Summer in the Deep South, Oddments

In early June I wondered if this would be the year of extended spring that went straight to autumn.  No such luck.  We have experienced bursts of rain interspersed with temperatures in the high 80s and low-mid 90s.  Gardening time is just after daylight, then again just before dusk.

Which means the best place to be is in the studio!

One thing Quarantine time has given me is a space to reflect and put things together.  Finishing the Almost-Dones has been a pleasure, too.  I have amassed a collection of little pieces, palm-size or a little larger, and when I came across them, I began to add to the collection.  These are concerned with color and texture, some are about shapes.  None are really finished pieces, but they are ideas.  The best thing to do when you aren't full of inspiration and the muse is off visiting friends and partying, is to simply show up and do something.  Lack of Inspiration and uncooperative Muse can be my excuses for not getting work done.

With that thought, I began to arrange some of the pieces into vignettes.  Once done, I thought of filling in the white spaces between them with little oddments collected since I was a child and curious about all small things that could pop into a pocket and be pulled out later for closer examination.  I found an old frame with a front-closing door and began to assemble these bits and pieces in some order.  I call the collection "Oddments," and, with great originality, they are numbered 1 to 4.  I have not kept any of them in the frame, but I photographed the individual vignettes.  The idea of leaving them flexible and mobile is appealing, particularly in this time of turmoil and change.  Nothing seems to stay the same anymore.

I offer you a guided tour of my day of play.

No. 1:  Here the center green circle is a tag from a dress by Gudrun Sjoden of which I am particularly fond, so I did a little stitching on it.  The other stitcheries are on linen, paper, even one in the lower line (on a yellow wedge ground) is unspun silk on a piece of paper towel with paint splattered onto it.  The slice of house at lower right is what I secretly fantasize about painting my (presently) blue house one day.  Painting the dots was an inspired moment, as the linen was from a very old shift I'd worn threadbare before I would take it out of my closet.

No. 2:  The arched line is an experimental wrapping of thread and fabric scraps, really small shreds of fabric that I dug out of my waste clippings.  The upper left leaf design is stitched on paper and cloth, with the leaf shape sponged onto paper from a wet cloth I'd just dyed.  Next to it is part of a (very) old wax-painted sample.  The wood in center is from a beautiful and large lavender bush that I brought with me when we moved back home from Knoxville in 2008, and after 12 years of bewilderment at its new location, the plant simply folded up shop.  I love the wood, as even the roots of lavender are a feast for the eyes.  The little boat at the bottom center is thumb-sized, to give you an idea of scale (or maybe of the size of my arthritic thumbs).

No. 3:  The center yellow piece was stitched on a scrap from a manilla mailing envelope.  Using Cas Holmes' instructions (The Found Object in Textile Art) for momigami paper, I wadded, folded, scrunched and crinkled until the paper softened to have a fabric-like hand.  I ironed it, and stitched with hand and machine.  It is a memory of travel to New Mexico with our son many years ago.  The thumb tacks next to it are ancient, I remember them in the back of a drawer from my childhood.  And the little ladder in the lower row is from some long-lost toy of my son's saving.  It is next to a stitching on paper (right) and little shape studies (left).  The red buttons were from my mother, and the piece directly above it came from studying Gwen Hedley's Drawn to Stitch.

No. 4:  Here I realized I had gone to setting things up in something like rigid exhibition order, and this page, though it has some of my favorite objects on it, is less animated than the other pages.  I have confessed to you, with the photograph, of my love of buttons that aren't always perfect and round.  Likewise, my feeling about trees and shrubs.  The little trees were wrapped from snips of embroidery and knitting thread so they look as if they can dance and actually enjoy themselves.  The black and white piece at top left ignited an interest in zentangle drawing and stitching that lasted almost a year, along with sketchbooking with white ink on black paper.

What a huge mess I made with this project, but it was a fun and productive mess.  At least that is what I kept telling myself . . .

Starry Night

This is a little piece that wouldn't stay within the 4" square I meant for it.  It is an example of my starting something that simply had a mind of its own, and then hanging on as it galloped  off in another direction.

The fabric is linen I dyed, and the threads are a mix of hand and commercially dyed cottons and silks.  A little white-painted bowl sat on the worktable with the brightly-colored skeins tumbled together as I stitched and planned and listened to the story the threads were chatting about as the lines and shapes unfolded under my fingers.  Working with intense colors is always quite stimulating, but to add to the mood of creativity I listened to the soundtrack of BFG as the stitching progressed.  How could anything stay sedate and perfectly mannerly with John Williams' delightful music filling the studio?

And that is how all of these little images came to dwell here: stars, even a little block of fallen stars, a blackberry "briar" patch, river road, tracks, foliage . . .  Ethan shares my passion for blue and green, so this will be my subject for our writing club meeting this afternoon.  The children write their stories, Grandmother stitches hers.  The children read their lovely written works, Grandmother tells hers and accepts the children's excited interruptions the way historians add footnotes to the body of their data.  What better way to spend the after-homework-is-done moments of an afternoon in the studio?

And yes, Beth Ralph, you are entirely right about the way the story should be matted and framed rather than stretched over a small wooden stretcher the way I usually do these pint-sized pieces.  Isn't Show 'N Tell the best part of FreeStyle?

Woven ThoughtSomely

Woven on a hand loom with the colors of the summer-cum-autumn in mind. 

This was inspired by Sandra's program at the May FreeStyle Meeting, weaving on small looms.  She and Cynthia made some small looms from foam core to get us started, and suddenly we were off and running!  Once I had my "weaving fingers" back I had the feeling I had come to familiar terrain.  Later that same week I started this piece on a small hand-held loom I bought several years ago on Etsy.  The wonderfully colorful threads are left-overs from my weaving days, as well as some silks from the hand dyeing I did last fall.  The contrast of rough and smooth textures made interesting lines.

I used a large high-castle loom for so many years that working on a rigid heddle loom of any size starts out very slowly.  Growing a cloth from rows of empty warp to a finished cloth is an absorbing form of zen, and I am always surprised when I glance up and see the hours that have passed.  Then it's time to stretch and have a little walk through the garden . . .

The Color Books

Once upon a time, I kept color books.  Not Coloring Books, but books arranged by color content.  These books are small, landscape formats (about 5" x 7") that I used for saving clips of work, paint chips, and notes on associations of colors.  Pinned or stapled to the pages are little stitched samples of an idea or color combination.

One of the things I discovered with working in these books is that no matter how well thought out a painted color might be, it is only paint on paper.  Despite careful thread choices, the only choices I really have are what is in my thread box, what the manufacturer has made available.  Eventually I began dyeing my own fabric and thread, and though I might design with color families in mind, I don't strive frustratingly to match anything I've painted or inked in or set so immovably in my design plan.

After coming to these dismaying conclusions, I began working less and less in the books, and since they are mostly stuffed beyond disturbing with new material, they remain as they are, an experiment.  When I went through them last evening with an eye to working with a particular color scheme, I  stopped and photographed some of the little sampling bits there.  Doodles.  Questions answered-- I still don't have a name for these little pieces.

One of my favorites is in the red book, a compilation of scraps from clothes-making over the years.  Mother used to sew, to create her own clothes.  She was a marvelous seamstress as well as designer, but she had no career opportunity other than housewife.  She taught her daughters to sew, and the lessons (mostly) stuck.  We were certainly well-dressed children!  And I was lucky enough to fall heir to her fabric scraps when she would do a clean-out.  This little compilation has an apple cut from scraps of one of the last blouses she made for herself, little ruffled pants for Bethy, a blouse for me . . .

Another is from the Violet Book, an exercise on the theme of "portals:"

Layers of fabric and stitch have a textural appeal for me that has been a subject of exploration for years.  When I discovered scrim, however, my stitching life took a marvelous new turn.

And so forth.  Studio Journals, Sketchbooks or even notebooks are such useful things to construct-- to say nothing of the fun of working quite freely without the pressure of preparing work for others to see.  They stimulate exploration of an idea in its initial form, and years later those ideas can be a way of seeing something very differently, of starting off in another direction altogether.  My personally favorite part of the studio is the wall of bookcases with the shelves of studio journals!  Of course, the other books and magazines are interesting, too.  My first stop when starting a new work, though, is always the studio journal cases.

Conversations With Silk Thread

I have a great weakness for silk.  Silk fabric, even tiny scraps.  Thread, in all its manifestations.  Throwster's Waste.  Ravellings.  Cocoons.  Carded Batts.  Loving the tactile quality of silk has even encouraged me to take better care of my hands, which can grow quite rough from the day-to-day activities of washing, doing laundry and cooking, dyeing, gardening, even stitching on rough fabrics.

The most interesting quality of silk, though, is the conversation that come from winding the newly-dyed thread onto plastic bobbins, the wondering what the future of a thread might be and auditioning all sorts of scenarios for that future.




The box of Yellows is ablaze with happy possibilities-- the Yellow of sunlight pouring through a summer sky is tucked next to what must be a zinnia in waiting.  How many lumpy, bumpy things could come from the coarse silk-- a silk most unashamed of its rude beginnings outside of the mulberry-fed circle of elite threads?









Orange is not always for pumpkins.  Saffron robes of Tibetan monks, the day lilies growing beside the road in patience and peace, and the pale tints that run to Salmon and Coral all borrow from that much-maligned color.











Then there are the Reds, Empresses every one!  Not modestly pursuing a quiet place in a corner, but brashly pushing forward to take seats at the front of the room and making a lot of noise fluffing and shaping themselves as they are seated.  The color of boldness and power.  Of complete confidence.  Synonymous with happiness to the Chinese.










Moving from Red to the Violet family, we pass through fields of wildflowers, bergamot, field thistles, four o'clocks and coneflowers.  Delicate wild geraniums lean toward the shaded, quieter areas.  And Magenta dances through all these Red-Blues.











The Royal Purples take their place, waking sedately past all gathered in the room to seats especially set up for them in front of the haughty Reds.  Centuries of awe and obedience radiate from them, the color set aside for the rulers, movers and shakers of older worlds.  Even their diluted hues are noteworthy-- the moodiness of a stormy sky is here, the strike of a last, dying sun slicing through the darkening sky.








After all that tussle at the front of the room, the Blues emerge, a breath of tranquility and peace.  Sky.  Sea.  Eternity.  The promise of safe harbor and clear skies.  Moving from the truest hue to the shared Aqua Marines and Turquoise, recalling water and life.









The Greens spring from the earth beside that watery Blue.  Green of leaf, grass, stem, moss, mountain and curving field, where strong stalks support the heavy sunflower heads floating above all as they turn their faces to follow the sun.  Fields of lush grass for grazing animals.  Heavily forested mountains.









And so we have wandered to the Chartreuses who lie at the door of Yellow, the bridge between earthy Green and Blue sky, the first colors of the spring emerging after the long and almost colorless winter.







The Greys and Browns are the step-children of the color wheel, but really deserve their own kingdom apart from the hues.  From the sum of all colors, Black, to the almost-absent tints of Grey and Ecru, they are the toning mechanisms that give some dignity to the babble of the primaries and their offspring.

It is a wonder-filled thing to have conversations with a bowl of silk threads.

Silk Thread

Silk threads are a different set of dyeing techniques than cotton.  And linen, rayon, ramie and tencel all have their own rules.  I am navigating the silk maze now, still finger-painting, still in love with the colors that emerge by accident or design.  And there are a lot of interesting textures in silk, either 100% silk or silk blended with other fibers.

I did these boxes of silks in two dyeing days, though it took me several days to get the thread wound and tied into little hanks for dyeing.

The new bump in the road is finding a place to dry so many skeins.  They can't hang outside, even if there was sun every day.  They would collect pollens and airborne allergens that would keep me from using them.  And the space inside this house is all pretty well spoken for.

But all I need is a temporary drying rack-- no more new equipment!  And while dozens and dozens of skeins of thread soaked and waited to be rinsed and dried, I prowled around the downstairs looking for solutions.  The answer was folded up in a corner, behind a door:  my walker.

Think about it:  Light weight.  Folds away.  On wheels that can be raised so I don't have to bend down so far to claim the dry skeins.  And side bars for support.  The side bars can also be used to support dowels stretched the width of the walker-- dowels filled with skeins of wet yarn.  And because we have bookcases downstairs, we already have a de-humidifier in that room-- Bingo!  Here is a glimpse of the way I now utilize my walker:

Pretty expressive, isn't it, I mean, can you see how much I loathe the idea of ever again needing to use a walker for ambulatory assistance?

Several days have passed since that first attempt at drying silk thread there-- and I have made a number of improvements.  I also have an idea of using the Adorable's Legos to make a support for a second row of dowels to hang above the ones shown.  I always have an idea.  Making it work is sometimes the challenge.

The best part, however, is how neatly it all comes apart and can be stored out of the way when not being used.

Three cheers for Grandma!  Next is to figure out how the skeins can hop down on their own, climb into a basket or large wooden bowl and somehow make it up the stairs under their own steam . . .

Color, Thread, and Bethany

This little project of dyeing threads for hand embroidery has swelled to the point it has shaped the pattern of my days.  As the colors are intoxicating, I have divided dyeing into color groups:  warm colors in the morning, cool colors in the afternoon.  This way I can move along without dwelling too much with my favorite colors, to the neglect of the rest of the color wheel.  First thing each morning I begin rinsing out the thread and fabric from the previous day's work, one color group at a time.  Then to let them soak, rinse a second time, soak in more clear water, and a third rinse.  Some of the colors need a fourth and fifth rinse (I am thinking about the seductive reds and deep blues), but eventually the water runs clear enough to hang or lay them out for drying.

I do not dip the threads in dye pots.  I paint them with my (gloved) fingers, occasionally using a brush.  I do not want consistent color-- the commercial manufacturers are quite good at doing that, thank you.  I love the subtle variations of color in the skeins, and I have discovered a way of layering the colors to give a soft effect to the pastels.  A lot of work, yes, but the effect is so lovely.

As I rinse the warm colors, the resulting threads are like liquid flame in my hand, intertwined oranges and yellows both bright and subdued . . . scarlets and aubergines to make the mouth water . . . blues that recall the Georgia coast or the little glimpses of sky through the trees here at home . . . a shade of persimmon that brings memories of finding the fruit beneath a tree on the playground of the elementary school I attended . . .  All this in a handful of wet thread!

Dyeing is hard work, I have discovered.  So many steps in the process of setting up, dyeing, storing the threads so the color develops overnight, cleaning each bottle before it is returned to the refrigerator, the drips on the table (and me!) . . . and the long rinsing process the next day before the drying begins.  After the first several hundred skeins of thread were dyed, rinsed, and dried, I began to have second thoughts about doing this on a production scale for my Etsy shop.  And when I had wound the skeins of soft silk on little plastic bobbins, I knew that dyed threads would not be mainstay of the shop.  Some threads, yes, but not en masse.

Bethy has been my helper in sorting the threads.  At nine, she has a good eye for color and enjoys walking around the large table to lay the skeins in position in the color wheel we have made of them.  She is learning the difference in touch between the various fibers and knows the silks, rayons and linens go on their own special rings.  She and I are both tactile people and do an awfully lot of squeezing the bundles.  Last weekend she was so excited by the color and the feel of the threads that she cried out, "Oh, Grandma, I could do this forever!"

Her enthusiasm was the impetus I needed to dye two large batches of threads for her to sort after school today.  She allowed Ethan to help, and assigned him his favorite blues and greens to sort.  In this last day of dyeing, I also did some experimenting with black where even though I didn't fall in love with the results, I learned.  That is life: we learn by doing.

Enjoy this photo of our color study in the garage (no; drippy dye will never make it to the studio with its white floor).  Bethy is so careful to match hue and value, while Ethan simply wants blues with blue and greens with green.  Does this sound like a typical male attitude?