastrous studio table of last late summer/early fall, with the lovely experience i had while working as a resident artist in the heart of the rocky mountains back in september.   from this jumble of stashed treasures, i pulled out what might work for a piece in which i speak of nature.  the resin-filled bezel is one i made back in 1995; it's lasted that long, through three separate moves, and i love the image of the cropped binoculars.  there is a cast sterling charm, the original piece made to my specifications from another jeweler friend so that i could have it cast into multiples and hammered with whatever words i choose to use (this piece?  and i'm chuckling here, this piece with the word "dream" was being drilled, back in the summer, when it flew out of my hand and into that black hole of a studio.  it surfaced when i cleaned to the core, in november).  the fine silver flower charm was made and given to me by another artist friend, a few years ago, and the sterling button is one that i had cast from an antique one of mother of pearl.  i may use one or two of these pieces; i may not use a single thing.  it just depends on where my mood takes me when i get to the point of assembly.  what i want to focus on for this piece, though, is how i wished to spend my quiet pockets of time this past weekend, what few pockets there were to sit and work on something like this:  yesterday morning blossomed bright and sweet, a quiet time to sit with my cup of coffee and watch Sunday Morning on cbs.   this makes me think of daddy; we used to watch it together every sunday morning, without fail, whenever i was visiting.  i've been a little obsessed lately with the notion of taking time to embroider - something, anything - and know i'm serious when i actually enjoy pulling out needle and thread to finally repair a torn spot in a favorite flannel camp blanket.  there were the inevitable weekend chores to do - laundry, house cleaning, cooking, walking with walter - but for a couple of hours it was a lovely respite to sit in my ancient worn flannel pajamas with clouds on them and embroider some old linen with sky blue thread.    i want to do another few of the jewelry designs i made some years back, incorporating antique mother of pearl buckles (this, a gift from a beloved friend).  it is no easy feat; as i drill and cut under water, i'm always afraid that the thing, old and fragile, will shatter.  taking the central bar out, though, creates a beautiful iridescent frame for fabric and embroidery.  looking at the completed embroidery in this morning light, however, magnified for all to see here on this bigger screen, i'm wincing at my irregular stitching, with spaces of linen unintentionally showing between those tiny little threads of blue.  no matter.  when i look at the work, i remember the time i spent beside the inadequate light of my reading lamp, watching a repeat of downton abbey's season finale, i remember weeping a little over the show's cherished characters while curled up on my linen sofa and feeling peaceful and serene.  i remember all of this, the pleasant act of pulling thread with a needle up through old linen, then sending it back down under again, and up and down, over and around.  i remember the dark of the night when it was completed, the cramping in my hands, the feeling of hard work and of bliss.  i remember all of this.  and now, begins the artistic license of assemblage.  do i use the little binoculars piece, which would be lovely with the brown of blooming branches?  there will be one of my sterling birds, this much i know, and the blue of african opal, the white of small freshwater pearls, perhaps the clear blue of peruvian topaz.  there are some treasured white heishi pearls as well, a sweet gift from another artist friend, that when stacked together remind me of wispy cirrus clouds.  i will use the word i ran across in a little bag of saved text snippets there on the studio table - "remembered" - attached to the soft white antique leather from a very old opera glove.  remembered, a word that seemed appropriate because we all have special days when all seemed good, when the sky was blue and the wind was just right and everything was just, in our own world.  i just don't know how this piece will unfold, after this; that is one of the joys of spontaneous creation, and that is how i always operate - no plan, no vision of a piece from start to completion - only the emotions that i've felt when seeing a bit of nature dancing before my eyes, only the way i want my work to speak to those who hold it, who wear it, who understand why i am compelled to connect my art with the natural world that gently, quietly surrounds me.  that is how my life unfolds.  that is how i live.  and now, i see a spot of blue peeking out from behind the morning's clouds, and there is a pup who would dearly love a walk through the waiting woods....xo  (thank you, my friend, for asking these questions, for prompting me these weeks later to write down how i've worked and fumbled my way through a particular design.  xxx)

thoughts

  my mind has been flying all over the map this morning and afternoon - i'm not sure why, am not sure what i can do to reel it in and bring back into a grounded place for the rest of this day.  it could be the weather - blustery, indecisive, raining one minute, milky sunshine the next, all the while with great gusts of wind that make the rain drops come in at horizontal angles, that make the clouds roll in and out up over the mountain ridge across the road with frequency and speed.  i'm so very fortunate that i've been able to carve out a little living right here in the heart of my home, where i am my own manager - a good thing, and on days like this, a bad one, too.  there is no true focus in work right now, at least not one that i can claim; there are all sorts of ideas for new designs percolating, all manner of things i'd like to begin to incorporate into the things i make.  but where to start?  just behind the laptop screen here on the table before the windows rests a cluttered collection of items that were gathered one at a time in the course of this week:  one of my favorite heart rocks, flat on top and flatter on bottom, very very thick and very full of memories (found years and years and years ago on mother's day when hiking with my boys in a favorite spot, called graveyard fields, at the edge of the stream that winds through the meadow there); the worn branch i found at the side of the river a couple of weeks ago; jewelry i've completed, still wrapped 'round the branch, still on top of the table at the window here; the little journal from yesteryear, waiting and waiting for a new page to begin.  i look at the photograph i absentmindly snapped this morning while waiting for motivation to strike (has it already struck?  am i thick in the midst of something beginning, here?) and am drawn, so strongly drawn, to the things held within one very small, square photographic image:  worn wood.  worn rock, in the shape of a heart.  antique buttons in mother of pearls, and buttons i've had cast from antique buttons, in a tarnished sterling silver; old ribbons, hand dyed, tattered and frayed, threadbare.  the word threadbare.  the worn covers of a book.  old thread.  red thread.  antique sew-ons with mirrored backs in the shapes of flowers.  my handwriting on a tea-stained metal rimmed tag.  my stitches in fabric, holding antique metallic seed beads, my stitches knotted and tangled, a corner of a book worn and tattered as well.  maybe somehow all of these things will pull together into some sort of artistic vision that seems new to me, that seems fresh and lovely and channeled from magic and wisdom and from somewhere deep within that begins, like spring water, somewhere deep deep deep inside where the heart taps the visions, where the things bubble forth, and rise up to the surface, and out into the light, for me to see.  for me to summon, to harness, to make and then to set free...xo

to treat one's self

   on a blustery pre-spring day, i list a few notes on how to chase away the lingering winter blues:  wander into the woods at the edge of the house and pick the daffodils that are struggling to bloom.  bring them inside.  place in a random, unexpected place.  take photos.  do not forget to place the buds back in a lovely favorite vase with water, in the sun.   throw caution to the wind and buy a sweet crewelwork pillow with a bird on it for the bed

go to lovely asheville with a cherished best friend on a sunny free day, stumble upon a beloved n.c. potter's mugs with birds on them, throw even more caution to the wind and purchase not one, but two - then fix hot spiced cinnamon tea for two (with a biscuit for walter) the minute we walk back through the door at day's end  after reading this friend's post about journaling, i have vowed to her and to myself to pull out a beloved, abandoned hand made journal from new year's 2006 and begin work in it anew.   i had spent all new year's eve, both day and evening, embroidering the tiny antique beads onto muslin that i had stamped with words, after assembling the book from scratch with an antique speller cover and ledger pages; three weeks later, my brother died, and i hadn't the heart to continue with it.  now, i shall.  at least, i have declared that i shall, and that is a start.
these pages are too treasured to leave abandoned.  i worked too hard to leave the rest of the book undone.
and so, i am listening to myself this late winter afternoon.  i'm paying attention to the need to reconnect with myself, with the book artist that i used to be.  that i still am, deep inside.  that i'll become, with fervor, once again.  i want to write more hand written letters, as well.  last night i wrote a two page letter on vintage onion skin paper to my sister in alabama, simply sharing memories and declaring my sisterly love.  it was with pride that i walked down to the mail box this morning and tucked the stamped envelope inside as a little rain began to fall.  i owe my dear new zealand sis a promised handwritten letter as well, and that comes next.  i want to take the time to stain white paper with tea.  i want to take the time to write by hand about nothing and everything.  and now, i am headed back into the studio, where i am relishing my hours there, sitting at the table that remains uncluttered and clear, pulling this and that out to use in my work, then at day's end putting this and that back up where it belongs, again.  i have draped the wrapped pieces of my artistry around a water-worn root or branch that i carted home from the river; when i saw it washed up on the pebble beach, it was my jewelry that i  envisioned adorning the weathered wood before i ever even picked it up and brought it home; i saw my jewelry quite at home there on its soft, smooth surface.  i saw my jewelry there.  xo 

bizzy stuff

i wanted to give a little excited nod to my close friend lesley riley (who happens to also be my creative coach, bless her heart); her brand new creative vision, The Red Thread Retreat, has an up and running website, including a space for registration... which opens on february 21.  participants are limited to 15, in a beautiful rural environment, so if you have the chance to sign up, don't tarry; i'm sure it will fill right away.  lesley, our friend claudine hellmuth, and i will all be teaching - one day per instructor - to all who are there.  it's in late october, near the potomac and shenandoah rivers in the state borders of west virginia and maryland, so i can only imagine how lovely a time that will be.  be sure to watch the sweet little video that lesley created for the website - i'm reminded of the nostalgic feeling of Amelie.  i'm very proud of lesley and all of the hard work that she has put into this wonderful endeavor!

 i also wanted to mention my excitement about returning to valley ridge art studio in wisconsin to teach this coming june.  my workshop - "All Wrapped Up" - filled immediately, and there were enough people on the waiting list that a second workshop is now being offered for june 11-13.  there is a limit of 15 students, and nine from the waiting list have already signed up - this leaves six more spots, for anyone who is interested (go here for info).  i'm absolutely thrilled, and honored, for the chance to teach this brand new "wrap" workshop twice at valley ridge! 

i'd love to see you there....xo

breathing out and in

  things that i love:  old.  lace.  iridescent stones.  little birds.  tender thoughts.  anything untechnological.  anything that is simple and quiet and pure. 

i will not let myself become angry when this computer connection goes away, and when it comes back, the post that i've been working on with dozens of links has completely disappeared.  deep breaths.  quiet thoughts.  still heart.  pleasantries.  yes.

so for today, then, only these images.  quiet ones.  lovely and sweet.  lovelies that trigger sweeter memories.  talismans for a midwinter afternoon of waiting.  watching.  listening.   such is late winter, when the world has stopped spinning long enough to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in a little more slowly.  out.  in.  yes.
 shhh....

much love xo

 baking in the oven,

  drying in the sun,

  words snipped from an ancient shakespeare tutorial,

  pieced back together

  on pieces of papery love xo

tender work

  the moon was, once again (this amazes me every month), very full last night.  full, and bright, and to this middle aged woman who is sleeping fitfully these nights, not so welcome when its light spills down through the western window just above my head at 3am.  i love the light of the moon - who hasn't danced by its light? - but not when i wake up feeling that a flashlight is beaming right in my face.  i'm not bright enough to remember in the daytime to purchase a roll-up window blind, to install it before darkness falls again.   and yes, i know, how foolish it is to live where there are no curtains, where there are  no blinds (like a blog, without its filters, i'm smiling at this); but by the time i make it back to the bedroom, it is late, i am in flannel pajamas and reading in bed, high on this quiet hill. 

anyway.

last night i had the bright idea to hang a lovely vintage crocheted tablecloth that was a christmas gift from a sweet friend.  doubled, it seemed solid enough; a blanket of clouds moved in, though, sometime in the night, and my brainstorm may have been pure folly, had the full snow moon been brightly shining.  but this morning, when i woke, i saw crocheted snow in lovely sepia.  and i am just imagining what i will pin to it, later in the afternoon when another bright idea has been completed.  we shall see.

little glimpses

  winter, firefly road.  a  little bit of sunshine purchased last week in asheville (tulips are my all time favorites) and moved around the house to suit my moods.  here, they rest just inside the front door - a place i rarely ever show here because the table is forever piled high with mail, gloves, keys, wallet, more mail, photographs, things to be carried downstairs to the basement.  this weekend i puttered with a dust cloth and lemon oil, and it felt good.  within the tiny drawers are hundreds and hundreds of antique mother of pearl buttons, a few buckles in there as well...  mister nut, from the river.  hilarious, i think.  he'll be tucked into a box to send to my son robin in the high country of colorado, because i think that it looks like the abominable snowman, really.  i wonder what the squirrel thought of its artwork, afterwards.
 roots at the river, just beside the trail.  walter and i walk down and then back up these roots, like steps, every time we head from the car towards the river, then back up when it is time to head back home again.  we'll be heading there momentarily:  both of his tags fell off sometime yesterday, and i have a feeling they are on the banks of the river.  i'm not happy about this.

the tags could be here, as well, on the trail that leads from my back yard on through the woods and beyond.  every afternoon around 5:30 or so, we head to this trail and i throw sticks down into the woods for walter to find, to fetch.  he loves this game.  maybe those tags are there, somewhere.  this shall be a challenge, a treasure hunt.  wish me luck.
last night's handiwork (please don't laugh!).  roy was very proud of his christmas gift to me this year, a vintage 1940's christmas tablecloth that he found in a retro shop in very hip downtown wilmington.  it was my intention over new year's to embroider his name and the date within the border; the tablecloth sat, folded, on the table beside the front door until sunday, when i relegated it to the arm of the sofa as a reminder.  poor lighting, insufficient marker for the fabric, a pitiful embroidery hoop from the thrift store all made that lettering go wonky.  it matters not.  i'll love that it is there, for every year to come.  as i told a friend who was belatedly working on christmas ornaments after her shoulders are now thankfully on the mend, "christmas in february".  why ever not?  a notion that came into being, that has now taken wing to another loving home... 


shades of things to come...
now, off to the river, so we can hunt for more treasure, so i can get back home and dive back into treasures that await me in the tidy studio....

fresh air

  two hours to spend at the river on a milky-sunny midwinter afternoon.  what to do with my pocket of time, then?  rain has been frequent - feeling like it is raining every other day here, or more often than that - and the water levels along the river banks have been high.  this means piles of sticks to dig through.  i love doing this, love sorting through and finding the straight and sturdy sticks that have been decorated by beavers stripping the surfaces of bark...  such a lovely pattern.  i carry them in a bundle the whole way back to the car.  once back home, i tie them with a small bit of velvet ribbon sent all the way from finland, ribbon the color of tree bark in winter light.  maybe i'll leave them standing in the corner where i stood them on end beside a table lamp; maybe i will hang them above a favorite painting, i know just the one.  maybe i will drill holes in them and hang them with pearls, like rain or ice.   maybe i'll dangle jewelry from them, to photograph, to display.  whatever the case, i'll look at them and always remember the quiet two hours at the edge of the river, spent searching for heart rock valentines, searching for patterns in sticks, being quiet, seeing no one, loving the time there alone in the winter milky grey light with my pup.