Tree Down on the Studio

 We had a visit from hurricane Zeta at the end of last month.  Our home was fine, but the studio, only a few yards away and attached to the house by a fence and gate, were hit by a tree that was twisted off its thick trunk to fall across the roof and skylights.

The tree punched a hole in the roof.

My son, who had a half-dozen very large trees uprooted at his home, only a few miles away, came to cut the tree away from the roof and cover the hole with the ubiquitous blue tarp.

Life at Studio 508 has been muted since "The Fall."  The interior suffered light damage, but the impact must have been really startling to the inanimate objects beneath the ceiling.  In my line of DMC thread boxes, threads were shifted about an inch to the right, or toward the front of the building, and books on the back wall of book shelves moved forward, all following the pattern the shock waves must have made through the little building.  We have waited for these past weeks for insurance response, and we hope for the repairs to begin on Monday.

Add to the studio blues: this all happened just before Halloween, on a Wednesday night, and we were without power until Sunday morning.

In this time I have learned how important it is to understand the way we work, to know what physical accommodations we need to make for giving ourselves a space to create.  I need a lot of light that must not be from the front because the glare blinds me.  And a table is a must, a large, clear space.  Finding the right threads is a matter of having selections fanned out around me, or available just behind my chair so I can turn to make selections.  Of course, none of that was been possible in our home without power.  Even after power was restored, I stopped bringing in bowls of threads and fabrics from the studio since projects can't be accomplished in the house space.

Fingers crossed for commencement of work on Monday, and a prayer of thanksgiving for people who want to work and help to fix our small mess.  And, as Thanksgiving week begins on Monday, how appropriate is that?

2020: The Seasons of COVID-19, a stitched record

 

The piece of linen, which I had thought too bright, too orange-yellow, too-something to be usable, was destined to be the lining of another stitchery.  But when I initially thought about the Pandemic and how I would express those feelings, it was exactly right.  I would use the form of a traditional stitched sampler to express something not at all traditional, and I would learn the new stitched language I would need to tell the story that is still unfolding.

The piece was not stitched in one several-weeks setting; I have worked on it since the spring.  Some event, some reaction to plural events would set me to thinking, and I would be off and stitching again for several days.

The border came last, so it should be the first to be explained.  I thought about edges, and decided the raw edges would do well for this raw time.  No turning under the cloth or making it neat.  In deference to the world I used to know, there is a thin strip of pale green running down the right side.  It is a sort of farewell to stability and normality.  The stitched border is tight, restricting, and not at all a straight line.  On the upper left, it bulges and the heavy grids restrain a single, pale dot.  Running stitch in lines echo the gold, looping outside edge of the border.  Those lines are interrupted by record-keeping, stitches marking the days and weeks, some days more fraught than others.

In the interior, there are expressions of anger, bewilderment, of beginnings that had nowhere to go, of abrupt endings.  Mid way, the lines and groups start out with good intention, but they compress, begin to overlap, and as the vertical lines move to the right, they become looser, unable to retain their shape and form.  Over this section are horizontal lines that wander over them, making their way to an edge of negative space.

Below the block of vertical lines, below the turquoise line of tight, tiny Herringbone stitches that wander, wave, turn and finally end after having accomplished absolutely nothing by their presence, is a mesh of overlapping Buttonhole Stitches.  The threads are a range of heavy, coarse cotton and linen, to barely-twisted silks, rising to lighter, fine silks and cottons.  Thinking, simply being on these days was a struggle as the roster of the dead grew longer and longer.

The gaps in stitch are a reflection of thinking, of needing a space of no thought; meditative silence.  The single, recurring thought was a line from Yeats, "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold."

I am not sure this is finished, any more than the Pandemic is over.  But this is my record, thus far.

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Rooms with pond and moon

 

More mapping, on two planes.

Asks and Answers: Dragon Sampler

This little piece of cloth started life as a yard of cream upholstery linen. Then the dyeing, lying in a drawer for years, and finally, a sampling opportunity. It lay, in its hoop, on the embroidery table and I picked it up to try several ideas before committing them to cloth. All was going swimmingly until, somehow, the Dragon stalked across the lower part of the cloth. She has a super power, I discovered. She can leap tall trees in a single bound.

Asks and Answers: Revisions

Asking the question is a way of framing the thing you are trying to understand, the problem to be solved, or, simply, to get a clearer image of something you haven't done before. Finding answers begins when you gather materials and begin to sample the possibilities. Since late winter, I have been asking and examining solutions. In going through boxs of older work, I found several pieces that triggered another respons, and two I had originally thought to be completed are now quite altered. The original of "16 Days in May" was done quickly, as a sketch diary of May, about two or three years ago:

The revision, completed in the spring, shows more detail, more reflection:

The second piece is called "Modern Choices." It was a response to a long day of having to figure out technology and social media issues, then the grocery store with its plethora of choices-- it was a jarring, uncomfortable day of questioning everything. First iteration:

I put it away, thinking I had rid myself of a lot of angst by making this (over about a week or so), and that would be that.  But when I came across it recently, I saw it in light of the COVID year.  Lockdowns meant we have become more dependent on media for even small things, and with a page of choices staring me in the face, I was asking questions again.  The revision, which did not add questions, changed the color of two questions and added lighter background highlights:

But this is not enough.  There is more to be said, more background to add to the maze of continual choices and uncertainties of results, so I am taking it up again.  Asking questions is good. Getting new answers is even better.

Quarantine and the Studio

Like so much of the world, we are isolated here, and if I did not have the studio I would have been locked away months ago for my own and others' safety. In that time I have concentrated on exploring my stitch world. Part of this exploration has been to find the Unfinished Pieces box and to re-evaluate. Other work has been new, some in response to COVID-19. As there is no end in sight to the spread of this virus, I will begin sharing some of these things, hoping always for better times. 

One good thing to come of this has been that I am using what I have rather than popping out for supplies. It seems a risky thing for someone with asthma to go into an infected world to buy a length of cloth, or thread, or paint, but this restriction did not turn out as badly as I had initially feared. I took these months of waiting to assess what I have, what I really need, and what I could do with it. I have been dyeing thread for years, but not always winding it onto bobbins so some color or texture could be easily accessed when I needed it. Fixed that. 

When I brought together the (scattered) stacks of cloth that had been cut into manageable sizes and dyed, I found I now have a fully-loaded cupboard, ready for use.  The pieces are stacked by color family, so even just standing in front of it all with both doors opened is inspiring. When things are all in one place, they can be impressive. 

I have also sewn several items of clothing for myself.  Inspired by the idea of the odd and interesting draped over me, I've begun to draw into the surfaces of some of these new-found fabrics to make collaged cloths that will become my fall wardrobe. This wardrobe I think of as "Studio Wear," because I am always a little reluctant to dress in my crazy creations and go out into the public. As there is no "public" available to me now, I have the freedom to dress in these crazy items as I work or play in the studio. Sometimes I look down and see that a spot needs a line of stitch, maybe another pocket (you can never have too many pockets), or some odd button (maybe you CAN have too many buttons). I even have a pair of comfortable linen trousers made from a pair of old curtain panels. I will press that outfit and put it on my dress form and share it with you another day. 

Our Stitching With A Twist (SWAT) Dogwood Chapter EGA group in Atlanta, was asked to stitch our response to COVID-19. My first reaction was to express just how frustrated I had become with the narrowness of my world, the sameness, the lack of stimulation in sheltering in place. This piece is about 4" square. The ground is a rip of cardboard onto which are sewn a piece of interfacing from a deconstructed garment, and over that a scrap of hand-rusted fabric. The stitches are made with a silk fiber that is wirey and filled with its own ideas about where it wants to lay on the cloth. It has not been twisted, which adds to its instability. A perfect choice for my first response.

The second response is larger, about 10" tall, and is assembled from scraps and off-cuts of clothing or stitch projects. The red strokes represent days, until there were so many they could no longer be counted meaningfully.

There is another, but it still needs a good deal of finishing.

Now to get some more items camera-ready. And maybe add another pocket to the vest that is weary from handling and being stitched and re-stitched. Back in a few.

Domestic Sketches

Today, in The Time Of COVID-19, I am unashamed in pursuing normalcy through examining commonplace, often overlooked objects.  This slowly-stitched, meditative process is a reminder that there is life after this, that there will be a time when we can all exhale and take tentative steps toward establishing our own "new normal."

These four sketches are stitched on rough linen scraps that have been cobbled together to make a whole.  The challenge was to stitch over the raw-edged seam lines without having any little hiccups in the lines of floss.  The green, natural and blue blocks were a learning process, but when I got to the cup and saucer, my capacity for challenge was exhausted, and I used an intact scrap of linen twill as my background block.

Little Quilt

Strip Weaving is an interesting way to create a surface for stitch.  This one came into being as a project to keep my hands busy in the evenings while we watched the British Mysteries.  Perhaps it should be called "The British Mystery Quilt"?

It is 7 1/2 by 8 1/2 inches, roughly.  Linen, mostly, with some cotton for a contrast in texture.  The stitches were limited to straight and cross stitch, with some couching and a section of tiny, tiny french knots.  The piece became such a part of my life that I was actually a little down when it was finished.  THere were evenings when some sections refused my stitches, while others yelled for attention.  The end result appears to be a map of a small, colorful town.  My granddaughter was the first to recognize the story here.  Kudos, Bethy!

Summer in the Deep South, Oddments

In early June I wondered if this would be the year of extended spring that went straight to autumn.  No such luck.  We have experienced bursts of rain interspersed with temperatures in the high 80s and low-mid 90s.  Gardening time is just after daylight, then again just before dusk.

Which means the best place to be is in the studio!

One thing Quarantine time has given me is a space to reflect and put things together.  Finishing the Almost-Dones has been a pleasure, too.  I have amassed a collection of little pieces, palm-size or a little larger, and when I came across them, I began to add to the collection.  These are concerned with color and texture, some are about shapes.  None are really finished pieces, but they are ideas.  The best thing to do when you aren't full of inspiration and the muse is off visiting friends and partying, is to simply show up and do something.  Lack of Inspiration and uncooperative Muse can be my excuses for not getting work done.

With that thought, I began to arrange some of the pieces into vignettes.  Once done, I thought of filling in the white spaces between them with little oddments collected since I was a child and curious about all small things that could pop into a pocket and be pulled out later for closer examination.  I found an old frame with a front-closing door and began to assemble these bits and pieces in some order.  I call the collection "Oddments," and, with great originality, they are numbered 1 to 4.  I have not kept any of them in the frame, but I photographed the individual vignettes.  The idea of leaving them flexible and mobile is appealing, particularly in this time of turmoil and change.  Nothing seems to stay the same anymore.

I offer you a guided tour of my day of play.

No. 1:  Here the center green circle is a tag from a dress by Gudrun Sjoden of which I am particularly fond, so I did a little stitching on it.  The other stitcheries are on linen, paper, even one in the lower line (on a yellow wedge ground) is unspun silk on a piece of paper towel with paint splattered onto it.  The slice of house at lower right is what I secretly fantasize about painting my (presently) blue house one day.  Painting the dots was an inspired moment, as the linen was from a very old shift I'd worn threadbare before I would take it out of my closet.

No. 2:  The arched line is an experimental wrapping of thread and fabric scraps, really small shreds of fabric that I dug out of my waste clippings.  The upper left leaf design is stitched on paper and cloth, with the leaf shape sponged onto paper from a wet cloth I'd just dyed.  Next to it is part of a (very) old wax-painted sample.  The wood in center is from a beautiful and large lavender bush that I brought with me when we moved back home from Knoxville in 2008, and after 12 years of bewilderment at its new location, the plant simply folded up shop.  I love the wood, as even the roots of lavender are a feast for the eyes.  The little boat at the bottom center is thumb-sized, to give you an idea of scale (or maybe of the size of my arthritic thumbs).

No. 3:  The center yellow piece was stitched on a scrap from a manilla mailing envelope.  Using Cas Holmes' instructions (The Found Object in Textile Art) for momigami paper, I wadded, folded, scrunched and crinkled until the paper softened to have a fabric-like hand.  I ironed it, and stitched with hand and machine.  It is a memory of travel to New Mexico with our son many years ago.  The thumb tacks next to it are ancient, I remember them in the back of a drawer from my childhood.  And the little ladder in the lower row is from some long-lost toy of my son's saving.  It is next to a stitching on paper (right) and little shape studies (left).  The red buttons were from my mother, and the piece directly above it came from studying Gwen Hedley's Drawn to Stitch.

No. 4:  Here I realized I had gone to setting things up in something like rigid exhibition order, and this page, though it has some of my favorite objects on it, is less animated than the other pages.  I have confessed to you, with the photograph, of my love of buttons that aren't always perfect and round.  Likewise, my feeling about trees and shrubs.  The little trees were wrapped from snips of embroidery and knitting thread so they look as if they can dance and actually enjoy themselves.  The black and white piece at top left ignited an interest in zentangle drawing and stitching that lasted almost a year, along with sketchbooking with white ink on black paper.

What a huge mess I made with this project, but it was a fun and productive mess.  At least that is what I kept telling myself . . .

Sunset Coming On

This ATC is constructed from linen scraps and a bit of hand-dyed thread.

Every part of the spring is beautiful, even the sunsets.

Re-thinking: Map, 2016

This piece was posted in May of 2016, but since then I have had a change of heart about it.  To the original leather and linen construction, I have added the rows of straight stitch.  But, most importantly, the orientation is now turned upside-down.  As a navigational guide, it seemed best to have the home base in lower right, a sort of docking point for starting and stopping a journey.

Yes, I do like to think about things a long time . . .

ATCs

There is something very satisfying about working with a 2 1/2" x 3 1/2" rectangle.  It fits nicely in my hand, it can hold a portrait or landscape orientation, and it doesn't take forever to finish it.  I have been working in this format lately.

This is a memory of trees on the top of a ridge in Western North Carolina.  Most trees, as you move up toward the ridge line, are twisted and bent in one direction.  The twisting action comes from the force of the constant wind sweeping across valleys and to the tops of the mountains.  There is a bright horizontal line, which was the last of the daylight as the sun moved behind some far hills.

This one below is called Down in the Valley.  The fabric is a cut from clean-up piece of recycled linen in the dye studio, and it reflects my finger prints as I cleaned my gloved hands of the dollops of dye.  The only stitched parts are in the hills in the background and the trunks of the trees.  Simplicity seemed the better solution here.

I have been going through old work, and from it and the shelves of sketchbooks, these older notes and stitcheries have inspired me to develop new work.  The recent work doesn't look a bit like the old, but seeing the sketches or the realized pieces that are folded away reminds me of the time and place that helped to bring the older pieces to being.  Working from the past is the only way I know to keep up a daily practice in the Corona Virus Quarantine.

Hi, Again!

This gap in blogging should be thought of as a hiatus:  a pause or gap in a sequence, series or process.  So, with tea and a crumbly scone, I am re-entering my blog space.  Hiatus is over.

The Quarantine/Lockdown/Shutdown requires me to stay in place, so I use what is at hand in the studio.  I am grateful for family, my daughter-in-law, a nurse, and my son, who has demanded that he get our groceries for us.  Two amazing humans than I am so proud to know.

The time has been interesting as a type of time, no pre-arranged schedules, no deadlines or string attached to any choices.  In fact, very few choices are available now.  With no prompting, I become studio-bound every morning.

I began to self-isolate several days in advance of the lockdown, so I am at day 49 with the quarantine.  So many other people have commented eloquently on the effects of self-isolation that I will say only that it was easy for a while, but as the days became a month and no end in sight, I become anxious.  Creating new work is not as easy as it was two months ago.

Which makes this new piece as welcoming as a wide smile.  The bits and bobs are layered together with bright stitches pulled from a bowl spilling over with different types of thread: linen, cotton, silk, rayon, metallic, even some with seemingly spurious origins.  Though it is difficult to see in a photograph, the various threads give the rough linen ground a very appealing tactility.

In the studio I have pinned the piece to a board so it greets me each morning.  Outside the window, trees that were bare when I started this are quite full now, some with blossoms barely holding to branches as the new leaves push their way into the scented air.

UPDATE:  This little piece was included in the "Piece By Piece" late summer issue of Uppercase Magazine.  Beyond delighted, the piece is in good company.  The issue is devoted to works that are made from scraps or that are pieced together from things that might otherwise have been thrown away.  A photo from the magazine: