connectors for flow

This one has been troubling me, the overall look of the thing (a good picture might have been nice) was disconnected, and scattered. Without flow. 

Pacing off, broken.

Gaps too large for mere lines to bridge. Worse than plot holes. Continental drifts of space.

Then I remembered the Orbs. Bubbles of color in cloth and stitch, echoing curves. Stepping stones.

Each one like a conversation with a character.

Who are you?

Who do you care about?

What do you want?

Can you live without it?

It's working. It will be a matter of choosing just the right colors and knowing when to quit. 

 

Storied scraps

 

Having the design wall cleared and available (previous post) is a big part of getting this room back to being a working studio. Finding stacks of UFOs is a strange side effect. What was I thinking? Not what I'm thinking now, for sure.

The winter morning light is as harsh as ever. The birthday sewing chair needs its seat refurbished. Or maybe it's my ass that needs work. Having a time limit for seating is not all bad. 

I won't complain about the weather here with friends losing their minds in the extremes. There are limits to what humans can get used to. Nothing like that happens when the weather is merely dull.

Some days just compel stitching. I'd forgotten about the late-day sun coming into the master bedroom. Only about an hour, but enough to wrap up the day.

Tuning

 

A glimpse inside the sausage factory

 

Milly has claimed the sewing chair for the moment. At least she's content to watch - no kittenish interference or playing from this one. She conserves her energy in an admirably human fashion. 

The studio is mostly reconfigured, but I have orders to fill. 

The scrap basket was looking a little anemic when I spied a stack of really colorful cottons on the shelf. I was well into ripping into them when I realized that this was the Kona cotton that I bought and dyed to make a couple of summer shifts for myself. Last summer.  Oh well. Nothing like a change of plans. If I had made a couple of schmattas no one would ever see all this glorious cloth. Now it's going to be in the world. 

If you buy a scrap bundle, a suggestion. Fill a big bowl or the bathroom sink with warm water and drop or two of Dawn. Give it all a gentle wash and rinse. There might be a tiny bit of pink in the water but it won't stick to anything non-organic. Finger-press the bits out to dry flat on an old towel. You might even get crazy and iron them! 

painting to move the needle

 

 

Some time ago, years now, I bought some stuff to paint with. The intention was to paint directly on unprimed canvas. Straight to the cloth.

The project got derailed and the tools tucked deep away.

During the reorganization, I found them. Golden color concentrates. Medium and heavy gels, matte and gloss.

No canvas around, so 18x24 inch multimedia paper. Heavy. A step away from card stock. Brushes that I have had since the late '60s. I never went cheap on paintbrushes.

Once the pallet is set up, I'm off to the races. No plan, no direction, and sure enough, no backing out. Every stroke a commitment. 

And it's messy AF. I'd forgotten about that part. Clean-up time

I have them both up on the blank wall in the studio. Tomorrow I'll know how they stand up to the light of day. Think about how this fits into my profound lack of plans.

 

The morning after

January 1. 6:49 am. 

This is fog and smoke from the ton or two of explosives set off within a mile of my house. I don't want to call them fireworks because there's rarely anything visible. They just don't get high enough. But the noise! Poor Bailey spent the night under the bed. The girls were unphased.  There was a surprising lack of gunfire throughout the evening. 

It was almost 8:30 before the day could show its face.

And here's mine. Unfiltered and not-yet-caffeinated. Gimme a minute.