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 . . . !

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.

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?

This is Your One and Only Life

One of my favourite folk singers is Susan Crowe.  One of her songs has a chorus that goes like this - "This is your one and only life, what will you do?" A favourite poet - Mary Oliver - puts it this way - "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your wild and precious life?". Both women capture something of the wonder of just being alive, and ask a vital question that comes out of that recognition. Their words come to mind often. So I ask myself each morning - what will you do today? It's what others call mindfulness or living with intention.
My decision to take on the 100-day challenge was brought about, at least in part, in response to that question, that reflection. Each day of the year so far, I have woken up deciding that I will make some new thing. More specifically, a new 5" x 7" leaf or forest-related something, using the fabrics that sing out to me that morning. Here are the results so far:

The leaves are cut free-form, so no two are exactly alike. And I choose the fabrics each morning according to what catches my eye, and then look for good companion fabrics, limiting myself to using the fabrics I have set aside for this project, and any I see in my scrap-basket that seem to suit. Today (the last photo) was definitely a day when I was feeling the lack of sunshine - an example of how it is that I bring who I am to what I make. As I sit and do the hand-stitching, I think about the rest of the day to come, and people I will see and what I will choose to do. So the making of this small work, is a meditation of sorts. Some would call it a prayer. And that is how I'm answering the question for now - because this IS my one and only life.

A New Year - A New Commitment

Over the last year or so, I've heard a number of people talk about 100-day challenges. The idea is to make something - you set the parameters - every day for 100 days. Then while in New Zealand I saw the results of such a challenge at the Tuatare Gallery and in Lisa Call's studio. So when the call went out from the Ladysmith Waterfront Gallery to join theirs, running from Jan. 1/18 to April 10/18, I took the plunge (so to speak) and registered.

I decided on a size (5" x 7") and selected hand-dyes and some prints to start me off. I will be working improvisationally and piecing by machine. The subject matter will be trees and leaves. Once I've added a little hand-stitching, I will mount them on prepared canvases.

So . . . today's blogpost is going to be extra short, so I can get busy and make my first of 100 small works. I want to wish all of you a creative New Year, with lots of spaces in it for noticing the small wonders of the world we live in, and good friends to accompany you on your journey through the days ahead. Thanks to all of you who take the time to join me on my own journey, and especially those who take extra time to write their comments. Maybe you would like to tell the rest of us about a new project you've taken on for the coming year. I know I love to hear what others are up to.

My Studio - De-Cluttered and Re-Organized

I just finished reading the blog of my good friend Anne Rayner-Gould, in which she tells the story of how her well-planned gift-giving and holiday food-making plans for Christmas were waylaid by a dramatic change in the weather in her corner of the province. I had a good laugh, because a similar thing happened to me. Only in my case it was illness that resulted in a change in plans, and in me waking up at home alone on Christmas morning. I was up long enough to greet the morning - and what a spectacular morning it was, with a few more inches of snow having fallen overnight - before crawling back into bed with a good book. But we'd had our youngest and his family through a few days earlier, and my sister-in-law to stay for a few days, so I didn't feel I'd missed out at all. My Sweetie drove his sister down to Duncan on Christmas Eve, and was back home in time to do a little present opening together Christmas Day evening. Not to get too philosophical, but it does seem that this happens with great regularity.. We make plans and we give ourselves deadlines and we think it's all going to work out just as we had imagined. And then, well life happens. In my younger days I would have found this frustrating, but nowadays I just chuckle. Anyway, that's why you didn't hear from me last week. But things are now on the up and up.

Much of my life over the last 2-3 weeks has been spent de-cluttering and re-organizing my studio. I had no idea it would take so long. But here it is - almost ready to greet the New Year. My space is an L-shped area in our basement. You come into it from the door on the right. When I first started working down here, I used the smaller part of the room - the part that's in the shadow in the background, and the "family room" occupied the larger part of the "L". It was dark with wood-panelling, until I painted the whole thing white a few years ago. But the children are all long gone and I now occupy the whole of it. In pride of place (of course) is my Bernina, set into an old oak desk (I used the drawer for it to sit in) that was an early purchase when we first came to the Comox Valley almost 25 years ago. It housed my older Bernina for many, many years, and has only recently been replaced by this model.

Here you are looking toward the door through which you enter the studio. The oak table has been supplemented by two Ikea tables on trestles. The one on the right is often occupied by a friend who comes over for a "sewing day", while the one on the left is leaning against my new photography wall. There is another smaller table at the end of the room, which is my desk, with a filing cabinet to the left of it. The inspiration board above it is also a long-time fixture, but I think its days might be numbered. To the right of that is a small design wall.

I have two Ikea cube units which contain all my fabrics and most of my supplies. Up until a couple of weeks ago, most of my colourful fabric was visible. But I made an interesting discovery when I came home from New Zealand. The sight of all that fabric was terribly distracting, and I actually missed my limited supply of fabrics from which to choose. So I added enough baskets to those I already had, so that the beautiful colours are no longer visible. I'm busy putting labels on them all, so I can still access them easily, and selling or giving away the fabric that I've culled from my "stash". It remains to be seen how this new-to-me system will affect my studio practice.

The smaller part of the room still needs a little work, but I'm almost there. There are a few too many boxes and bags of things, and my library needs to be reduced still further, and I'm thinking that the quilts draped over the quilt rack (and blocking the large design wall) might need to be rolled and stored like most of the others are, and the rack itself may need to go. And I definitely need to find a way to store the smaller framed works that are completed, while making them accessible to anyone who comes by. Because once the new Comox Valley Artists' Guide is published, a studio visit could happen "by appointment" at any time.
I have to tell you that this has been a massive project, but somewhere along the way this year, I've come to understand that I need to treat my creative space with the respect it deserves. And coming down to a clean studio, with the work I'm currently pursuing close at hand, while the rest of it is tucked away in an orderly manner, is terrifically liberating. When it's done, I will be free to move forward with my textile art and discover where this wonderful journey will take me in the coming year.

Sketching - How It's Become Part of my Art Practice

I am a new convert to sketching as part of my art practice. And a very reluctant convert at that. I think it was the idea that other people might see my scribblings that I found so daunting, or perhaps it was a throw-back to fears of "not doing it right", learned in some long-ago classroom, or maybe it was seeing all those books about "artful sketchbooks" You know the kind - filled with so many beautiful paintings that they are a piece of art in themselves. Whatever the roots of my reluctance were, I've thrown them over. I've dabbled with sketching before, but I think I can safely say that I now see it as an essential part of my art practice.

It began with an invitation to look at lines - all different sorts of lines. I drew 30 little squares on my sketchbook page and quickly filled them in, beginning with the simplest of lines and eventually including any sort of line that appealed to me. And I learned something from that simple exercise that I didn't know before. I could see which lines appealed to me, which called my name, and therefore what sort of lines I might want to consider including in my own work. Fancy that.

I began, somewhat trepidatiously, to use my sketchbook for other things. After all, it's MY sketchbook - right? So I can make up my own rules (or not) about what I can include. I limited myself to two rules only - the first is that I must sketch something every day, and the second is that I must use a black pen.  One day I was thinking about different symbols that might be included in an embroidered piece I am considering making. So I drew them in my sketchbook.

Another day I went on a walk specifically to spend time looking at the roof and window lines of nearby houses, and then I tried my hand at sketching them too.

On yet another day I was thinking about some of my favourite work by Paul Klee, and what symbols he used, and then thinking about how to include them in my own pieces, and learned that working designs to fit a curve appeals enormously to me. Only I didn't just think about it - I sketched these thoughts, so now I have a record I can return to at any time I want. And then out of nowhere came these strange almost-people like shapes. I have no idea what they're about, but I don't need to know right now. I just need to keep sketching and see what else turns up.

Sketches of leaves and ferns are not new to me, and felt like a safe bet after those weird people turned up on my page.

And then another day, it was almost time for bed and I still hadn't sketched that day. I looked around the room and my eyes fell on this little suitcase - a little leather suitcase I'd found on Cuba Street in Wellington and which told me it wanted to come home with me. So I sketched that.

This day's sketching was an extension of the idea I'd sketched earlier, of constructing shapes to fit a curve. And because I've sketched that idea twice now, I'm thinking it might be something I wast to explore further.

This was an idea for an installation piece which began with me picking up a long driftwood branch on the beach. What if I were to use this as a hanging rod for African fabrics - strips of them arranged around a photo or appliqué of the Bitengye ladies? The sketch, in this case, became a place to record an idea before it danced off into the land of forgotten thoughts. I don't know if I will ever make it, but that doesn't matter right now. It's the sketching of the idea that's important.

On another day I had my sketchbook down at Grassy Point on Hornby Island, and recorded how it felt to be there, as well as making a rough sketch of where I was and describing it all with words. 

And on it goes. And it's wonderful. And I can't imagine now why I was so reluctant to make sketching part of my art practice, just like the journalling that I've done for so very many years. It makes me pay more attention, and it helps me remember what it is I've seen and what I've thought. It feels a little like leaving markers on a trail - perhaps red ribbons tied to low-hanging branches - that show that I'm on the right path, heading in the right direction. I can't see where it's all going, and I don't need to, but I can see the next red ribbon, and that's enough to keep me moving forward on this journey.