The work settles.
There is usually with me, a period of frantic activity on the edge of the new idea. I must get it done as quickly as possible, I must rush through that first stage to see if it works. Obsessive constant drawing/sewing or whatever. When I get to the point where I know that it works, I can stop, breathe, wait, look. My hands might shake a bit while I decide. The bra drawings had to be done. I did two or three a day until I had enough. I didn’t know how many enough was… more than five…. more than six…. Now I know it works I can stop for a while and review the situation.
While I’m stopped I can look back at something else too. Work with muslin, dismantled clothing and dismantled patchwork. Work with words. The words are becoming important again. I have written quite a lot lately… even these words hint at the archaeology i mentioned in the previous post:
Secret Drawer
I tucked it away in a drawer, among world war string and batteries
I thought it would be forgotten, among the falsehoods and the flatteries
I pushed it right against the back, covered it with precious rubbish
Never to see the light of day, unremembered, lonely, punished
The secret’s shut inside my head, it’s mostly disregarded
But I trip up on it now and then when moments are unguarded
I’m also not sure of connections between the made and the written. They must be there, because they both came from me. Bo and I have talked about making connections recently. Does the work we are now doing for our joint show have to be connected with each other, does it have to connect with what has gone before?
Part of me – the very small intellectual I keep above my left ear – says there must be, and insists upon me finding it to justify my work. Another part of me – a gobby student with authority issues and a flaunted cleavage – tells me to sod ‘em and get on with it.
I know which I prefer.
