inspiration Archives - loveFibre

A story

Once upon a time a shy snail met a vibrant yellow and they fell deep into conversation.

I am yellow. Gold, lemon, acid, bright, sunshine. I am the colour of fear and the colour of joy. Light floods in where I shine, shadows are deeper, purple, gray. I taste butter and honey, see gold buttercups, see the light shine under a child’s chin, see laughter, hear laughter. I say, I shine. Buttercup open holding pollen holding petals to the answering sun.

I am snail. I hold my shell as a hiding place. As a home. The shell’s spiral leads to the centre. I slip slowly, close to the earth. I leave silver where I go. I am slow, often still. I pull myself in, within, to find refuge from danger. My eyes explore outward, outward, once and again. I unfurl.

Yellow: Welcome, snail. I see touches of myself in the swirl of your shell. See how it catches the light.

Snail: Your light is too fierce, it will desiccate me. I must hide.

Yellow: I am not the white fierce light of the sun, I am the dappling of gold on the floor of the forest, I am the edge of shadow. You can move through me, your shade is all around.

Snail: I see you, with my eyes gazing here and there, with my rasping mouth I taste the fall of leaves you filled, now soft and brown. My silver trail traces small pathways across your dappled ground.

The beginning.

The meaning of making

A conversation the other day about artistic identity reminded me about this piece I wrote a few years ago for UK Handmade; I noticed that it’s no longer available there when I tried to revisit it and I’d like to share it again now.

Recently I have been musing on what making means to me. I think it is very personal and yet also quite social, a way of being in a world I often find mysterious and confusing. My making is influenced by beauty and curiosity, by the magical details that catch my eye as I walk with my camera. Mostly I use wool, which is plentiful and various, together with precious fibres like silk, and worn or waste fabrics with their imagined stories.

Making is a process of transformation. As I make, the materials are changed, and I am changed also. An idea is inside me, then it is outside me, made visible yet still part of me. Making is an extension of thought, not simply an expression of thought. We grow in the making.

Making is a child at play, seeing pink and yellow castles in the landscape and constructing them with green paper and blue crayon. It is the absence of preconceptions. ‘A lack of knowledge has turned into a refreshing asset,’ writes Jessica Hemmings of Kustaa Saksi, (Natural State, Selvedge 63, p.34).

Making is beginning, and beginning again. As Thomas Merton says, ‘We do not want to be beginners, but let us be convinced of the fact that we will never be anything else but beginners all our lives,’ (Contemplative Prayer, 1971, p.37). Making provides space for the amateur – which, by the way, means the lover. Making means always learning, and the freedom to be wrong.

And making is mastery – the assurance of long practice held in tension with the uncertainty, the vulnerability of experiment and exploration. Making is order, and channels in deep waters. The process sets boundaries on the imagination, freeing us to create. Limits hone choices.

Making is a woman whose voice is barely heard, slowly able to make herself known in another language altogether. Making is an antidote to hiding. Focused on a stitch by stitch rhythm, a profound stillness descends on a heart scattered by chaos and distraction. Making is a way of remembering, an embodiment of experience. Hands can recapture skills the mind has forgotten, and lay down new memories for the future.

Making is frustration, fear, disappointment. It is the tearing out of hair. It is sobbing and throwing things. Making is messy and mad. It is breaking and mending. Making and re-making. Making is a powerful healer.

Making is a sacrament – an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. As we make, we are made. The story that undergirds my life starts, ‘In the beginning God created…’. Imaged as one who knits, throws pots, bakes bread, the Maker calls me also to create.

Making is material. When I wonder about the value of creating more stuff in an already overcrowded world, I remind myself that the pace of the handmade opposes the excesses of mass production. Take time, make less, care more.

Making is communication and connection. It draws individuals into community and offers a nurturing place for learning to understand the other. ‘Craft brings people together, creating a social space where ideas are swapped and made sense of, quite literally with the hands.’ (Ben Cartwright, Making the cloth that binds us). Making is a metaphor for inclusion: only by respecting the unique qualities of wool, or cloth, or clay, can we create a new, true, whole.

Making is a gift. Making is for everyone.

What does art mean to you?

What is art? What does it mean to you? These are some of the thoughts I wrote down a few days ago when I was asked to reflect on these questions (by Anastasia Azure):

Art is making that expresses meaning and intention, questioning, exploration, attention. It does so by representing, by abstracting, by simply celebrating its own being. It can create or discern meaning, or even say that there is none. It springs from the longing of the artist to recreate in another way what is seen, heard, felt, thought, eaten, worn. It asks questions and sometimes suggests answers. It can break and mend your heart, transform your thoughts, make you want to dance or be still.

A handmade bowl can be a beautiful vessel for soup in the mind of the cook and an expression of grief for the destruction of the oceans in the mind of the artist. Yet another person sees nothing but that it is beautiful and places it on a shelf to be gazed at. All these meanings are held, often in tension, in the art work.

I deeply believe that art is for everyone: that the way a person washes the dishes or makes the breakfast can be art; that art can be fleeting or solid, hidden or visible; that art not shared can still be art. I think that a child can make art; that imperfect art can be perfect, even that bad art can be good – perhaps it brings creative joy to the maker, perhaps we don’t need to judge.

I would love to know what art means to you…

Blessing prayer to begin a creative work

Arising from an online retreat, Way of the Monk, Path of the Artist, with Christine Valters Paintner at abbeyofthearts.com

Jesus, born of dust, I seize the hem of your robe with fierce longing, bless my work.
Brigid, Sant Ffraid, your mantle heals the ground, brings forth growth, bless my work.
Foremothers, family, your creative spirits burn in my hearth, bless my work.
Madonna, black and beautiful, mother of God, bless my work.
Beloved writers, your words wrap me in rhythm, bless my work.
Dear friend, knit to my heart by all that we shared, all that is new, bless my work.

Blessing upon fibre and fabric, wool, silk, cherished cloth.
Blessing upon loom and shuttle, wheel and bobbin.
Blessing upon warp and weft and every knot.
Blessing upon pen and ink, paper and paint.
Blessing upon devices and machines and all intricate workings.
Blessing upon these hands, this body, this mind and heart.
Blessing upon the day, the hour, this now.
Blessing upon all small things that inspire, all glimpses of joy, all whispered beauty.

May what is hidden within me emerge, shine, make its slow bright way into the world.
May my making be gift and glow.

Creative retreat

I’ve just returned from a week away with a group of artists I belong to. We do this every so often and it’s special because they are special people and the creative vibe is huge, and doubly special for me because it’s in my native Cumbria, in Grasmere.

I used the time to consolidate and develop what I learned over the last few months of Considering Weave with Jude Hill. I was travelling by boat and train and bus, so no large looms for me, but I managed to pack several little ones in my case! These are tiny weavings, just a few cms wide. I’m enjoying working at this slow, small scale. The whole Considering Weave class has been very good for me, and I’ve signed up for Jude’s ‘Small Journeys‘ to continue travelling along with her as and when I can.

In Grasmere, we had beautiful surroundings, excellent food and lots of fun, with a constant flow of ideas, encouragement and constructive critique.

The space that emerges between our perspectives is ‘dialogic space’, a liminal realm of possibilities where new ideas emerge and innovation thrives. Drawing the ideas that emerge in this ‘dialogic space’ back into our practice helps us to reinvigorate it. (Permission to Speak by Dave Camlin)

There were excursions. Some of us revisited the wonderful Allan Bank, a National Trust house where dogs are welcome, you can sit on the chairs and make yourself at home, and there is something creative going on in every room.

I went for some walks among the trees and by the river – something I do miss, living on Tiree. So much visual inspiration. So much green.

It was a lovely week.

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