and on the seventh day

Saturday and Sunday are generally regarded as days of rest
but i had things to do

a warp to wind
text to tame
a book to bind
and some serious weeding

somehow my morning walk
became an evening walk

and unsurprisingly i found diversion in the cow paddock
where the stones were just too tempting
and made a very nice pile
with an elegant cantilever detail

i wasn't carrying the pocket rocket though
so trotted back to the house to get it

by the time i returned to take an image
the moon, bless her
had decided to take a seat

drinking stillness

on the spinning of yarns and the weaving of tales

the mention of weaving in the last post
sparked a flood of private correspondence
in addition to all the kind comments

apparently

the zeitgeist is afoot
[weaving links around the whirled]
it appears many are either discovering weaving
returning to it
have been dreaming of it
or
been weaving their dreams

weaving is so embedded in our culture
and even in our language
we spin a yarn [or tell a story] - our maternal ancestry was referred to as "the distaff side" -
weave elements into a tale
weave our way through traffic

i suspect each and every one of us
could find a weaver in our ancestry
if we looked back far enough

and there are certainly plenty in the garden

artist Nina Katchadourian describes the mending of webs
helpfully using red thread

many webs are short-lived
but the 75th anniversary of a famous web
was marked last weekend
[there's a video of a wonderful firework display on the link]

roundabout and roundabout and roundabout we go

early in 2010 i travelled to Japan for the express purpose of studying the textiles on show at the Amuse Museum
the Boro cloths were marvellous indeed and i wrote about the visit here
but
there was something i didn't mention
something i kept close to my heart while i was waiting to see where it might lead
- that something was the weaving of cloth

a skill i had not used for some forty years
rediscovered thanks to a friendly weaver working on the top floor of the Museum
who was happy for me to take her photograph
[my apologies, i do not have her name]
and who kindly invited me to try weaving at her loom

in doing so
she lit a small flame that has been gradually growing.
and while i've been keeping my weaving fairly quiet
it will play some role in the exhibition "muddy waters"
to be shown at the Murray Bridge Regional Gallery in March 2013
along with paper and cloth, felted/stitched/dyed marks


i've never much taken to being limited by labels and i can't for the life of me see any reason for restricting my practice to a particular medium
- i want to tell my story the best way i can
and will utilize whatever is necessary to do so

and while i admit to showing "finished objects" when presenting work publicly
it's really not about that at all
the "things" that are shown
merely tell a Reader's Digest version of the bigger story
and that bigger story is all to do with the process of the work

...stitching on another plane the night before last
the woman to my left asked "what's it going to be?"
and was i think a little confused when i said "it might not be anything, it's what it is now that's important"
then wanted to know whether i was using a pattern

my response was "well, no, i'm just drawing with a needle and thread"
and she took her arm off the arm-rest and reduced herself into the middle of her seat
and focussed on her crossword puzzle.

maybe she thought it was contagious.

but back to weaving. i realised it was in the bones
[literally handed on in a long chain from mother via grandmother via great-grandmother and so on]
and that it had been subtly in my work anyway
woven pages in books, interwoven photographs
interlaced cloth pieces embedded in felt,
in making rag and stick and wire fences in our tiny garden on the Andamooka Opal Fields
so i dived back in

there are many weavers whose work i admire and respect
[Sandra Brownlee is one of them
Chiyoko Tanaka is another, along with Jun Tomita]
but i have no intention of trying to copy any of them
- i will be weaving my own path
in my own way

lucky for me
when i need to know something about weaving
i can still ask my Ma

 the last words for today go to Frank Lloyd Wright

"The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes"

some time later

following on from the last post
[no pun intended - am aware it is Memorial Day in yesterdayland]

i bundled a $4 silk dress [branded "Trent Nathan" but found in a thrift store] with fallen stars
gathered from the gutters in Stirling

said dress now absorbed into the wardrobe of one of the grandchildren of the visionary who initiated the tree-planting scheme

scarlet stars

when we first came to live in South Australia
in the early 1970s
[yes, children, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth
and your mother was dodging lava puddles and errant meteors]
there was barely a tree to be found on the main street of Stirling
there was one brave oak
that marked the position of the local hamburger joint
[now a jewellery store]
and the deli next door
which some ambitious soul designated as the "Oak Tree Plaza"

Mount Barker Road was an expanse of bitumen
wide enough for a bullock cart to be turned in
[even though the chances of a bullock cart struggling up the hills from the plains were by now pretty slim]

so my Pa
who in those days was quite a bright chap
and coined phrases such as
"the driest state on the driest continent"
-  a snappy descriptor still applied to South Australia -
hit upon the notion of planting a few trees

due permissions were gathered
not without protest from the traders of the time who argued that it would take away parking spaces, people would be killed by running into [the trees], falling limbs would crush cars etc etc
Liquidambars were selected, not only for their glorious autumn colour but also as a fire safety measure...eucalypts are lovely trees but rather prone to explosive combustion and in the likely event the Mount Lofty Ranges are again consumed by fire 
having less flammable trees in the main street is probably a good thing

this winter it will be 40 years since we mucked in
with other hardy souls in the community
and helped plant some fifty trees
that now provide welcome shade in summer
scatter scarlet stars on the pavements in the fall
and whose branches trace delicate drawings in the mists
of our most chillsome season

might be time to gather a few leaves
and make a commemorative bundle
- i'll let you know how that goes

roses roses all the way

roses, roses all the way
but
unlike the Browning poem
no "myrtle mixed in my path like mad"

merely the nice chap at Central Market Flowers
calling out to me in passing last week
that he had a lovely pile of rose petals
and was sure i could find a use for them

i'd always liked the thought of being showered with rose petals
- this is as close as i am likely to get -
so smiled broadly and accepted the pile with glee

the fragrance was heavenly
and i enjoyed it for a few days
while pondering what to do with them

i had a little white book, made in Dorothy Caldwell's class
- the intent was that it should have marked pages
&
that it was to be stitched/woven together with coloured threads

my eyes don't work well with colour
i find white much more restful
so i was a little naughty and quietly bent the instructions

which meant i had a lovely blank/blanc book
awaiting play

warning : the fragrance of semi-dried rose petals is utterly intoxicating

the wee book was bound, gagged and submerged

under the close supervision of Johnnie

who likes to drape himself along the masonry

that backs our wood-burning stove

this was good
because i didn't want the pot to boil
and
we all know
a watched pot NEVER boils

and then i went to bed

this morning i opened my present

a rose-scented dorothybook
just for me

madeline island

i like islands.

so when the kind folk at Madeline Island in Lake Superior asked whether i would care to join them next summer i jumped at the chance

the last time i was on the shores of that lake was in 1976
when our family was travelling across Canada in a $200 jeep
there were holes in the floor that let in exhaust fumes
- we chewed a lot of gum and plugged them with it

the jeep died in San Francisco
at the end of an epic journey across the continent and down the West Coast
- i visit the oil stain it left on the pavements of Russian Hill
each time i swing through my favourite city

Pa left his camera sitting on a log on the north shore of Lake Superior
but that's another story.

so in July 2013
i will be taking the ferry to Madeline Island
for five days of dyeing, stitching and storytelling

the class is the "Wayfarer's Wanderbook and Windfall Cloth"

the contract is signed and nailed into place on my calendar.



...they wanted a bio photo
which is a bit tricksy. there are not that many images of me stored in the electronic retrieval system

i sent them two to choose from

this one

using the Pacific Puddle as pre-mordant

and this one [i'm the one in the dress]

photo credit : Nancy Zeller

wonder if i will find a dog-friend on the island?

remembering to breathe

bother

the class in the Forest of Dean had filled nicely and i foolishly thought all was well
and then my friend and organiser
Sally Stafford kindly inspected the Festival website with a view to attending the performance of
Breathe
[which was my reason for coming to the UK in the first place]
and found
the dates had changed from those i had been told

so there's been an enormous muck up
and a number of people have been inconvenienced
and i am very sorry

but there may be someone out there who would have preferred to attend on August 27,28,29

i hope so.
trying to remember to breathe.