laurawythe

I’m wondering about potential, about energy explosions and implosions, big bangs and black holes.  I’m looking about my studio space and at the number of projects that remain visible, that swirl in space.  There is a sense of organization into two camps — painting and sewing.   The easel and the sewing machine are both accessible.  Horizontal surfaces are covered in piles of stuff.

Shall we start by naming the planets?  I mean, the piles.

There are two stacks on the work table.   Pushed to back are large quilt squares, protected from dust by a square of old flannel.  A block of soapstone sits on top.  This pile is not going anywhere even though it’s planned and the materials are gathered.  The cutting has started.  Why, I ask you, has it sunk into a black hole?

The answer lies under the second pile, a twin-star system.  It is really two piles covered by one piece of linen sheer drapery fabric.  I like the white, semi-transparency of the sheer.  It allows the piles to breathe.  One doesn’t need a telescope to remember the contents. One star is fabric.  More  material for the quilt, two pieces of jersey for dresses, and some lovely green wool that I bought fifteen years ago along with the black wool.  This pile, I believe has the potential for greatness.  It’s waiting for the big bang.  Its twin-star also has potential.  It’s a pile of sketches, files, art-related books, patterns and brown paper pattern blocks.  The raw materials of genesis.

On the seat of a chair that’s pushed under the table is a rogue planet.  More fabric and old clothing (kept, because I like them and wore them to death, for their patterns).  It’s hidden potential.  A possible colony of retro style.

On the floor is a stack of primed canvases that I bought on sale, on speculation.  I like to think, that I’ll get out and paint, that I’ll wander the universe and record the wonders.  They are prepped with fresh gesso and ready to go.  Beneath them is the anti-matter to this painting potential, a box of vintage clothing patterns.

A pile of ephemera lies on the small table beside the easel.  Paints, a box of drawing tools, brushes, envelopes of past monthly financial receipts, lots of rags, researched information, a how-to guide from a portrait painting class, a jar of solvent, some Christmas toys, a pen and ink drawing from 1982.  That’s all I see without moving anything.  A virtual asteroid belt, distracting and unstable.

I’m not a collector, I swear.  I’m an optimist with raw potential piled about the studio. The canvases and fabric, the tools and patterns are ready for the Big Bang.  The question is, which universe?  And how to chose?