It is that time of year. The time we remember earlier holidays and departed relatives. Any connected sadness has long settled into a fondness for the small glimpses through blurred windows of how I remember a time, place and person. The following was a writing prompt, something about doing the unexpected I think. Really can’t remember exactly but it is all about being an artist and working with textiles to tell a story.
by Sandy Webster
I cut into the fabric and my scissors gnaw at the yarns she used for getting her daisies just so.
Long white embroidery stitches splaying out from a center of bright yellow French knots.
It seems brutal at first, destroying my mother’s sewing.
But I only give it a moment’s thought before continuing with my sharpest pair of scissors.
Is this the wrong thing to do?
It is probably the last bit of her sewing that I have.
Should I keep it for a little while longer?
Of course I know I am going to do it – cut the entire panel from the daisies to the fields of grass in the background.
Cut it all into jagged squares with threads of linen sticking out along the edges and colored yarns flopping about.
Some falling to the floor.
I pile the pieces up according to their size and marvel at how many there are.
They are perfect!
The blank canvas waits on the easel as I take a moment to recall her sitting there by the lamp.
She rummages through her yarn bag for just the right color (a color I am about to destroy) and threads her needle.
Slowly pushing in and out she builds an image that I have not hesitated to cut to pieces.
I select the fragments at random to dredge into the thin white paste of gesso – then press them onto the canvas.
Moving my fingers much like she did – getting the threads just so.