There has been an unexpected return to fabric and stitch…
I have now drawn more than 100 twigs. They fall onto the ground and I pick them up as I walk. My eyes are often downcast, unfortunately, to spot unevenness of surface, potholes, and loose gravel. I would rather be looking at the sky, but there it is. I need to look out for hazards that would throw my knee off the straight and narrow, render me unable to walk, the pain striking me like a knife in the centre of my joint, and all the blood rushes to other places, and I need to stop, and preferably sit, until it subsides.
But I have found something purposeful to do with my downward gazing. The selection of twigs. If my husband is with me he might pick them up for me, or select one and ask ”this one?” Sometimes it is, but mostly not. Sometimes I say yes anyway.
When I get them home, I lay them out on kitchen roll to dry, and for the little beasts to make their escape. Then I put them into satisfactory little families and draw them. In ink, fine lines on white paper in a large sketch book. These are the rules.
They are families. They have different qualities, surface texture, peeling bark, lichens, injuries and breakages and scars and I draw them all.
I think it is these scars that led me to the idea that I should mend them, look after them until they heal (which of course they won’t). So I cut clean bandages. The width of a child’s finger, from an old linen dress the colour of the sky.
Then like the arranged twigs and the subsequent drawings, I place them on the white paper to capture the images.
Today I think I will start drawing these bandaged forms.
