Being home has afforded me a little more solitude than I've had these past few weeks and that has led to some unexpected introspection. I wouldn't call myself an artist these days and it's been about 4 years since I last would have. I was more than happy to put that title on the shelf to play house with my new family, but now, on the eve of the birth of my 2nd son, I'm a little haunted by my past.
This piece is something I did in art school, a lifetime ago, and it's hung on our wall ever since without much, if any, fanfare. Since I've been spending so much time staring at said walls, and feeling a bit like a caged bird to boot, I've been giving it more consideration than usual. It started as a white cotton thrift store sheet which then underwent various layers of dyes, resists, stencils and screen printing.It just reminds me of a time when my need to create bordered on violence, when I wanted to tear and destroy and rebuild from the wreckage, when I wanted to play with the kind of beauty that was sometimes hard to look at. It's still there, that side of me. I'm just so much more centered now. And happier. And fulfilled. So, while I don't mourn the wild thing with the happy domestic tranq dart in her ass, I do worry that I've gone a little dull without her.
Of course all of this comes when I'm set to slide into sloppy newborn motherhood at any minute. At which point all of my recent sewing projects will seem like great feats of artistry. But someday, hopefully soon-ish, I'd like to put 'craft' on the shelf for a day or two and see what shakes loose.