AND SEW IT GOES

Studio time

2012-01-26T23:43:00.000-08:00

Last week Julie asked me some questions in a comment on one of my posts.

Do you miss working in your house? I notice the snow photos are either on the way or from the studio? Does taking that walk settle your mind or are you inspired? How has your work changed now that you have the studio? Do you have a different mindset?

I love working outside my house—even though it is just across the front yard. I am beginning to develop a pattern of working and surprising to me, it is different from when I was working in the back bedroom. Working in the house I was constantly popping up to check email, or get a snack (this was not a good habit) or throw in some laundry. Now I find I try to get all the house stuff done first, then head out to the studio for some uninterrupted time. I don't have the computer out there, nor do I have a TV. I think it will stay that way.

It is getting more personal and lived in day by day. The loft is a mess. I need to get my storage plan pulled together, get rid of a ton of stuff and get organized up there. But the main floor, where I work, is good, pretty organized and warm and cozy. I play music—my iPod full of all my favorites, and sometimes I sing along, or I listen to NPR on the radio.

It is good to have art supplies organized and within reach.

All the postcards I have gathered from friends' and my own shows, from galleries and museums, from travels and just because, are going on the bathroom walls. I just found another bunch today.

Taking the walk, Julie, is usually, in this cold weather, more a dash, but I generally pause to inspect the creek as I pass over it and am lately enjoying the wonderful smell of a big pile of wood chips Ray had delivered out near the studio, for landscaping. I don't know what kind of wood, but it is wonderfully spicy and astringent. And now that I think about it, yes, it is a different mindset. Somehow I am able to leave a lot of mental baggage back in the house when I head out to the studio. I am often amazed how hours go by and I haven't even thought about what to fix for dinner, or whether I got a reply to an email sent earlier, or if we have enough milk for breakfast tomorrow.

I don't know if it has changed my work, but it allows me to work more efficiently. I can pin things to the design wall and step back far enough to get perspective. I don't feel quite so confined to small pieces.

Today I worked on my Twelve by Twelve piece that will be revealed on February 12. Here's a sneak peek.

Astoria and the Columbia River

2012-01-23T23:46:00.000-08:00

On Saturday we drove up the beach to Astoria, a very historic and interesting little town. My friend Beth spent some of her growing up years there and graduated from Astoria High School. Astoria is the oldest permanent settlement west of the Rocky Mountains and is named for John Jacob Astor, the famous trader and first multimillionaire in the US. His interest in the area was fur trading. It was also the point at which the Lewis and Clark expedition finally encountered the Pacific Ocean. This is where the mighty Columbia river empties into the Pacific Ocean. Very historic, very significant. It is also possibly the rainiest, dreariest place I have ever been.

On a typically rainy, dreary day, we set out for the Columbia River Maritime Museum in Astoria, followed by an amazing lunch at Drina Daisy, the local Bosnian restaurant. The museum is terrific and features wonderful old photographs that tell the story of Astoria and the Columbia Bar—the treacherous crossing from the ocean to the river.

At one time Astoria was where nearly all the salmon sold in the United States was processed. Salmon canneries lined the river along the docks. Huge salmon, like the one in the photo above were regularly caught. With the damming of the Columbia, preventing the salmon from returning to their spawning grounds, the abundance of the fish and especially those of such incredible size has greatly diminished and the canneries are all gone now.

Colorful labels from canned salmon above. Professional salmon fishermen below.

Access from the Pacific Ocean to the port of Portland, upriver, was across the Columbia Bar at Astoria. It is a narrow passage with ever-shifting underwater shallows and sand. Ships are required to bring on board a "bar pilot" trained especially to direct the big ships through this treacherous area. It is a highly skilled and very dangerous occupation. This display shows the number of shipwrecks in the area from the early 1800's. Each red dot represents a wreck.

The Columbia River has huge ocean-going ships making the passage up the river, as well as excursion ships from early days to the present.

We loved the museum. It gives you such a sense of the rich history of the area.

The river was gray and churning that day. The long, long bridge that spans the river, connecting Oregon and Washington state was visible through the mist and the sky briefly opened to expose a bit of blue late in the afternoon.

Turning our backs to the river, you see the trees and old houses perched along the bluff and at the top, the Astor column.

A little down time is a good thing

2012-01-22T23:40:00.000-08:00

We went to the beach. It was rainy and stormy and wet and really quite wonderful. Felt so good to just skip town and not worry about anything. I thought this was what being retired would be like. It isn't usually, but it was for a couple of days.

Beth and Ed picked us up on Friday afternoon and we headed for their beach house. We watched the ocean boil and crash from the warmth of their cozy bungalow and settled in with a fire in the fireplace and a drink and munchies.

The ocean is out there.

We played cards and Mexican Train and Apples to Apples and ate and read and talked and laughed. I brought my sketchbook and curled up on the sofa and drew one of Beth's pretty chairs. The storm raged outside.

Ed said he had read that the first of the debris from the Japanese sunami was due to start hitting the Oregon coast this month. This morning we donned our rain gear and took a long walk along the beach.

The ocean was wild and the tide was coming in. The beach was littered with all kinds of debris, but it was hard to tell if any of it had come from Japan. Lots of bottles and plastic bottle lids and other bits of brightly colored plastic amongst the bramble of driftwood and lumber. I saw some lengths of sodden bamboo and quite a few dead birds.

This sandal looked like it had been in the water for awhile. Could have come from Japan, I suppose, or maybe just left at that very beach and battered around in the tide. I'm not sure why I thought the stuff from Japan would be easy to recognize.

"Pa, come quick—the bridge warshed out..."

2012-01-19T23:25:00.000-08:00

I think rain was the last thing I mentioned at the end of yesterday's post. And rain it did.

All night and all through the morning. The creek got pretty full and floated our bridge off its perch at the bottom of those steps up to the pathway. Silly little bridge just sits there. It's not attached to anything. Someday we will maybe build a more stable bridge, but for now we will drag it back into place once the water recedes. Do you think Monet ever had these problems?

I think we need a taller bridge, like Monet's. And a prettier one.

I like this bridge, but somehow it looks a little flimsy. Like the whole side would fall over if you stopped to lean on the rail and look down into the water.

Love this rustic bridge.

There is always something to want, isn't there? Bridges— who'da guessed?

On a completely different note, I urge you to go to the Twelve by Twelve blog to see the beautiful article about us in the new Quilting Arts magazine.

Snow? No. Not really.

2012-01-18T20:12:00.000-08:00

I have nothing arty to show you, so I talk about the weather. How boring. How mundane. Especially since the weather we are having is really not worth talking about. Our TV folks have been make a BIG DEAL about the snow that has been predicted. You have to understand that we don't get much snow here. Some years we get none at all. We like snow. Up to a point. It doesn't feel like we have earned our glorious spring unless we've had at least one good snow, but sometimes we don't get it. So when we hear it might happen we stalk the windows. We watch. We wait. We feed the birds, because if it snows they need to be fed.

No snow yet. No, wait! I see flakes! I see stuff on the ground!

Oh, but the sun is out. Now it's gone.

Now it's back!

Winter in Oregon! Yes!

Now it's gone. Rain. All this in 48 hours.

Nice while it lasted.

Though the body sleeps, the heart will never rest...

2012-01-15T18:45:00.000-08:00

I would not trade the times I have lived in for any other despite everything we have seen. The privilege of being alive in the time of this true hero and seeing the magnificent movement he led take fire and change the world as we knew it is something that I hang onto.

"Let us turn our thoughts today to Martin Luther King and recognize that there are ties between us, all men and women..."

Sewing machines

2012-01-13T22:56:00.000-08:00

Old Singer treadle sewing machine head, found in the crawl space of an old mountain cabin. Bet it has stories to tell. It sits on the porch of my studio now. These old machines were so beautiful—the decorative painting and touches of gold acknowledge what treasures they were to the women who owned them.

I think I was about 10 when Mrs. Keating, the mother of my Mom's friend Lucille, gave me this treadle machine. She had seen the doll clothes I was hand sewing and thought I might like her old machine. It still works. I think it will always work. I made so many things on this machine. I entered my clothing creations, sewn on this machine in the Bannock County Fairs. I won ribbons. I once ran the needle right through my finger, including the fingernail. I won't even try to describe how much that hurt.

It is a beautiful thing. Thank you, Mrs. Keating.

Once I had mastered the treadle, my mother let me use her Montgomery Ward brand, electric machine. It was not nearly as reliable as the old treadle.

When I graduated from High School my parents bought me a brand new Singer sewing machine, which I completely wore out over many years of heavy use. I have owned other machines and still have several that I use. This is the one I work with most right now.

My collection of tiny sewing machines sit in a windowsill.

Rituals

2012-01-10T17:57:00.000-08:00

I continue to work on the invitational "Rituals" piece. It is a large piece for me, so it is slow going by my usual standards. This is a smallish section.

You may remember that a year or so ago I was working on a large piece for an invitational show and became so frustrated I vowed that I was not going to do that again. "That" being make a quilt in a prescribed size and theme that was going to make me frustrated and unhappy with the outcome. So why am I doing this? I thought about it and decided that I needed to open my mind a little and try larger work as long as I could think it through, come up with something meaningful to me that could be effective at a larger size. I am also trying to make work that is personal and meaningful to me. This all ties into my 2012 word, "intention."

A small story that I hope isn't too sad or morbid. I know of a woman, who is about my age, who was recently diagnosed with a terrible kind of cancer that will almost surely kill her within the next year, give or take and depending on her response to some experimental treatments. She has an online journal that I read periodically and I think about how I would react. She is brave, matter of fact and very, very honest. She is packing her life, right now, with all the things that matter to her—family time, walks in the woods, books, music and friends. I hope I could face such a fate with the same seeming calm and determination. Reading her journal and thinking about what she is doing with the time she has, made me realize that our life is defined by the things and the people and the causes we love. And that is what whatever work we do should be about.

My ritual is making and sending valentines each year. It is not about valentines. It is about friendship and the delicate threads of connection. I make valentines, write letters and as I cut and paste and write and address envelopes I think about each person and what they mean to me. It is my heart I am sending and reconfirms the connection whether it is old and fragile, new and tentative or strong and tested. My piece has many hearts on it. At one point I thought I would stitch words into the background that referenced the messages that accompany the hearts, but decided instead to add the black stitching as a kind of representation of the complexity of small things that connect us to our friends—quirky, irregular, but in its entirety a kind of network of memory.

If my quilts become a series of "what I love" this one will be friends. I love my friends.

Let's take a walk

2012-01-05T22:57:00.000-08:00

My friend Beth and I just finished our 8th year of walking together on the Fanno Creek Trail. And we are now into our 9th year. We have been friends for a long time and after I quit my 9-5 job we were talking about how we both felt out of shape and lazy and decided we'd try walking together a couple times a week. We soon decided a couple of times a week wasn't going to do much for us, so we each took a deep breath and committed to five days a week.

Seen on this morning's walk—we see something new and beautiful every day

We had no idea we would still be walking together 8 years later. As Beth tells it, we agreed to walk for as long as we had something to talk about. We are still talking and walking and show no signs of running out of conversation. We get our hearts pumping, we watch the seasons change, we have seen bald eagles and hawks and regularly see herons and egrets and wild geese as we trace our familiar route. We have shared a lot, sometimes cried together, but mostly we laugh! For the past year my old friend Paula has joined us and added to the hilarity and good company. We end our walk at Starbucks. I don't even want to think about how much coffee we have drunk together. Several years ago when our Starbucks bought new tables and chairs we figured we had paid for them.

Along the way we have had some adventures, including our guerrilla art protest. We have met some interesting people and a lot of dogs, and have some funny stories to tell. Did I tell you about the time Beth stepped in dog poop and tracked it all over the paved trail? The sun baked her footprints into the pavement and they were visible for weeks, much to her chagrin. Disgusting? Yes, but I have to admit it tickled my juvenile sense of humor and the sight of those memorialized footprints never failed to crack me up.

Our husbands have joined our walks a few times, but generally it is just the "girls." The first time Ray joined us, curious about my enthusiasm for these morning walks, he said, "now I understand. It is more than a walk. It is kind of a religious experience!" I don't know what it is exactly, that keeps us walking, but I do know that when you have friends to walk with and a beautiful place to explore, life is pretty good.

Intention

2012-01-02T23:24:00.000-08:00

For the past couple of years I have chosen a word to inspire me rather than making resolutions. This year's word is "intention" and while it could inspire me to live with intention and work with intention, it is more along the lines of a reminder.

I find I sometimes lose track of what my intention for my artwork is. I need to remind myself to think about what the work is about—its intention—as I prepare, and then keep that intention in my mind as I work.

Is my intention to make the work a prescribed size by whatever means? Is it to use a particular fabric that I have fallen in love with? Is it to use a nifty new technique? Is it to slavishly and literally express a theme that was invented for a particular show? Is it to duplicate exactly a mental picture I have of how the finished work should look? None of these things are ever my intention when I start a piece, but these or other equally superficial concerns often distract me from my intention.

To tell a story. To express a feeling or a mood or an idea. To make a statement. These are some of my intentions. The rest is just logistics, housekeeping. And that one about duplicating my mental picture—that's where I have taken intention too far sometimes and made it too visually specific. Discovery and serendipity can certainly serve my intentions.

So I hang my word on the wall to remind me. It joins two previous words. "Thrive" helped me avoid stress and embrace a year of intense deadlines and obligation. "Appreciate" helped me savor the rewards of the previous year's work. I hope "Intention" will help me move forward and maintain focus.

Do you have a word?

Looking back, looking forward

2012-01-01T16:33:00.000-08:00

2011 was a great year and a hard year, a happy year and one of great sadness. Kind of like most years I guess. It was the year of the Twelve by Twelve book and our exhibit at the International Quilt Festival and the realization of my long-awaited studio. Those are the things I will remember. The sad and hard parts will fade with time and a New Year is always a good time to start putting such stuff behind us.

This slideshow design personalized with Smilebox

Onward, with hopes for better times for all of us and health and happiness in abundance.

Quilts and Stories

2011-12-30T23:58:00.000-08:00

This has been a really tough month for my family in terms of loss. The last two of my father's siblings died within two weeks of each other. I have traveled to both Memorial services and grieved with my cousins the loss of a father and uncle, my Uncle Bill, and then the loss of a mother and aunt, my Aunt Susie. Yesterday at Aunt Susie's service my cousin Ginger and I were reflecting on the thought that we are now the "elder" generation of our family. A woman said to us, "You are now the keepers of the stories," which I guess we are. And there are stories, which we loved hearing and love telling, about this family surviving the depression in the oil fields of Wyoming and the wilds of Montana.

Before I left, Ginger presented me with two old quilts that her mother had kept, and told me the story that went with them.

Our grandmother, the amazing Hazle, had pieced two quilt tops from a salesman's sample book of wool fabrics. One winter all five of her children ended up home sick, at the same time, with measles I think. She piled them all into bed together and when they started feeling better and bored with being sick, she gave them each a big needle and a ball of yarn and set them to work tying the quilts.

The quilt above is tied with gray yarn and the knots are secure and tight probably 80 years later.

The second quilt was tied with bright blue yarn and is a slightly different design, though some of the fabrics are the same, notably the light pink fabric.

These quilts are not beautiful and they are very old and very worn. Nothing a collector or museum would want, and not really useful as bed quilts. They are raggedy and heavy and scratchy. But there is that story about all the brothers and sisters helping to put together good, warm bedding for the family, probably having a good time in the process and a distraction from being sick. And they come from the hands of my grandmother and all my aunts and uncles and my Dad. I think there is a little soul in that cloth.

I hung one of them over the railing in my studio today. It will keep me company as I work my own cloth. The other will go to my daughter if she wants it.

Mote Pillo

2011-12-27T23:05:00.000-08:00

On Christmas morning my son-in-law cooked mote pillo (mo-tay pee-yo), a diet staple from his native city of Cuenca, Ecuador, for breakfast. Mote Pillo is delicious and it occurred to me that it is an easy recipe that should be shared. Here is a link to the recipe.

photo taken from website http://laylita.com/recipes/2008/03/27/mote-pillo/

It is basically hominy and scrambled eggs. Besides breakfast, it is one of those kind of comfort foods that makes a quick, satisfying dinner as well. I have made it with diced bacon cooked in it. Probably not authentic, but very tasty. The hominy (mote) in Ecuador has much bigger kernels than what we buy in a can here, but the canned will do. You can skip the achiote if you don't have it. It adds mostly color.

As we were enjoying our breakfast and complimenting Cayo on his mote pillo, Ray reminded us of the occasion upon which mote pillo "saved our lives."

On our first trip to Ecuador, in 1999, Emily took us to visit Cajas National Park, high in the Andes near the city of Cuenca, where she was living. It is a beautiful place, with many lakes and very interesting wildlife and flora. However the altitude is just under 15,000 feet, which, to put it in perspective, is about 3,000 feet higher than the highest point in Oregon, the top of Mt. Hood. We took a taxi to the park and planned to call a return taxi after hiking around some lakes and having lunch in the restaurant. We were looking forward to trout, caught fresh from one of the lakes. The hike was glorious, but the altitude was doing a number on me. I really was suffering by the time we got back around to our starting point. Ray and Emily somewhat less so. Ray took this very unflattering photo of me, but it illustrates how I was feeling.

To our dismay we found that the restaurant had closed while we were hiking, not only leaving us without our anticipated lunch, but locked out of access to the telephone we needed to call our taxi. Emily assured us that buses came by frequently, so we waited at the side of the highway. And waited. And waited. Then we started walking, hoping a bus would come by that we could flag down. The highway followed the route of an old Incan road and we could see remnants of it along the way. By now my head was pounding, my chest hurt—breathing was extremely difficult—and I felt like I was going to throw up. But we walked. Slowly. Eventually we spotted a small, shabby looking roadside restaurant and decided we had to have something to eat and drink before we could go on. The door was open but the owner said he was out of food and closing for the day. We looked pitiful and explained our dilemma and he offered to cook up a plate of mote pillo for us to share. We fell on it like wild dogs and I swear it was the most delicious thing I have ever eaten, even washed down with a warm Coca Cola. Amazing how much better I felt. We had no more than finished our meager meal, all but licking the plate, when a bus came around the curve. We flagged it down and dragged ourselves on board. Saved, by a plate of mote pillo and a rattly old bus.

The Day after Christmas

2011-12-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

It has been a quiet day here today. Never left the house or studio all day. We had such a nice Christmas day, with our family. I feel very blessed. I could regale you with photos of a table piled high with food and candles and the good dishes, but you've seen plenty of those photos today. I know I have. Ray and I gave each other a new printer/scanner for our office. Not exciting or flashy, but oh, so nice to have. When I got my new laptop this summer suddenly our perfectly functional inkjet printer and our scanner were obsolete. Wrong kind of connectors for the new equipment. Irritating and wasteful in my opinion. The new machine also faxes—or it would if we had a telephone line, which we don't. Why fax, anyway? I don't know why people are still faxing things. Scan, attach, email. Does this not accomplish the same thing? Anyway—I do like the new machine and it uses the kind of ink that can be printed on fabric and made permanent.

I got a little studio time this afternoon. I am working on the valentine-y piece, which I am making to submit to a themed show about ritual. One of my rituals is making Valentines every year. I send them instead of Christmas cards. I am working on some ideas that include some of my usual techniques as well as trying some new ideas. Here's one:

I am adding some couched cording by machine. I found that I could not keep it under control if I just freely stitched over a cord that I was holding in place, so I tacked the cording in place with some clear, washable glue, then free-motioned a narrow zigzag stitch over it. I like the way it is working.

I have fused many hearts onto a neutral background and I want to fill in and give some continuity with some of the free stitching I have been experimenting with, so I made a little sample to try it out. I wasn't sure it would work on as large a piece as this will be.

There will be a lot of ground to cover with this busy little kind of pattern. Too much? Maybe. I think I like the way this is becoming a piece that is strongly about fabric and pattern and stitching. Sometimes I think I get too far into painting and shading and manipulating in a way that doesn't do justice to my materials and craft. This is a direction I want to explore more fully.

P.S. I love your comments, but I am really getting tired of all the spam comments coming through, especially by essay writing services. Are others of you being inundated with this stuff?

Christmas Eve, Bright and Sunny

2011-12-24T23:58:00.000-08:00

It was a beautiful day today, so somewhere between wrapping the last presents, prep work for tomorrow's dinner and Ray's dusting and window washing (nothing like a sunny day to point out these needs—) we decided a good walk was in order.

Since we moved to our present home, we drive, almost daily, past a large, densely wooded tract with a small sign labeled "Lowami Hart Woods Park." I knew that the little creek that runs through our property disappears into that wood, and I have been interested in exploring some of the trails. Today seemed like the perfect day. We crossed "our" creek several times as we made our way deeper into the forest. Our little creek was widening as it traveled along through stands of tall Douglas fir.

The sounds of traffic disappeared, replaced by chirping birds and and water softly splashing against rocks. The pale winter sun filtered through the trees casting long shadows.

Snowberry

Oregon grape and salal.

Fresh air, exercise and the beauty of the forest was energizing. It was a perfect break in a busy day.

And now I am off to bed and looking forward to Christmas with my family. I wish you all a lovely day and the joy of Christmas present and memories of Christmas past to warm you.

Love, Terry

2011-12-23T22:54:00.000-08:00

Feeling very sad tonight. My Aunt Susie passed away this afternoon. I wasn't prepared for this. Aunt Susie was a pistol!—beautiful, clever, vivacious and full of life. She was the adored baby of the Howard family, sister of my father and my Uncle Bill, who left us only a couple weeks ago. She had the kindest heart, the biggest smile, the most glorious laugh and a wicked sense of humor. Everyone loved Susie. The world is not as warm and bright and fun without her. I couldn't bear the agony she was suffering this past week, but I can hardly bear the thought of her gone from us.

All my aunts and uncles are gone now. I am now the oldest living member of that part of my family.

Tacoma

2011-12-22T23:03:00.000-08:00

I am a little embarrassed to even tell about the dumb-headed error we made regarding our quick trip to Tacoma this week. One of our goals was to visit the Glass Museum and another, The Tacoma Art Museum. We discovered when we arrived on Tuesday that both museums, indeed all the museums in Tacoma, close on both Monday and Tuesday during the winter months. What?? Impossible!—Sorry. Possible. My error. I know museums tend to be closed on Mondays. Tuesday didn't occur to me and I didn't check. So we ~~threw ourselves into the Puget Sound and that was the last that was seen or heard of us~~ re-thought our strategy and had fun in spite of our poor planning.

Lucky us. We had decided to stay at the Hotel Murano, named for the famous island of glass artisans near Venice, Italy. Tacoma's identity, you see, is all about glass art since native son Dale Chihuly became famous and built his Museum of Glass in Tacoma. The Hotel Murano took the theme and ran with it.

I took this photo of the front desk as Ray was checking us in.. Everything about the hotel is cool and beautiful.

Even the elevators are beautiful with fused glass panels similar to the one at the front desk.

The hotel is filled with art, mostly glass art, but in the lobby I spotted a screen print by a favorite artist, and another Washington native, Chuck Close.

In a large display case was this intricate piece by Italian artist, Lucio Bubacco.

A closer look shows that it includes figures blowing and forming glass over glass flames. Magical.

In the grand corridor and staircase leading the meeting rooms off the lobby is this installation of three glass "Viking Boats" by Danish artist, Vibeke Skov.

Each floor of the hotel features a different glass artist, with an example of their work and photos of them at work in their studios lining the main hallway. Beautifully presented. We started at the top floor and walked down each hallway, viewing each display. Did we miss the glass museum? Maybe we did, but this was certainly a wonderful art viewing experience. Here is the piece featured on our floor—the first thing you see as you exit the elevator.

Fish Hanger #49, Hiroshi Yamano

Another that I loved. These are Danish, but made me think of the Japanese rice bowls I keep coming back to. So cold and lovely.

Nests, Tobias Mohl

And so much more than I am showing you. We spent hours wandering the hotel, looking at the art.

We walked through the theater district and the old downtown, across the Bridge of Glass and into the shops around the museums. A cold mist rose from the Sound and we headed back to the hotel for a drink and a card game.

Twilight view from our hotel room.

We walked down the street to the beautiful Thai Restaurant that my friends and I dined at last summer, when we were in Tacoma for the APWQ show at the convention center. We justified a sumptuous dinner and extravagant bottle of wine by reminding ourselves of the museum fees we had saved.

The next day, the Solstice dawned, with the sun rising from behind Mt. Rainier, seen out that same window.

The train trip home, along Puget Sound and the Columbia River was frosty and beautiful. We read and napped and arrived home ready to take on Christmas.

In the Bleak Mid-Winter

2011-12-19T21:01:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it isn't the bleak midwinter yet, given that winter doesn't even start for a couple more days, but it is bleak—dark in the mornings and dark in the afternoon. I am convinced that is why we love to festoon our homes with lights this time of year. Christmas, I suppose, has a lot to do with it, but really I think it is a primitive yearning for light that gives those seasonal decorations their ability to so fill our eyes and hearts with such sensual joy.

The lack of winter light is the one thing that I do not love about our home in Oregon. I remember snow-covered, bitterly cold days in Idaho when the sun would shine so intensely that the whole world sparkled like crystals. You could breathe in shards of light and ice that crackled in your lungs. Perhaps it was not so bracing as I remember, but on dark, foggy days I remember those brilliant winter days with clarity and longing. So I light candles and sit in front of the Christmas tree and absorb what light I can.

We are taking the train to Tacoma tomorrow for a short getaway. Good food and a visit to the Glass Museum. Tonight I learned that there is an exhibit of Mexican Folk Art at the Art Museum. Could not be better. Puget Sound, glass, Mexican art—should reflect enough light to get us by through the Solstice.

Light in a dark season

2011-12-16T23:17:00.000-08:00

It was a good day—mostly

2011-12-14T23:05:00.000-08:00

Off I went, this morning, to the Columbia FiberArts Guild quarterly meeting, with a hot latte in hand and money in my purse. This lovely organization is one of the highlights of my life these days. There is a lot to be said for a group that meets only four times a year. Sort of makes it an occasion, you know? Today was our annual silent auction that funds the guild's outreach program which is teaching quilting to women in the local women's prison. It has been a wonderful program, giving imprisoned women an opportunity for fellowship while learning sewing skills and self-expression. The quilts these women make sometimes represent one of the first really creative, positive things they have ever done. I did not donate anything to this year's auction, so felt morally obligated to treat myself to something—only supporting the cause, you understand! Lucky for me my friend Georgia French had donated some lovely little pieces of stitched art. This one came home with me.

I also bought a small book of Japanese Samurai designs which are very inspiring.

The program for the meeting was Jean Hicks, from Seattle, a felter. Click on her name to see some of the most whimsical and astounding hats imaginable. She also does really thought provoking felt sculpture. Felting is not something I have ever had much interest in. To be very honest I think most of what I see is pretty dreadful—reminiscent of something the cat coughed up— but Jean Hick's work is sublime. And she was a good, very engaging speaker with great slides and samples to share. Toward the end of her lecture she passed out puffs of wool roving to everyone in attendance and had us roll it between our palms to create little felted wool balls, demonstrating the magical simplicity of the process. Excellent program.

When I got home I found that my copy of "The Best of Quilting Arts" book had arrived. It is a compilation of selected articles from several years of Quilting Arts magazine. My article about an edge finish for a small piece was included.

It was shaping up as a very good day, then Ray tried to cut his thumb off with a saw. OK, that's an exaggeration. He was trimming the trunk off the Christmas tree and the saw slipped, cutting the base of his thumb badly enough that it required some stitches. He's fine and came home from the urgent care clinic and finished the job on the tree, which is now standing in the living room awaiting lights and decorations.

Ho, ho, ho. It's always something.

And life goes on...

2011-12-12T23:01:00.000-08:00

I made a quick decision Thursday, late, to fly to Boise on Saturday for my Uncle Bill's memorial service. His death hit me hard for several reasons. It seemed it took me a long time to appreciate him and that was a lesson in—well, I almost said how people change—but really I think in how age often reveals the real person. Under his bluster, which faded away as years went by, was a man who cared deeply about his family and friends, and in old age found ways to express it. He was my last uncle, the last, closest link to my father. The survivor and, though shaky and frail in recent years, clear-headed and still clearly the patriarch of the family. His daughters planned a remembrance both moving and true and filled with the humor he would have so enjoyed. My plans for the weekend were put aside and I am so very glad I went. I will catch up.

Meanwhile, here on the home front, I am getting quilts ready to show and working on the next. I continue to tweak the studio. The cutting table, which I located under the stairs, was not lighted well enough. I thought we still had a hanging light I bought many years ago for my first studio space in our old laundry room. Ray unearthed it from the shed and after I cleaned it up, it looked almost new. It does the job perfectly.

And hearts. I think I am finally loosening up and getting to where I really wanted to be.

Little gifts in little boxes

2011-12-09T23:04:00.001-08:00

Our STASH* group has a tradition of little gifts. When one of us goes on a trip or at Christmas or other occasions, we give each other little gifts. Nothing expensive, nothing much, but it has been fun to find nifty little, inexpensive items. When I was in Houston the vendor area there was overwhelming. It was so much visual overload that I could not even focus and didn't buy very much, but I came across a booth of tools that I spent a lot of time in. There I found the perfect gift for the STASH members. Finger lights!

It's a little light that straps to your finger with velcro. It looked like a great aid for hand-sewing. I got one for each of the STASH friends, and one for myself. When I showed them to fellow Twelve, Diane, in Houston she noted that they were perfect little gifts—useful, but also a little bit funny!

Yesterday STASH met for lunch in downtown Portland—our annual holiday splurge. We went to a lovely Vietnamese restaurant and I took my little gifts to my friends. I made little boxes from recycled magazine pages and I think everyone liked them. Reva said the light was perfect for—chickens. She has urban chickens. I don't know where the light comes in, but if it makes her a better chicken wrangler that's a good thing!

Aren't the little boxes pretty? I finally found a good use for my copies of Cloth, Paper, Scissors magazine. After subscribing to the magazine I found it just isn't my kind of thing, but it's full of pretty pictures. Want to know how to make these boxes? They are easy.

The ones I made are about 2.5" square and an inch and a half tall. You need to start with a square piece of paper. For this size I start with a 7" square. I choose a page with a nice image on it. The more image, the better, but if there is text toward the edges it ends up inside usually. So it isn't a problem—or the text can be part of the design. Don't be too picky about where the image is or how centered, etc. You never know how the final piece will look and it is usually better than you expected! The serendipity of it is part of its charm. You will need two sheets for a box, so choose two pages that coordinate, more or less.

One will be the top of the box. Trim that page to 7" square. The box bottom needs to be slightly smaller to fit inside the top, so trim that sheet to 6.75" square. Find the center of the top, on the back side, by running your ruler from corner to corner diagonally and making a mark across the center. Mark it on the opposite diagonal so you have an X marking the center.

Fold each of the four corners into the center.

You will have new, smaller square. Fold one side into the center and crease it sharply. Open it back up, but be sure you can see the fold line. Repeat with the other three sides.

Lay it flat with the last side folds opened so you just see the crease lines.

Using the fold lines as a guide, cut into two of the opposite sides, to the fold line, as indicated.

Open up the center sections of the sides you cut, fold the other two sides into a box shape, then fold the opened side sections over the folded ends to enclose them.

You can secure the four points in the center inside with a dab of glue or piece of tape, but I usually don't find that necessary. The folded points seem to sort of lock together.

To make the bottom half of the box just repeat these steps with the smaller sheet of paper.

Slip the smaller box into the larger one. Voila! You are finished.

You can vary the sizes depending on the size of your paper. Just be sure to make the bottom from a sheet that is approximately .25" smaller than the larger one. Available paper usually limits the size to fairly small boxes, but larger boxes can be made using pretty shopping bags or posters. The larger boxes should be made from heavier paper than magazine pages.

* STASH = Second Thursday At Somebody's House. There are currently six regular members— all fabric/textile artists/enthusiasts.

2011-12-08T23:07:00.001-08:00

When I was a child my Uncle Bill seemed like such a grouchy guy—not so interested or comfortable with children (though he ended up with six of his own), and unlike his brother, my sweet and gentle father, Uncle Bill was gruff and blustery. I mostly stayed out of his way for a lot of years. As I got older I started to see his softer side, his love for his grandchildren especially; his intelligence and humor; his generosity; and found a warm and loving uncle. I'm sure he mellowed with age, but my perceptions probably became more tolerant as well. He and Dad were business partners and our families were closely intertwined. When my Dad died no one took it harder than Uncle Bill. They had spent nearly every day of their lives together. As an adult I loved talking with him. He had always read something interesting or had a story to tell.

Four years ago family members contributed memories for a book to celebrate his 90th birthday. I sent this:

Dear Uncle Bill,
I am sorry I won’t be there to help you celebrate your 90th birthday, but I know you will have a lot of family surrounding you, who will make the most of this auspicious occasion.

I’d like to add a memory to your book—one of many, many. There were so many Christmas breakfasts and funny stories about General Sherman, the dog, but one time that stands out in my mind was the night you and Dad, and all the kids, slept out in your orchard to watch the meteor shower.

You and Dad worked so hard, and such long hours back in those days, that it was rare for us kids to get to spend much time with either of you, much less both at the same time, but you two decided we should have a sleepover in the orchard. I think we cooked hamburgers and hot dogs and we kids played in your big yard and spent some time clearing apples off the grass to make a nice soft spot to sleep that night. Then, when it began to get dark, we spread our sleeping bags and settled in to watch the sky. It started slowly with a shooting star or two, then increased as the sky got darker. That was back when you could still really see a lot of stars (maybe you still can, from your orchard) and you and Dad pointed out the Milky Way and some of the constellations.

One of the kids asked a question about what it had been like when you and Dad were kids and you started telling stories. That night we heard all about life on the Huntley Project and how you could go out the bedroom window and over the fence and be at school in two minutes. We heard about building motorized vehicles using Grandma’s washing machine engine and rolling Dad down a hill inside a barrel and playing and finding buttons and bits near the Custer battlefield. We learned that when you went away to college you and Dad shared an overcoat, I think handed down from a relative, so only one of you could go out on a date in the winter—the one whose turn it was to wear the coat. I can’t even remember all the stories, or especially the details, but I remember the picture you painted of your early life. It sounded like such fun, such an adventure. I lay in the dark listening to you and Dad talk and laugh and I could picture you as boys. We all drifted off to sleep with the stars still falling overhead. I woke up later and listened to the sounds of everyone sleeping and watched the stars for awhile, then went back to sleep, but I remember thinking, “I’m going to remember tonight.” And I have.

Have a wonderful birthday celebration!
With love,
Terry

He left us, last night in his sleep. He had a good life. Rest in peace, Uncle Bill.

Foggy

2011-12-06T17:47:00.001-08:00

Not me. I'm not foggy—at least not today. But it has been foggy and cold here all day today. A good day to stay indoors and notice how delicate and soft the fog outdoors is.

The grandchildren were here today and we watched Ray fill the bird feeder with seeds and hang suet blocks for the birds. Lots of little birds fluttering about looking for something to eat.

All this through the windows today. I haven't left the house, not even to get the mail. Played "Go Fish," made Christmas candies with Sofia, sketched while the kids napped.

I think I have been over-thinking the heart design.

The fog never did lift today and I never left the house. OK by me.

Music and memory

2011-12-05T22:29:00.001-08:00

In the fall of 1968 I began working as a "traveling secretary" for my college sorority. November found me in Montreal, visiting the chapter at McGill University. I'm not sure I had ever been as far from home and I was outside the United States for the first time in my life. Provincial as I was, it seemed a world away from my family and my roots, and by then I was very tired from a non-stop travel schedule. I arrived in Montreal with a sore throat and an ear infection and a fever, but I was warmly welcomed and soon ensconced in a charming brownstone apartment shared by several of the chapter members. It would be my longest chapter stay to date—2 weeks. The girls in the apartment all had tickets to a Gordon Lightfoot concert a couple days after I arrived. As luck would have it there was an extra ticket, as one of the group had to attend to a family emergency in another town. I went to the concert, not knowing a single thing about Gordon Lightfoot, despite the fact that he seemed to be on magazine covers and posters all over Montreal. I was carried away by the music and his themes of longing spoke to my state of mind. The next day I walked down a snowy street to the big Eaton's department store and bought his album. The next two weeks, as I recall, included lots of tea, a visit to the Hospital Emergency Room when my ears became so painful I could not ignore them, interviews with the lovely girls and alumnae and the Gordon Lightfoot record playing in the background through it all.

Montreal was beautiful, the people I was with were kind and funny, and the early snowstorm had blanketed the city in pure, silent white. I felt like I was in a dream most days and wondered if I could possibly remember every detail. How I wished I could share it all with someone and for the first time it occurred to me that this year of travel was such a solitary experience that I would never have anyone to look back on it with. I would carry these cities and people with me, alone in memory, as indeed I have, with no one to share those memories. And somehow it was the music that was the most tangible thing I took away.

I missed my family. I missed my friends. I had a boyfriend, who I knew was never going to be the right person for me, but I missed him too. It was the deepest homesickness I have ever felt and at the same time the adventure of a lifetime. And when I listen to this music I feel it all again.

I looked for a photo of Montreal in 1968 and found this painting: John Little, R.C.A. (b. 1928) November Snow, Jeanne-Mance Square (corner of Sherbrooke Street), Montreal, 1968. It actually looks like the street where I stayed, and, amazingly is titled November Snow. This is what I remember.

Summoning up some spirit

2011-12-04T22:51:00.000-08:00

This is the time of year I remember this song. I know I have posted it here before. It reminds me of a time when I was homesick and missing the people I loved. Early winter, holidays coming. It is funny how a song can attach itself to a memory and the attachment stays forever. December is always a joyful time, but underneath I always feel a note of sadness. Christmas, the end of another year—it all makes me realize how quickly time passes and reminds me of Christmases of the past and people I have loved and will never see again.

Yeah, Happy Holidays to you too!

This feeling will pass and I know I will get caught up in the here and now and another special season with friends and family. Having grandchildren has renewed my appreciation of the holiday season, but I always seem to spend the first week of December feeling a little nostalgic and blue.

When I was moving things into the studio last week I came across this quilt/Advent calendar that I made in 1982 for my children to count down the days until Christmas. It was my own design and I had fun making and using it. I thought Sofia might enjoy it this year, so I hung it up this afternoon.

Maybe you can see, in the closeup, that there are black metal snaps sewn all over the wreath—24 of them. Each numbered pocket contains a holly leaf and berries with the other half of a snap sewn to its back. Each day a child would snap one of the leaves onto the wreath. The pocket also contained a candy or small toy for the child. I am never sure whether to start with 1 and count up to 24, matching the numbers to the date, or start with 24 and count down how many days are left until Christmas. I think I will start with 24. Of course we have a few days to catch up with tomorrow.

We talked about hanging lights on the studio. Not sure if that will happen or not, but I thought a little lighted tree in the round window that faces the road would be pretty. I went out and bought a little tree and string of lights today and put it in place.

Tonight it was a pretty blur of colored light in the window.

I am never one to jump into the whole Christmas deal the minute Thanksgiving is over. It takes me awhile and I don't want a tree in the house until closer to Christmas. We work our way into it little by little. I took my first steps today.

Off in a whole different direction

2011-12-01T15:51:00.001-08:00

Yes, everything you said about that heart yesterday was right—too spiky, too fussy, too much reminiscent of hot air balloons, though I hadn't noticed until you mentioned it. Really, nothing to be done for it. No, Jeri, no amount of stitching will save it.

So today I was off in a whole different direction—curvy, swirly. I think this is much better for my uses.

Could it be any more different?! What would you call this? My idea was a little bit traditional Valentine, a little bit Victoriana, but not. This will be part of a much larger piece and will be about making Valentines. Does this give you more of a cut paper, homemade Valentine vibe?

added note: Omigosh. I just noticed that there is a face in there. A lion, maybe? Do you see it? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Continued . . .

2011-11-30T22:29:00.001-08:00

So, after a couple more tweaks of the design, I came up with this.

I printed it and took it to the studio, where I started tracing the parts on fabric to be fused to a dark teal blue background.

This is the sample I made.

I don't love it. I think I need to go back to the drawing board.

Design process

2011-11-29T22:56:00.001-08:00

First off, thanks for the sympathy and comments about my falling and my dumb Crocs. I will not leave the house in them. I promise. They really are good for working in the kitchen or the studio where I am on my feet for long periods. I Googled "falling Crocs" and read horror story after horror story. I was lucky. Lots of really serious injuries resulting from one of two Croc properties. 1. They are extremely slick on damp or wet surfaces and 2. They "catch" on dry surfaces, bringing the forward moving wearer to an abrupt stop, which is, I think, what my problem has been. You have been warned. Wear them with caution.

I started some design work for a new piece today and thought I'd show some of the early process I often use, employing Adobe Illustrator.

I want to use a heart design as part of the whole piece and doodled some ideas on paper. This one seemed like it might have possibilities.

I opened a new file in Illustrator and started by drawing half of a heart shape.

The rectangle you see represents a letter-sized sheet of paper. I started drawing in the design lines in the half shape.

Then I copied all that and flipped it to create the other half of the heart so I could see how it looked.

It seemed a little wider than I think I want, so I selected the whole thing and pulled the shape a bit narrower. That changed some proportions a little strangely so I tweaked some of the lines. I made the lines bolder as well. I can see some further changes I need to make before it is where I want, but these are easy to do.

Illustrator is a great tool for creating drawings to work from.

To be continued...

I am blaming the Crocs

2011-11-28T16:56:00.001-08:00

The plastic shoes we love to hate. A couple of days ago I ventured out, wearing my Crocs, and I caught the toe of one on the edge of the curb and, once again, fell flat on the sidewalk. I did the same thing last spring, also wearing the stupid Crocs.

Last time it was as I was going into the Habitat for Humanity Restore. Everyone ignored me, even walked around me, while I struggled to right myself. The most recent splat occurred in front of the Aloha Tuesday Morning Store and two employees ran right out, helped me up and got me a chair to sit in for a few minutes. One even brought me a paper towel and container of hand sanitizer to clean my hands off. I was shaken and had hit my knees and hands hard. And, of course, I felt like a feeble, mortified old lady. What I didn't realize until I got up and started moving around was that my most painful injury was to a rib. I think I either cracked it or vigorously pulled a muscle. Very painful still. It is hard to sleep, impossible to pick up my grandchild and just hurts. It makes me crabby. Coughing hurts a lot. Sneezing? Holy Mother of Pearl, that hurts!

I bought those Crocs to wear in the house and studio, not out anywhere, and yet, I continue to run around town in them. Stupid clown shoes. I think they are just too fat and puffy to know where your feet are. I first saw Crocs years ago being worn by quilters. They are even sold at quilt shows. They are comfortable, but we all know that quilters wear the damnedest things!

Now I am chastened and vow never to wear them out of the house again. Maybe Manolo was right.

The party and the greenhouse

2011-11-27T23:08:00.001-08:00

My pictures of our Open House turned out terrible for the most part. I was distracted by being a hostess and did not do such a good job as a photographer. Here is a crowd scene, early on.

My granddaughter decided my stool was the perfect place to perch and watch the goings on. She got to visit with everyone who came by to fill a plate. We had a nice turnout and saw lots of friends. I especially enjoyed meeting and talking to some of our neighbors.

We hung three of Cayo, my son-in-law's, paintings on the stairway. He got a lot of compliments, both on his paintings and on the studio design.

Here are Cayo and baby Marco on the porch. Cayo did such a great job as our architect!

Down at the other end of the porch is the entrance to the greenhouse.

As you can see, Ray has started filling it with plants. Some he has purchased, many he has propagated from other plants. I didn't get any good pictures in the greenhouse yesterday, but I went in today and got a couple. Ray is still doing some painting and finish work inside, but is using the greenhouse.

He has a sink, work table and storage at one end. His tools and plants fill the rest of the space.

The vent at the top of this picture fascinates me. It opens when the temperature reaches a certain temperature and closes again when the temperature drops to a certain temperature. It uses no power, not even solar power. It works by means of expansion and contraction of a chemical in the mechanism.

It may never look this good again!

2011-11-25T17:39:00.001-08:00

I have been making the studio spiffy and polished. Tomorrow we are having an Open House to show off the new studio and greenhouse and kick off the holiday season. I needed this deadline to get a lot of things finished.

Here is the wall where my stash and art supplies are stored. The fabric ended up being more than the tubs could hold, so I added shelves above. I love having all my tools and art supplies handy, but behind the closed doors of the two big cupboards.

We moved my cutting table out and I made a curtain to cover the open shelves under the table. I loved this IKEA decorator fabric, but it is goofy stuff. There is no possible way to match the pattern when using two lengths. I lined up the repeat—best I could do.

I have had the treadle sewing machine since I was about 10 years old. I learned to sew on it and have carried around through every move we've made. It still works and assures that I can sew if the power fails. It has been stored in the garage for the past three years. I got a nice surprise when I opened one of the drawers.

I'm rich!

I wanted our guests to see some of my work, so I have hung a lot of my quilts around the studio. The design wall was a great spot for a bunch of small work.

Even the bathroom has gotten some attention. The laundry sink has a small water heater and metal pan under it, which is kind of an eyesore. I made a little skirt to cover it.

For years I have been saving postcards—the kind you buy in art museums, or pick up in galleries, or send out for shows or get for other people's shows. I have started sticking them to the bathroom wall. This is just the beginning. I need to remember where I have been saving them!

The Ecuadorean roof crosses ended up over the bathroom door.

My son-in-law, as the designer of the building, is an honored guest. He is hanging several of his paintings too.

I hope to see a lot of friends tomorrow! It will actually probably be the first time some have seen my work. It will be nice to show them what I actually do. It's sometimes hard to explain.

Thank you to Life

2011-11-23T22:44:00.000-08:00