Harvest time

It's been a while since I was excited by first peeks at a thread batch. Over the past months, I've caught myself thinking "Overdye for this bunch" or "just because I don't love you...."  and hoping for the best.

This time, I'm thinking about dumping out my own stash so I can start fresh with 20 or 30 from this lot. But I won't. I have too much else to do now and soon, those responsibilities will double. 

Now comes the hard part. Cleanup and processing. When I call these Hand Dyed Threads I'm not kidding.  There is no part of this that can be automated. Each skein goes through about a dozen steps between the first measure&wind, to the final wind off. 

Then, since I'm selling most of these, there's photograpy, posting, and processing orders. Now, the added terrors of the post office. I'm still sad about the fact that International Shipping is so out of reach. 

I've washed and rinsed two groups, laid out on the deck rails here in hopes of some sun, but it's looking pretty shitty out.  

I've been thinking about writing a DIY book - "Doing the Dirty Thread Boogie". I can teach you the steps, but I cannot teach color sense which is the magic at the heart of this process. Something I can't even explain to myself.

What do you think? 

Color in cold blood

I have the time and the weather is with me, but I confided in a friend that, although everything was ready and right, I had no feel for color today. Vacuuming floated to the top of my to-do list. A very deep level of ennui.

Instead, I downshifted, no clutch, and found a place of hard, scientific analysis. Instead of frenzy, I measured. Wiped up spills, protected myself, gloves and masks, indoors.


Then I remembered...
All in all, the dyes don't care.

It was overcast and mid-80s when I was setting up. The moment I sat down, the clouds parted and the sun got really harsh. Right after he took this, Colin brought my hat down. 

At this point in the process, I worked the way I always have. I got a chip of kosher salt in my eye. That kind of slowed me down.

There was a lot of thread prepped to dye. A LOT. More than a hundred skeins. I lost count.

At the same time, some smaller pieces of cloth joined the fray. 

The colors evolved as I worked. Looking over the results, I can't see a trend. But I was too tired and overheated to do any peeking.  Everything is out there, cooking in the heat. 

I'm hoping it will rain tonight and save me a lot of rinsing. 

As soon as the last piece of cloth hit the deck, I jumped in for some emergency cooling. I'm really looking forward to seeing what comes from this batch. 

As summer should be

...taken up by small pleasures.

A little morning stitch with the first light, sometimes too bright.

The mailbox garden riots, out of control. The morning glories clam up the minute the full sun leaves them. 

I'm sure the mail person disapproves of this madness.

And who planted those sunflower seeds in a pot?? I'll have to carry water out to them every day for a while.

Overnight company is good and whenever possible, we are in the water.

Thunder, and finally, rain

Detente in safe harbor.



While I fool around getting lost in the work. All of it.

the conversation

I need this activity to focus on the story the way I used to need walking. Not the best substitute for me, physically, but this is how it's always been in the summer.

Thursday started like this. The plan for a substrate for words already written took the process away from me, in its sharp teeth. I said, "Okay, but not now." It came down off the wall for another day. 

Then it was time to be with Charlie. We spent a careful, long half-hour at the optometrist, selecting replacement glasses. His folks agreed he could have his choice. He had been chattering about Neon

Yellow. I was grateful There was no such option. He didn't dither and chose a rather Captain America look of blue, red, and silver. Pictures when they come in, of course. He very solemnly listened to advice about how very important wearing them and caring for them was. A privilege.

Then there was this. Another attempt the next morning, while he was still asleep, it fell flat but pointed me back in the direction of color. I parked it and started over.

Jackson Pollock would have been proud. My studio looks like a cyclone hit it. If I had tried to make a video of my process like Dee's, people would have been screaming at the screen. 

"What? Again with that damn shape? A quarter-inch to the right? Are you kidding? Put it back. No! " so the dialogue went.

Finally, Saturday morning early, the page is ready for the messages and I'm reminded that every choice- thread, needle, color, shape, line, spacing - have meaning and I want to say so much. 

My thoughts reaching into the future are with the protesters in Portland and in terror for schoolchildren in red states. The GOP only wants strong, stupid cannon fodder. 

Thoughts reaching into the past about a life of consequence. Rest in power, very honorable John Lewis. That bridge should have been renamed in his lifetime, but I can imagine he was not a man to hunger for that kind of acknowledgment.  

ps. this bit of sweetness: