note to self: a good reminder to not take orientation so literally.
Eternal preoccupation, my eyes follow them block after block, searching out irregularities and interesting intersections, taking mental note of location and waiting for right weather to return with my camera.
Some of the most compelling are lines in various stages of decay. The inorganic resembles the organic as it disintegrates, sagging lines vine around taut ones for support. The small towns circling my small city tend to have the most of these, repairs left for more fortunate times.
Made this little ceramic spool a number of months ago along with some larger ones. It sat, empty and waiting until this little bit of black thread needed a safe place to stay. Upon winding the thread, the spool became a ring.
The transformation of studio bits, all sketches and beginning ideas, fascinates me, and the cultivation of these happy moments drives me here, to this space, again and again, the moments of "make". From the seeds of studio bits, things planted a year or two ago, I can finally feel a body of work coming forth, something to feed and develop and turn into a show. My spun drawing hangs in our living room above the bed bouying my body and thoughts up in the morning a promise of what may come.
My good friend Ruth, a painter of a different kind of line, recently began a blog; this entry in particular resonates with me as do her thoughts on Art Basel Miami.
Though spring is swiftly arriving, my polaroid camera has been gathering dust. This winter was different than the last: the sky more often blue with scattered clouds. The fifteenth of February relented and gave me a grey backdrop.
A record of spinning string. Made with a newly constructed tool; a drawing spindle.
Eventually it will be a series.
For now a larger project is in the works (to be completed in May) so much of my studio time is spent spinning on the wheel.
In spinning I have become a connoisseur of fiber, their names a litany of possibilities.
Gulf Coast Native
: just a few of the sheep.
Then bombyx and tussah,
one a silk taken before emergence of the moth,
the other taken after.
the fibers born through a chemical broth, broken and remade;
the fibers squeak between the press of my fingers.
[bast and fruit]
It's an ever expanding list.
An induction to the fiber world is not unlike being taken under the wing of any other epicure. There are steps to take. Look first. Does it gather light in softness or shine like silk. One tastes fiber with a squeeze and a small roll between the thumb and forefinger. Is it soft like merino? Slick? Sproingy? Does it squeak? Is it stiff or lighter than air? Raise it to the soft underbelly of your chin and decide if belongs there for long. Is there a whiff of the warm breath of a grazing animal or the bite of vinegar in a dyebath?
side note: My local yarn store, Hanks has been fostering such activity.
Between making these in August and posting them now I neglected to mention the meditations on process discovered.
The process was less about creating cloth, but rather drawings created with physical lines. Slow slow work to draw this way. Organization of the line slowed by the process to lock it to the ones before it.
The linen line satisfyingly uneven on its own, a hard thin twist followed by a soft thick one , transforms even more as it is laid in, tightened or loosened according to friction, pressure, speed.
Drawn through. The looser weft, relinquished to the tight warp, ever undulating.
Woven. Sculptural drawings or drawn sculptures.
This last one examines disregards a straight grid.
The Agnes Martin paintings I'd seen at the Dia Beacon few years ago kept surfacing in my mind. Those subtle lines perfect in imperfection. A shame pictures don't really capture them well, though perhaps it's good I am distanced from them for the time being.