the work

 

I brought these in late yesterday afternoon and let them dry overnight in the studio. 95% dry, give or take, so they won't travel anywhere for at least 48 hours. 

I was a little disappointed in the loss of color intensity, but this confirms my findings that my process requires a minimum of 80 degrees Fahrenheit for the strongest color outcome. 

Still, these have a charm all on their own. I won't use the dirty work pastel.   Heathered is more like it. 

People have often commented that my threads have a shine and ease of handling. I have no science to prove it, but hand washing and rinsing has to have something to do with it.

The hotel pans that Jim rescued from a restaurant renovation years ago have been integral to the process by cutting water use way down.

The threads below spent the night outside on the work table. It rained on and off all night and when I brought them in this morning, it was so cold I could see my breath and my fingers inside my gloves were turning blue. Weather gods, I laugh in your general direction.

Unplanned extravaganza

 

I spent Friday night up country with Jake, Missy, and Charlie. Didn't get home until nearly lunch. 

The first order of business was tending to the hairy hordes who put on that "NO ONE FED US" routine.

 Typically, I waste the afternoon with a nap but today the sun finally decided to show its face after a string of really shitty cold and damp days.

All I had to do was pull the dyes out of the cupboard and decide on a set of primary colors. A little of this and dash of that and Lawdy Miss Claudie!'

I didn't know how much gas I had in my personal tank so I focused on the thread. There was another dismembered lined blouse and a handful of those beautiful damask napkins from Liz.

I did find about three yards of that midweight linen I bought new last year in closet. Remember how I accidentally cut up all the cloth I'd set aside to make myself some summer wear? I stripped the vinyl cover off the work table and laid out the linen to act as a table mopper. This time, there will be a schmatte happening if it takes enough color this time around.

It's dark. I'm beyond tired, but I have four pages of longhand writing to get into the machine. 

The novel Vladimir by Julia May Jonas has captured my attention, but I suppose a good night's sleep will pay off.

I hope to get both threads and cloth into the store by Monday.

Intermission

 

The weather confounds another run at the primary colors. It was only 61 today midday.

A teal shading to aquamarine from ice water to l'heure bleue.

Bubblegum to raspberry syrup magenta. And sunshine to corn to tiger fur yellow.

And all the ways they can trip each other up. I dream about them. 

In the meantime, Life.

A fresh MRI and a new doctor advised me to adjust my expectations about my back. There will be no surgery.

More treatment, but nothing invasive. We flex.

The Mother Lavender not only survived the winter that killed the venerable thyme and jasmine, she flourishes.

Sweetie persists. She had more good hours than bad. Salmon and sunshine will still get a purr. 

And the drive, the will, and the need to write are back in full force. 

Inventory

 

There's a lot of it. And more to come. This is only the first dyefest of the summer. 

At first glance, what a buncha mutts! 

I had no business letting that Mad Raven near the threads, but zoom in. 

Cuddle close and discover that each hank has a complexity and depth of change that makes me want to take up needle and thread and see what some satin stitched eyes or feathers would look like.

I'm going up country in a few hours so all of this merchandising will have to wait. When I get home,  I'll be putting together sets of four and six-ounce bundles of scraps and posting them to the store as they become available. 

And thank you all for your support, your patronage, and encouragement. 

Sincerely, your crack dealer.

Fails or flight of fancy

 

It's easy to lose focus when it's this beautiful out. 

I'll never get used to the shortness of Spring here. There are no lilacs, forsythia, or weeping willows to ease me into summer. You look up and, BAM, summer is breathing down your neck and the thin-blooded are looking to turn on the AC. I just finished paying off the grotesque gas bill from heating this barn during the deep freeze. grumble grumble.

Oh well. I just reminded myself there were seven years with NO heat or AC, so all things are in balance.

All this to say, I lost track of timing and finishing on half of the cloth I was working on. Cloth and thread can get overcooked resulting in a lot of murky-looking, unhappy crap. 

Oh, I know tastes vary, but I'm still doing this to please my eye first, and if I open the washing machine and yell "FUCK ME", you know I'm not looking for a date.

 

But, there are lessons, always lessons. Besides setting a reminder, don't forget that the heavy vinyl cover on the table lets liquid pool under cloth and thread. Instead of a quick drain and dry, the stuff is stewing in its juices. And the biggie. A little black goes a very long way, especially when overdyeing. 

 

The saving grace? Discharging. And if I get really arty-farty, some soy wax resist. I'm exhausted just thinking about the soy wax games. Picture the crone standing over a bubbling cauldron lifting lengths of steaming cloth out of the broth with a gnarly stick. Maybe I'll do it over the firepit in the front yard. That will be something for the new neighbors to write home about. 

On the other hand, discharging with bleach is quick, dirty, and satisfying. Phone booth sex. 

Guess you know which way I'm leaning.