Straw Fragments
Instead of a continuous thread each piece of straw is fragmentary—together they convert into straw bales. It reminds me of how life is constructed of incalculable experiences —each one layered on top or beside another. Straw on its own can’t form a bale.
Of fragments: I own two large plastic containers filled with inks, pens, assorted pencils, markers, brushes, nibs, oil pastels, watercolour squares, charcoal, litho crayons, and vinyl erasers and kneaded rubber erasers. Each item a reminder of an art phase—a technical watercolour course that petered out when I had to paint a vegetable still life with precise side lighting, an oil pastel obsession that resulted in six paintings of “ Interior Landscapes”, a printing course that convinced me to stick with pen and ink, and a coloured pencil weekend workshop that taught me a modicum of patience. “How many layers of colours to get that effect?”
In a desk drawer, buried under instructions for putting together a handmade book: binder’s tape, binder’s thread, glue, heavy board, and a bone scorer. In an art folder leaning against the desk: decorative papers. And then there are two rolls of bookbinding cloth—enough cloth for a dozen or more books. I had taken a two-day workshop on creating a handmade book and immediately fell in love with the art. After making my first book in class I proceeded to create two journals, a book to keep notes on books read, and three gift books. I collected unusual decorative papers and then, after about ten books, I lost interest. One day I put everything away, “I’ll get back to it at a later date,” I told myself. That was three years ago.
Quotations—fragments of thought, often not what the writer meant if an entire passage is read. I like to copy down pithy thoughts or passages that move me. Who knows when I'll return to those words. When those words will encourage me to write a story, a poem, a lyric essay—
Of fragments: I own two large plastic containers filled with inks, pens, assorted pencils, markers, brushes, nibs, oil pastels, watercolour squares, charcoal, litho crayons, and vinyl erasers and kneaded rubber erasers. Each item a reminder of an art phase—a technical watercolour course that petered out when I had to paint a vegetable still life with precise side lighting, an oil pastel obsession that resulted in six paintings of “ Interior Landscapes”, a printing course that convinced me to stick with pen and ink, and a coloured pencil weekend workshop that taught me a modicum of patience. “How many layers of colours to get that effect?”
In a desk drawer, buried under instructions for putting together a handmade book: binder’s tape, binder’s thread, glue, heavy board, and a bone scorer. In an art folder leaning against the desk: decorative papers. And then there are two rolls of bookbinding cloth—enough cloth for a dozen or more books. I had taken a two-day workshop on creating a handmade book and immediately fell in love with the art. After making my first book in class I proceeded to create two journals, a book to keep notes on books read, and three gift books. I collected unusual decorative papers and then, after about ten books, I lost interest. One day I put everything away, “I’ll get back to it at a later date,” I told myself. That was three years ago.
Quotations—fragments of thought, often not what the writer meant if an entire passage is read. I like to copy down pithy thoughts or passages that move me. Who knows when I'll return to those words. When those words will encourage me to write a story, a poem, a lyric essay—
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