Monday, February 19, 2018

Mussels and Limpets

On a recent beach walk, when the tide was out, my grandson and I started noticing all the limpets hanging on to the rocks. He tried to pick one off. It's stuck, he said, looking to me for help. Even a very, very strong person couldn't lift a limpet, I told him. Later I read that limpets move about a metre a night, scraping algae and seaweed off the rocks. It seems they're a herbivore, and the same "teeth" that let them cling to the rocks also lets them eat the food they find where they're anchored, in the intertidal zone. 
Mussels too hang on to their rocky homes for dear life. usually in large groups. Their tightly closed shells help them remain hydrated during low tide and to withstand being baked in the sun. Which got me thinking about what I need to remember to cling to - a fitting "ponder" as I come to the end of my year-long Masterclass with Lisa Call.
I have learned much in the last year, and feel well equipped to move forward in my daily practice as a textile artist, and if I lose my way, I know I too will need to come back "home" and to cling to my foundation ferociously, or I will not be able to withstand the waves or the sun that will surely come (lack of confidence, confusion about direction, build up of clutter, to name just a few), any more than the limpet can.
When I think about the specifics of what I've learned in the last twelve months, it is both hugely personal, and something I want to share with kindreds in this creative life. In spite of my hesitation, I'm willing to give it a shot, because I have gained so much from being on the receiving end of wisdom and insights from so many others.  There's something in the sharing of our stories that empowers us all to move forward.
I am just beginning this process of reviewing the year and identifying the most important lessons learned, so I will go slowly. So in no particular order, these are some of the things that come to mind:
1. The only way to get become a better artist, is to keep on doing the work. Why this isn't more self-evident, I really don't know.
2. Breaking down what I intend to do into small steps is as sure a way of succeeding in doing it as any other way I have ever learned.
3. Having systems in place with which to manage all aspects of my life, including my creative life, helps enormously in getting down to work and wasting a minimum of time.
4. Being accountable to someone else to do what I say I intend to do each week is terrific in helping me stay on track.
5. Looking after my physical health - eating well and exercising regularly - is key to everything else.
6. Celebrating my successes is a good thing to do.
Only six to start with - I want to think a little more before going on. Even six are a lot to think about in any depth.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Filling the Well in New Zealand

"The Artist's Way", by Julia Cameron, has been one of the most important books I've read on this journey to becoming a textile artist. There are many practices that she promotes that I still use daily, such as writing "morning pages". Another concept I continue to find enormously helpful, is that of "filling the well". As artists, she suggests, we are continually drawing from our individual wells (visual images collected by close observation of all that is around us), in making our work. So it is important to keep that well filled, to look after it regularly, making sure it doesn't become stagnant or polluted. One of the surest ways to do this is to expose ourselves to new sights and experiences. 
I have collected stones and seashells and other beach findings for as long as I can remember. This photo is of a few treasures I picked up one day earlier this week. I was looking for curved shapes, and found such an assortment. There's something about noticing the small and often overlooked that allows me to enjoy a place at a deeper level. The grand and beautiful shout out the loudest, but it is the small, almost forgotten particularities that I remember the longest. And that fill my own personal "well".
It was raining the day I took these first few photos, but the darkened sand provided a perfect foil for this pink and cream seaweed, as well as for my collection in the photo above.
Rocks are another favourite subject. This one is clearly too large to bring home with me, but the texture was amazing. What made those criss-cross lines, I wondered? The irregularities of it and the diagonal lines are amazing. It reminds me of a dried out creek bed, or a map of some sort. I could construct an entire fictional land based on this one rock.
And what are these odd pinecone like things? They look like so many mouths open and chattering at the same time. I suppose each one is a seed pod, but it has me thinking about how much talking we all do and how poor we are at listening. More material for the "well".
I stopped to take a photo of a thistle, and by the time I was ready with my camera, it was being visited by a bumble bee, working hard to extract what it needs to make honey.
And just a little further along the track we almost missed this tiny green frog. He jumped out of our way just in time. Near misses - self-preservation - fitting in with your surroundings. This image takes my mind in so many different directions.
Maori people have a word for these tall grasses that means "wind socks", so my daughter tells me. They flex in the wind, and it's that flexing that allows them to survive, and not break. To bend and not break. More food for thought. More for the "well".
I don't even know what these yellow weedy flowers are, but what a gorgeous contrast to the deep blue-turquoise of the ocean behind them, and the verging on lavender sky.
Again, I don't know the name of the plant in the foreground, but I love how it glows in the sunlight, and how well it stands out against the long grasses and trees behind it. There's something about this photo that's like a parable to me.
And if you are accompanied on one of your walks and treasure hunts by a young man who has much or even more enthusiasm for it than you do, you can count yourself as most fortunate. I think we all returned home from our walks with our wells filled almost to the brim.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

What Comes Next?

The 100 Day Challenge continues. By the end of this week I will have reached Day 40, and I am determined to complete all 100 days. In the last week, I have made some more tree trunks from striped fabric, another windows composition, three more leaves and two more bare branch trees - most of those are shown here.
But I'm beginning to battle this desire to do something different. Maybe a few landscapes or perhaps a few abstract pieces. What I'm wondering is, would it be better to stick with my original concept of just trees and leaves and push that a bit further, or would a little variety make it more interesting, both for me as the maker, and for the viewer?
I had imagined a wall full of 100 leaves and trees, and that the entire composition would be stronger for the unity. This may still be true. The windows were introduced because I imagined looking out on a forest, or coming home from a walk through the forest. And because I like using windows in all my work. Hmmm . . . something to let simmer for awhile.
The bare-branched trees made with gently curving lines are also very pleasing to me, and I wonder about making a larger piece incorporating larger, longer trees made the same way. Perhaps when the 100 Days are over, I can explore this possibility.
Right now, though, I will do well to maintain the practice of making one small 5" x 7" tree or leaf each day. I know this has to come first each day, or I will lose the rhythm. The discipline of this is good for me. And instead of entertaining questions of doing something a little different, I should listen to the advice posted by my desk "Just Do It".

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

African Travel Stories

Some weeks ago, mid-October to be exact, I began a project using a limited number of fabrics, recalling my travels in Africa. I used raw edges, thinking of them as sketches, and added hand-stitching. Early on I shared photos of the first few pieces - you may remember them. But then I lost my way a little. However, I returned to work on them after Christmas, and I thought you might like to see them.
There are fifteen 6" x 6" small works in this grouping, each one telling a story about my African travels. They will eventually be mounted on canvases and hang together at my July solo exhibit (more about that later) - A Sense of Colour - where they will be for sale. Here are the close-ups and a little of what I was thinking when I made them.
Every adventure starts with the first few steps into the unknown, willingly taking the risks in order to experience something new - seeing new lands, meeting new people, eating new foods, thinking new thoughts - all of it starts with that spirited stepping forth.
A map is a guide, but there will always be choices. Choosing one thing means saying no to something else. And even when we think we know where we're going, we can and will be surprised by the unexpected.
Seeing my first elephant and first baobab tree are remembered here - the soft feet of the elephant stepping almost noiselessly beside our vehicle, as he walked along the road; and the twisty, lovely ugliness of the baobab.
These rondavels with their thatched roofs that are typical in Lesotho They're cool in summer and warm in winter. Blankets (represented by Shweshwe cloth) have been washed and hung to dry.
The flat-topped mountains of the land and distinctive straw hats and wool blankets of the Basotho identify them as people of the "Kingdom in the Sky".
In most African countries, women carry enormous loads on their head, walking with such grace and dignity, often with a baby carried on their back. This square was made in honour of these unforgettable women.
Swaziland - this is their national shield - is a neighbouring country to Lesotho, green and treed in comparison to Lesotho's barren countryside. We visited it often.
The Matopos hills in Zimbabwe have an air of mystery to them. We walked among the huge boulders, the height of several people, wondering how they came to be there. The printed zebras are an old, old Zimbabwe design, evidence of a highly sophisticated culture that existed long before British colonialism.
Small stalls selling fruits and vegetables are set up in even the smallest villages, each person hoping to sell a few tomatoes or jackfruit or bananas.
When I visited Tanzania and took the ferry to Zanzibar for the day, these elegant dhows, or fishing boats, glided past.
The sand dunes of Namibia were breathtaking. And in the midst of the desert, with sand as far as the eye could see, there would be an occasional bare bones tree bravely struggling to survive.
The cowrie shells of Ghana were once used for currency, and are still a symbol of wealth and prosperity. I love the shape of them.
One game walk we took, on foot, was in search of the white rhinos of South Africa, almost extinct now. When we came upon two in a ravine, I wasn't sure if I was pleased or not by the discovery, in spite of the gun the guide was carrying.
In Uganda, men often use bicycles as a way to transport bananas and pineapple and other produce to market. Huge amounts are balanced precariously on either side of both wheels and in front of the handlebars.
And lastly, these impalas. They are not as sought after as other African wildlife, but to see a herd of them leaping through the tall grasses, their golden underbellies revealed with each jump, was a sight to behold. I wanted to make a square just for them. 
Now that I've finished these, I'm freed up to work on something else. It's a good feeling. The urge to start something brand new is upon me, but I'm hoping that reason prevails and that I get back to work on another of my "to-be-finished in 2018" projects. Here's hoping . . . !

Monday, January 22, 2018

Looking for Spring, Looking for Hope

I am in Victoria this week, helping out with my grandchildren. I can't help but wonder what sort of world they will grow up in. When my youngest grandchild is my age, it will be 2080 - a staggering thought. I can sometimes get weighed down with these ponderings. So when the sun broke through the clouds this morning, I knew I needed to take myself off for a walk, looking for signs of spring. Which is very much akin to looking for signs of hope.  Before I'd turned the corner of the street on which my son and his family live, I discovered this clump of snowdrops. Such delicate flowers bursting through the still brown ground with determination and vigour.
A little farther along  the street I found these daffodil shoots. They won't be far behind. Already they're pushing aside the debris and detritus of last year in their reach for the light.
Potted primulas with their outrageously coloured flowers are being sold at the nearby grocery store, although it's a bit too early to see them in local gardens.
And even the fruit trees are beginning to bud. So many lessons here. Suddenly things don't look quite so dark and gloomy. It seems there's something about being connected to the natural world, about taking the time to notice the smallest of changes that are taking place, that keeps me connected to the whole of life, and reminds me that there have always been seasons, and times of light and times of dark, for a long, long time. And I am reminded too that our capacity to stand strong and withstand the not so pleasant bits of life is truly remarkable. When I returned to the house I was considerably cheered. And set right to work with my brightly coloured fabrics, and made another leaf.




Tuesday, January 16, 2018

A Fine Line - an Exhibit by Fibre Art Voices

This week was the opening for the Fibre Art Voices exhibits, A Fine Line, and Indigo, at the Old Schoolhouse Gallery in Qualicum Beach. The photos I am sharing here have already been posted to Facebook, but I would thought I would like to tell you a little about the pieces we made for the portion of the exhibit entitled A Fine Line.
We began by challenging each other to interpret this theme however we chose, making a large piece no wider than 40", and two companion pieces, each 10" X 10". The interpretations were widely disparate, as is evident here, but held together by a line, definite or implied, that carried through each of the works and onto the next grouping of three.
 "One for Sorrow, Two for Mirth", by Gayle Lobban, interprets a familiar nursery rhyme.
 "DNA - Hidden Discoveries", by Margaret Kelly, is the story of her connecting with her birth family.
 "It's the Journey", by Karrie Phelps, gives voice to the importance of what happens as we travel through life.
 "Endangered", by Gail Tellett, shows the life cycle of the nearly extinct Taylor's Checkerspot Butterfly.
 "Escaping Gridlock", by June Boyle, speaks to the balance she aims for between commitments and time management, and leisure time.
 "Where Heaven Meets the Earth", my entry, pictures Lesotho, also known as the Kingdom in the Sky, at dawn.
 "A Fine Line", by Hennie Aikman, speaks to the balance needed in caring for the oceans.
"The Power of Friends", by Gladys Love, is about loss and recovery, and the important part friends play in this process.
It has been such a good experience to be part of this group as we worked towards our exhibit, and one  through which we've learned a great deal. To be able to share what we've created in such a terrific venue is quite an honour. The process of making the pieces, critiquing each other's work, and encouraging one another when we got stuck was invaluable. Now the question is, what next?