bathtub gin

 

This is the trial run of  Bathtub Gin Dirty Threads. Another learning experience underway.

Turns out that this herb drying rack did not go to waste after all, but the poor little things may freeze before they dry! 

I'm seeing a weakness in the colors that I'm sure has to do with the (indoor) temps. I may have to set that gin on fire to get the hot colors I like. There's always overdyeing.

I've had this river grass basket since 2008 and none of the cats have ever expressed any interest in it. I always assumed it had some kind of odor that put them off. This morning Sweetie climbed in, dug around a little, then nested. I couldn't bear to chase her off the scraps and just left her in the weak sunshine. True mixed media. 

She turned eleven sometime in April. We both get around with the same "old lady with arthritis" moves. Sometimes I think she's mocking me. 

I spent too much time (and money) online this weekend getting Christmas shopping done. One of my nephews is a budding artist and I want to support that. The trouble was I kept seeing stuff I wanted for myself. Jerry's Artarama has my number. 

I started hunting around for things and opened this drawer for the first time in a decade. Tomorrow, I'll sit with it all and see what's still good and what goes in the trash.

This one called itself done this morning and will get mounted on canvas soon. Still waiting for a name to be revealed.

Thanksgiving 2020

 

While waiting for an apple pie to bake, I soaked up some fine music and experimented with new ways to cover ground with the dirty threads. Finishing it just now while listening to Charlie talk himself to sleep was the perfect bookend to my day. 

A fine traditional meal with our small family circle. Plates packed and dropped off for those working double shifts or living alone. 

Then sharing a first look at an older movie with Charlie who gave it 10 stars. "Chicken Run" has my thumbs up too.

It was dark by the time we brought Colin his dinner. An idling freight train was blocking a gated crossing. Police vehicles strobing silently on both sides. We circled around for a better view of the airfield, tiny blue lights stretched into the distance. Then we made our way through town. Every other crape myrtle swathed in Christmas lights. Charlie had a good view from his booster seat in the rear of my coupe, the seat he's about to outgrow. He went quiet.

"I feel like I could cry."

I checked him in the rearview. "What's making you sad?"

"Nothing. The night is just so beautiful."

I'm so humbled and grateful to spend time with this child.

a working studio. finally.

 There is a real possibility that I will be joining the ranks of the unemployed in the near future. Having more time for family, writing and art make that idea more appealing as the days pass. 

This will be the next piece I mount to a canvas.  Last night I shopped online for canvases and other supplies I'll need. Powers, Stay My Hand! I almost bought a set of acrylic paints! 

All these not-quite-finished pieces are finally going to get going to market and I don't have time to dick around with paint just yet.

The next chance I get, I'm going to Goodwill to see what kind of couch art they have on hand. I can gesso over anything if the structure and surface are worthy.

I'm running out of a few thread colors so Necessity remains the Mother of Invention. I've come up with a scheme for the Winter Indoor edition of Dirty Threads. 

You've heard of bathtub gin, right? 

The batches will be a lot smaller, but I won't be at the whim of the weather. I still have to figure out how to ship greywater outside to a dry well rather than run it all through my septic tank. This should be interesting.

cat door flap

The rubber flap on the cat door is old and leaks cold air. For years there was a piece of an old quilted experiment stapled over the outside. It was crusty and ragged so I pulled it down and tossed it out back in the spring. A replacement was necessary.

On a high shelf in the closet I found a large unfinshed quilt. Large. Lots of cloth wasted.  I cut a two-foot square from the least obnoxious corner, hemmed the raw edge on the machine and called it done. 

Then I spent the rest of the morning taking what was left apart. Keeping the best of it.

This floating under more than over the others, cloth so soft, it feels like skin.

This a piece of the softest damask. It was part of a small tablecloth. To be whisked out of the Maitre'd's jacket pocket to freshen a cocktail table with a flick of his wrist. The yellow freckly places stayed under soywax during a ill-advised overdye. 

There were also places where I used softscrub to discharge some of the color. Much of this after the design was stitched down to the backing. The very bad design could not offset the colors that I must have been besotted with. It was ugly and I had no qualms about chopping it up.

Three types of cloth so incongruent. The base, a griege cloth. Some mongrel cotton/poly blend by the way it refused the dye. The teal? An IKEA dishtowel. 

 

Memorial memory

 Jim's been gone seven years now. We used to sit together and watch TV. He watched. I stitched.

As I'm studying this one now, I remembered him asking, "What are these evil little fuckers up to?" 

There was something sinister going on but I didn't know it. Just a tone that came through. A mood.

I almost chucked this one because I didn't like the way the random seed stitches looked, but I was too lazy to pick them all away. 

Then I sacrificed it to the Fiber Mummy experiment. Given that ten years have passed and it's still pristine, I'd say the experiment was a success.

The plan is to mount some of the ever-growing pile of small, stitched pieces on canvas using the same technique. 

The intention, of course, to take them from bits of fancy work to Art, more consumable by the masses.

Jim would be out looking for canvases for me or building the odd sizes I needed.

He always knew my moods even when I didn't. I will always miss him.