365 letters

A new year, a new project.

Last week in an online creative writing group, I talked about writing letters to someone or something, even if it’s the entire universe. Writing to seems easier, more satisfying, and more relevant than just writing. It means there is someone listening.

The group was enthusiastically supportive. Their excitement got me thinking. In the past three years, the impact of the pandemic and family caregiving doused any creative embers that remained after a flurry of exhibitions in 2020. I’ve questioned my dedication to an art practice, often wondering if I have anything to say.

I do. The project is underway: 365 letters exploring what a letter is—ink, paper, strokes, words, and much more—one day at a time. Some days there will be multiple letters, some days none. Some letters will be sent, others not. I’ll write letters to people I know, folks long gone, and to myself. I’ll leave the lined page, and see what a letter is beyond ink and paper.

I invite YOU to subscribe to this blog, and participate in this project!

Letter written onboard the Titanic, Belfast, Ireland.

Exploring A Theme: Reliquary

I belong to an amazing group of eight women artists, and we are starting a new exhibition project around the theme of “Reliquary.”

A cardboard box was flattened to collage the inside before reassembly into a cube.

After creating a mind-map of what that word means to me, and landing on Sacred Legacy, my first 3D sketch of how I might approach this topic is ready. This is not a finished work to be exhibited, it’s a way of finding out what intrigues me, what questions I have, and what I may want to challenge about this concept.

Inside is a letter my grandfather wrote to my parents resembling a lock of hair.

Experimentation with materials and methods yields more than an object to reflect on. The actions of cutting, assembling, painting and drawing are meditative and generative. As I draw and write and stitch, thoughts and questions emerge. I record these ideas in a notebook, threading them together while making. Only by working with my hands—feeling the lines, loops and edges—do I capture and comprehend what the work is expressing.

Rest and Reconnect

Languishing is now an intimate experience and written into post-covid vocabulary. In the first year of The Great Pause, I had pieces to be completed, exhibitions to install, zoom to learn and love, and a rest to look forward to.

Except the rest period lasted longer than I expected. True, I was a full-time caregiver during the second year of the pandemic, and moving out of my arson-ravaged studio was a feat accomplished only by many hours sorting and re-distributing. I feel as though I lost the end of the thread where I left off.

There is an ambiguous disappearance between pushing a threaded needle down through the fabric, and when/where it resurfaces. The loop of thread is lost for a moment, invisible until it makes its way to the top again. It must be guided gently to an exact opening between warp and weft threads. That’s where I’ve been this past six months; crossing between the lines of past and future, completing one stitch and finding my way to the next.

I’ve worked on a single piece for these two long years, and it’s within a few stitches of completion. Embossed Message #1, captures mom’s fading memory with stitches and words, and reaffirms my dedication to preserving her stories. Having something to finish is sometimes all I have energy for. This one didn’t get completed for my last exhibition, Visual Translations, and it’s the bridge between that work and the next series using my grandfather’s letters and stories.

While stitching, I listening to Threads of Life, by Clare Hunter. Her stories of embroidered histories and current textile artists makes this work relevant and important. I am so grateful for her words that have motivated me to reconnect with the lost thread and begin again.

Audio book available from Libro.fm (supports Independant bookstores)