Shifting the Stairs

When I was teaching English to junior high students, I always included a unit on creative writing, and during the "writing descriptions" portion of the exercise, I asked them to change their vantage point.  Instead of sitting in their seats, they could stand in the corner, perch on a table, sit under my desk, even climb on the bookcase -- anything to change their perspectives.  I knew they'd see different details with just a little shift.

I need to take my own advice more.

We've been adding a porch to our house, and, originally, I wanted the main steps to come off the northwest corner at the section of the porch that formed a gazebo.  But I could NOT figure out how to landscape the entire west side of our house -- all dirt?  all grass?  large vegetable trugs as a focal point?  It just wouldn't come together.  Then the idea slipped into my brain as these ideas often do -- when I'm in the shower or driving or lying awake at 4 a.m. after the cat has pounced on my head -- that we'd put a table and chairs in the gazebo and the stairs straight out from the door.  Immediately, I could see the landscaping -- a sidewalk out to the driveway with purple phlox on either side, stepping stones around to the south porch and all along the west side through iris and peony and whatever else would be fun to traipse through.  It was startling how one little shift created such clarity.

I've been struggling with my Dresden plate flowers (see earlier post).  Clearly, I need to climb atop my fabric cabinet for a better view.

"You Can't Judge Perfect"

Last Thursday I had the whole wonderful rainy day to spend in my studio and a thousand projects I could work on (possibly a slight exaggeration), but I wanted to work on something that was solely me.  I wanted to be ---- Creative!  But that's a daunting idea when you say it out loud:  "Now I will be Creative."  Yikes.  I might as well proclaim: "Now I will fly."

I've been preparing to be creative for years -- collecting fabric, thread, beads, even old keys.  Stuff.  Beloved Creativity Coach always says that "you have to have stuff" because you never know what will speak to you.  So on this particular Thursday, I was ready -- except for the fear.  What do I do?  What if it sucks? What if I waste a bunch of my "stuff"?  All the questions that have stopped me in the past, sent me fleeing to someone else's pattern, someone else's vision.

Not today.

I started rifling stuff and pulling fabric out of my cupboard and I stumbled upon some miniature Dresden plate templates I'd found at the AQS show in Des Moines.

Then.

And then.

So suddenly I'm making Dresden plate flowers and planning how to add vines and leaves and beads and . . .  and then I'm stuck again.  What if it's not perfect?  If I'm going to go to all this time and effort, I really want it to be perfect.

BCC again:  "You can't judge perfect."  Perfect is relative; no one sees "perfect" the same way.  Some might believe the perfect woman to be a size 2 with over-collagened lips, but I prefer to look at a woman who's lived and worked and eaten a piece of cheesecake or two.  To some, the perfect quilt is one where every corner matches exactly and is layered with so many quilting stitches that it could stand alone in a corner.  But one of my favorites was a Sun Bonnet Sue quilt completed by a group of club ladies where a few of the Sues looked as if they'd spent too much time in the punch.

One of my mantras (besides "Calm your ass down") is "Fail often to succeed sooner."  In this case, failing is just trying out ideas.  A voice in my brain (the one who needs to leave me the hell alone) whispers, "You need to get this right the first time."  Why?  Who says I can't try a different shape or different colors?  When I started sketching a plan for the layout, the first thing I put on paper was a left to right growth pattern for the flowers -- the expected arrangement.  But I knew I wanted there to be a surprise -- something unexpected so I kept drawing.  I brought the flowers in from the right, then from above.  I played with different background shapes -- horizontal versus vertical; wide versus skinny.  Then I got the idea to take the vine off the page -- so it's not only what you see but what you don't.  There's something going on out of view.  But I needed time to get to that idea -- an idea that I'm excited about and can't wait to get back to to see what happens next.

It's got to be more about the "process" than the "product".  A very wise woman who's been helping me said, if you know exactly where you're headed and go straight there, you're going to miss a lot of cool stuff on the side roads.  I could churn out jelly roll quilts ("product") until I burn out the foot pedal on my sewing machine, but what do I really have in the end?  What have I learned along the way ("process")?

So my Dresden plate flowers are still in "process".  I'll keep you posted.

The Opening Rant, or How I Began My Descent into Old Fartness

Moda has just come out with pre-cut bias binding for quilters.  I read that and my head exploded.  I had a flashback to when I worked in a fabric store and little old ladies who last bought thread when Coats and Clarke cost a nickel would come in and ask for bias binding, the stiff, coarse strips of fabric tightly rolled on cardboard that wouldn't match any color that existed post-World War II which is probably when most of the crap was manufactured.

This latest development does match a current trend that disturbs me greatly -- the one where a quilter can buy a pre-selected, pre-cut quilt and go home and slap it together in an hour.  Where's the fun or skill in that?  Where's the heirloom in that?  And more importantly, what's the point?  If you're doing it for relaxation, how about a beer on the porch watching Duck Dynasty?

Some "modern" quilters have taken the stance that the three-color, geometric, art quilts are the future, and that we traditionalists are inefficient old geezers with too much time on our hands, and who, if not yet obsolete, should hie thee to oblivion as quickly as possible.

What I'm supposed to say here, in an age of political correctness, is that everyone's opinion is valid.  I'm supposed to smile politely and nod with understanding to acknowledge that I hear them and accept their views with a kind and happy heart.  But I don't.  I think they're just plain wrong.

I have antique quilts that I pore over to admire the stitching, the embroidery, the context of history.  These are quilts that have taken on a poetry; every time I look at them I find a new detail and wonder at the patience of the quilter who took such care and time choosing her fabrics and placing her stitches.  I want my nieces to feel me in the quilts I leave behind.  Quite frankly, I can't imagine a "modern" quilt having that kind of longevity.  Who's really going to care about a quilt constructed quickly from a jelly roll five years from now, let alone twenty?

So, all you modernists, stop giving me static about my hand work.  My embroidery was not done by machine, the edges of my applique are turned under (unless it's wool) and, yes, that is a thimble in my pocket.  I've got a weird callus on the middle finger of my left hand which will confound a forensic scientist if I'm ever found dead in an alley, and I wear it with pride.  I've hand quilted many stitches to earn it.  It's my first official "old fart" badge.