I’m not in touch much but getting closer. Still have got e-mails to answer from the time I was away – catching up is hard to do, esp. as I’m easily side-tracked by the urge to make work, or at least mentally explore ideas of which I’ve got aplenty: they lure me down the garden path, paths really, where makeshift structures hold tools and materials, notions, signs and symbols, all demanding my immediate attention. And a small pair of disembodied legs is dancing across the green…
Communication/connectivity was one of last year’s themes. Writing here has gently pulled me into the (art) world and hooray…, but as I can’t sit at the computer for long I haven’t been able to keep up with your blogs, write comments or tweet my heart out. This may change as I’ve received funding for a tablet and it’s here – a much coveted, shiny little thing, light enough for me to handle lying down once I’ve learned how to use it. My productive=connected periods will be extended, provided that fatigue hasn’t knocked out cognitive function, and even if I can’t read or write I can look at images. Exciting!
A tweet from @rosalinddavis look whose name popped up during mentoring: I admire & would like 2 try & emulate simplicity & coherence of – my work! transformed a very tired day. When @ZeitgeistAP asked Why do artists find it so hard to value themselves & positively promote what they do? a bite-sized, meaningful and enjoyable exchange ensued. Then I found this poem – it tries a partial answer too. Looking forward looking back – I wrote this in 2008 [inspired by Anna Ancher’s painting Sunlight in the Blue Room (1891)], about the time when crochet became my medium. And as I’m thinking about crochet’s relevance for my work and trying to get a better grip on its contextualization as well as articulate its relationship to memory – why not dig out something old, something blue?
She wields a small metallic rod,
curled at one end,
its miniature bill blunted.
Head bent she stabs a flaggy fleece,
pricks and probes. A mangled triangle
grows in her lap.
The eyeless needle delves in, pulls out.
Between her fingers trail
thin ribbons, bloodless arteries.
Clammy hands drag loop through loop,
stitch curly hieroglyphs, each row
a protocol of checks, of curbs.
From patterns written in secret alphabets
she casts spells beyond her years:
chain, cross, lover’s knot.
Reds, pinks and blues entwine –
her heart in her hands
contracts and expands.
Every stitch unties a knot.