endings and beginnings

 

unexpected pear

A perfect spring day: sunshine, warmth, trees about to burst into bloom.

Sure knowledge haunts the edges of each thought: 

three sets of parents, 

three families, 

three widening circles of friends, 

mourn the death of a child, from Monday's bombing.

 Prayers encompass them, but cannot measure grief.

Loss, birth. Pointless violence, promise of spring.

"There is a feeling that wants to be expressed," my 95-year-old student said yesterday. "If I had another 30 years, I might be able to express it."

 

Fractured

Got an unusual burst of energy in the afternoon that extended until bedtime (fueled in part by the necessity of going to the laundromat to use their dryer: the humidity it too high for line-drying). The piece got a frame and a lot more stitching. I call it "Fractured" now. If you look up close, the broken, scratchy lines echo in the stitching. I threw some paint on it too -- it needs a little more, then it will be done.

Grief

Months ago an image caught my eye: one man consoling another after a bombing. I have worked and reworked it in my sketch book:


I been pondering about how (and why, and whether) to translate the drawing to fabric. Fabric is not the best medium for the human form. In my heart I think I would start with a huge canvas, and then collage and paint. But in my tiny studio that is not an option.

This weekend I figured why not? and started out on an old piece of linen. The first draft had a nice simplicity to it, sort of a haiku. I especially like the hand:


In my head, though, drawing teachers kept telling me to SAY what I MEAN. I took a deep breath and plunged in with color, in search of depth. Light blue, greens, red, even pink. Then the air around the figures needed life too: more space, and a bit more color. Now it is done, and awaits a context: a dark frame of hand-dyed fabric, I think: