I’m not exactly sure anymore what it is. My voice as an artist used to come through so strongly in lines and paint. Perhaps it still does but the medium has changed. As my previous post seems to declare, (with a somewhat alarming confidence), paint is now fabric scraps, lines are threads. Collage is what leaps under my fingers as I gleefully arrange bits of cloth to create a support, a backdrop, for all the lines and embellishments. I really like this. And it surprises me. But honestly I don’t know why it should…I’ve loved having a needle and thread in my hands since I was a child.
Years ago, when I was in the habit of writing and drawing, it seemed that the drawings themselves beget words. Thoughts on life and transcendent beauty would flow from the pen even as I set it to paper with nary a word, only image. To be sure, I have written about knitting, spinning and weaving…artful endeavors I adore and always have going. But when I stitch with thread into found bits of fabric, those transcendent thoughts come flowing back to me, and I have to watch that a tear doesn’t fall on my needle.
There is more to say and I am, from today, intending to write each day here, keeping a sort of online stitched SCRAPbook, a diary of thoughts gleaned from daily sowing of needle and thread. It will be a way to log my voice as an artist who increasingly feels she has little to say. That is, until I start to stitch. 💚