Get your fiber!

Last Saturday I attended the Omaha Weavers and Spinners Guild's annual fiber art show and sale. It's their 15th, and I think I've attended almost all of them, most with my daughter-in-law Kristi and The Two Beauties (aka granddaughters).  We pore over the colors, textures, patterns, and designs. The hand-dyed yarns urge each of us to start knitting on the spot, never mind that we don't know how. We're saved from that dilemma because none of us can ever choose one favorite yarn! Texture is so alluring-- I can see from the way Kate touches a thick blue rug that she know how luscious it would feel under bare feet. And what is labeled a needle-felted wrap is really a cloud embracing your shoulders. This is a great place to bring a gift list.  It's also a place to see the range of possibilities in fiber art: functional hats, scarves, and socks; plus woven paper folded into a basket; needle-felted gnomes that made Chloe laugh; a sheer silk panel, hand-dyed and printed, that might be  a stole or could be hung, delicate as birdsong, in your bedroom. And it's a reunion-- seeing the artists, browsers, and shoppers every year, sharing a sense of joy in a celebration of creativity. The girls remember past purchases and gifts, and are inspired in their own efforts. This winter the Guild is planning a second event, February 3-28, at Gallery 92 West in Fremont. Opening reception is Feb. 9 from 2-5. See you there!

Another fiber event to note: Mary Zicafoose has a solo show at the Robert Hillestad Textiles Gallery in Lincoln. Mountains & Ghosts: New Ikat Tapestries & Prints will be on view December 2 through January 17. Mary will give a public lecture titled “Designing a Life: Weaving and Art” on January 15 at 6pm, with a reception afterwards. (See RHTGallery site for details and gallery hours.) * Contact me for carpool! In Omaha, Mary is represented by Gallery 72.

 A couple of group shows opening December 6:

"6 x 6" All Member Show at the Artists’ Co-op.  Agneta Gaines and  Shea Wilkinson are dedicated fiber artists definitely worth looking for. Shea's art quilts can also be seen, along with Mary Zicafoose's work, in Gallery 72's December show, Something for Everyone / Everyone for Something.

And --

HotShops Winter Open House, December 7 & 8  Be sure to stop in Studio 208!

Open Studios at 2869 Bondesson, December 13 (5-9) & 14 (10-6). Includes work by Layna Bentley and Jay Rich.

Upcoming articles:  I'm writing about these artists for the following publications:

Agneta Gaines -- Vavmagasinet (Swedish), spring 2014
Shea Wilkinson -- Fiber Art Now, spring 2014

Mary Zicafoose -- Artland, fall 2013; Surface Design Journal, spring 2014

An annual highlight, like this Guild show, is a fun time to say "Hello" to old friends and meet new ones. This year Jeanne introduced me to Sue, who'd read one or two of these random blog postings. We talked, finding things in common, and were reminded how often friends lead us to people, places, and ideas. I've spoken before of walking a road, and it's times like Saturday afternoon that I reach a scenic overlook and see that the road is really an intricate network of interlaced paths, occasional thorn hedges, enticing rabbit holes, welcoming way stations, and a center that shifts constantly, because we shift constantly. Only the statues don't move (until they're pulled down to make room for new ones). Each person we meet, Sue said, carries a unique fragrance (Is she a gardener?). We're attracted by our differences as well as by our similarities. Like the textiles on display, we are such an array of colors, textures, patterns, and designs that I'll keep coming back to see old favorites and discover new ones.


P.S. Note that colored type contains a link!



 

Markers

Markers. Those little guide signs that direct our way. They’re everywhere, offering instruction in pictographs, if you know the code. I recently discovered the little triangle above my gas gauge, pointing out which side of the car has the fuel tank. How many times have I driven an unfamiliar car and had to turn around at the gas station once I realized the tank was opposite the side I’d guessed! Or the star on an elevator’s control panel indicating the lobby. Usually the lobby’s on first floor, but I go to one office where it’s on 3 (make that «3) and another is «LL.

Many years ago, in Estes Park, I went for a walk on a fine morning. I would simply hike up a hill behind the B&B and return the same way. It didn’t turn out that way. Somewhere that logical plan went missing, and it was hours before I found the B&B again. In his worry and relief my son blurted, “What about your markers?” Markers? I never thought of plotting my comings and goings, never made a trail of mental breadcrumbs to get back home. Never, until that day. Eighteen years later I still hear his voice clearly, “What about your markers?” I note my parking slot, color codes, directions, natural landmarks; I’m aware of the time; I look both ways. I teach my grands, “What about your markers?”

It’s a simple idea, and one that can be applied metaphorically as well as literally, but for today I’ll let this suffice. What about your markers? Whether it’s the star in the elevator or a stack of rocks along a path, let me know what you’ve found helpful. If you're the first to comment, click "no comment" and you'll be first in line!

p.s. That same son uses another marker when he signs e-mails to me, “Xo.” That’s a marker that needs no explanation and goes straight to my ♥

Travel

Since my last post I've taken a trip to Portland, Oregon, my first in several years. My stepson lives there in a russet-orange bungalow with his wife, two sons, and a cat. I'd been unable to travel due to my husband's health, and I worried about the accumulation of time and distance between myself and my grandsons, now 7 and 9. All four were waiting for me at the airport. Story and Harry gave me big hugs and chattered all the way home. So much to catch up on! So much that was new! The next several days were wonderful -- relaxing and refilling. After the first cool and misty morning of "postcard Portland," the sun came out and shone the rest of my stay. I basked in boys' attention, neighborhood walks, scrumptious market produce, music and theater in the parks, masses of roses and front yard gardens. (My stepson, Donald, grows artichokes in his, and hops trained to form a screen filtering sunlight to a sparkling peridot liquescence.) I was introduced to aikido and to yu-gi-o, a terribly complicated (to me) manga book/game series. When it was time to say farewell, I was reminded again of the fluidity of time, how it can stretch, fill, deepen, wait.

I was aware from the first that my husband's death set him free, and gradually it has freed me, too. I can travel, accept a last-minute invitation, or linger over coffee. Relationships, like time, are also not as fixed as one might think. I am still nurtured by the bonds of love and the life Roger and I shared, but the thin, electrical ties of tension, the alertness for the next disaster, are breaking down, disintegrating from lack of use. I'm glad to know that his death isn't an "all or nothing" deal, that some parts will go and some will stay--and those will inevitably change, just as I am. Maybe some will even become me, the joins rubbing off, changing with the seasons . . . seen sometimes, in perfect clarity, to contain all that was and will be and is. Moments of intense joy and deep gratitude.

 

The house in your heart

Hello and thanks to each of you who read "Continuation."

(Some of you told me you were unable to leave a comment and i appreciate you bringing it to my attention. I think it's fixed.)

So many responded, and i love hearing from you. Whether you tell me your story or not, i know that we all have a small library tucked away -- there are complicated poems with elaborate flourishes or vague allusions, litanies and lists, epics, short stories, romances (happy and heartbreakers), and mysteries. Here's a story from my Nana collection:  When my granddaughters would spend the night, and they were settled in the big bed we shared, i'd ask them to describe the tiny house that is their heart. How is it different than last time? What have you done to make it more truly yours? Did you change the color of the door or add a koi pond? We go through each imaginary room, laughing again at a shared joke or remembering the taste of fresh tomato bisque. Each of these bright moments added to the home's warm glow. Finally, i'd ask them if something had hurt them that day, if they'd worried about something, or if they had done something they later regretted. Occasionally, one said yes, and we'd consider some solutions. Then we'd take her little problem out of the house and blow the pain away, leaving just the lesson, to be kept in a book in her library.

Once, i told a friend about this ritual, and she was as delighted as a child at the thought of creating a house that was her own in every aspect, a place that truly reflected who she is and how she's grown, with spaces for whimsy, nurture, and reflection. Let me tell you right now, we never outgrow the need to be tucked in and kissed, to feel safe enough and sure enough to open our heart and see it as a home. If you weren't given that as a child, i give it to you now -- no, you give it to yourself. Get comfy in bed, close your eyes and take a big breath. Let it out slowly. The world around you dims and you see a little house taking shape. It's yours; open the door and go in.

Sweet dreams ~
     Suzanne

Continuation

It is a year since I visited my blog, a year since I wrote of events in the outside world, but not of events in my own. Those notes I kept privately though, just so I could make some sense of my rapidly deconstructing situation, a life that was falling apart . . . a month from August 2 to September 2 in which my husband fell and broke his arm, lost his ability to move, lost his hope, but never lost his courage or his spirit. It was a month filled with moves between facilities, colored with the intense palette of emotion, scored with doctors' opinions, messages, music, silence. It was a month that began on a sunlit afternoon and ended on a soft night under a moon that had begun, almost imperceptibly, to wane.

It was a month that I went from wife to widow, that I continued my journey without Roger, my partner of half a lifetime. There were time that I could actually see myself walking, accompanied by women, and a few men, who have remade their own lives.  A few would walk with me, alongside or just ahead or behind, then they would be replaced by others. We kept silence, just sharing space and strength. I am thankful to each of you. I don’t see that road now but I know it’s there. All of us are travelers, and each of us has needed companionship.

Now I am here. I have been writing, and in March published my thoughts on Roger’s memorial service in a blog essay titled “Transformation” for Sculpture Magazine.

I decided to pick up my blog, and hope that those who find it will discover something worth keeping, something worth sharing, and maybe companionship for awhile wherever you are.