A negative lost between the panels of a forgotten drawer in one of the old studio cabinets. A dress of repurposed fabric, handmade to suit, pretty bias trimming, three quarter sleeves and pockets large enough for paperbacks. A sturdily sewn heavy canvas sock sack, again with pockets for the good stuff. (You are a child of the moon and now you have the pin to prove it.) A shawl, worn as a kerchief, a soft cotton wool dream, full on prairie chic. A moody kiki sitting atop the stairs wondering if it’s worth the effort. A soft shape in strong contrast.
I have a fondness for the inconsistent greys of birch tools, the shattered flecks of ocean colored glass set in porcelain, the overcast blur of winter light,
the concern of emotion that can be stitched in wool,
the soft glow of linen, the comfort of bare feet, the roundness of tummies,
the milkshake of that pink,
the curiosity of pose, the tiny cotton flower crocheted with thread on that cold morning, just because,
the cohesion of handmade,
and if we can leave pants out of it, let’s leave pants out of it.