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This far into the series, there are plenty of scraps and half-started pieces lying around my studio. Sometimes they inspire me...that, and a glimpse of another quilt somewhere that had lots of white space...and thinking about Rosemary Claus-Gray's use of sheers...all that finally percolated up to a piece still in progress, but here's a glimpse of it:
But the only thing it has in common with the rest of the series is the fabric--maybe the use of lines to symbolize grass, but in looks and feel it is very different from the other pieces. Not that this is a bad thing, but I was trying to make a cohesive series....
So I stewed about this for a couple of days. In the meantime, I took some scraps and plaed with them to develop a small piece--notice I in almost full avoidance mode in regards to quilting the large piece, although progress is being made there--that looks partly like this:
In my logic, the white space--and there is more than shows here--represents the absence of prairies. Anyway, while hand stitching on this piece (Yes, hand stitching. No other way to get the look I want), I realized that it could be a transitional piece between the new sheer one and the previous ones. What I need is missing link pieces.
So I can do that. It will all work out after all. No need to panic. And I have a towel handy.
That is all.
I'm working on a piece for a new group I'm in (more about that later). My first dilemma was I didn't like the finished piece that was my first attempt. It just came out differently than I expected. It's hanging on my wall, waiting for a spark that will transform it into something I'm willing to put my name on.
So the next dilemma involved two pieces of fabric I liked together. I had started with white cotton and made them into complex cloth in my Jane Dunnewold workshop--and they look good together and I could see a finished piece for this project in them. The dilemma is that generally it's a no-no to show or sell work begun in a workshop. But these pieces had no input from the instructor--she was around, but the designs and steps were all of my own making. So I have convinced myself that it is ok to use them. What would have been the difference if I had made them the next day in my own studio? Maybe that's a rationalization because I really like the piece they've become...
But they needed something else. So it was back to the boneyard--where I found the perfect complement. At first I couldn't remember how it was even made, other than it had been melted at some point. Turns out it was a piece of ribbon sewn together with acrylic felt. I only had a bit of it, but by cutting it judiciously and melting it some more, I made it work. Here's a glimpse (can't show the whole piece yet):
Nice color scheme, huh? Well, in real life it is because of parts you can't see here. But the main point (other than the whole ability to rationalize thing) is that it's nice to have this boneyard to pull from. Of course, that means I never throw anything out...you think moving would have taught me something...
Meanwhile, here's my current inspiration:
What a life. Lounging in the springtime sun, wasting the day away.
That is all.
I'm back in the groove of working every day in the studio. That's a good thing. The bad thing is I still kind of goof around, jump from one thing to another without finishing everything. I have a bunch of pieces that mostly had been previously begun, that I'm trying to finish. While I'm striving to follow my favorite principle of just do it, you can make more (or buy more), I still haven't gotten all my nerve back. Apparently, that's the down side for me of taking a three month break.
But I have been finding ways to use all the bits and pieces that I have from failed attempts. Thanks to Terry Grant, I now call these piles my 'boneyard.' It's a great way to work--I find it leads to unexpected places. It's only slightly lazy--or maybe a better word would be impatience. I can see quickly how an idea might work, as opposed to working an hour to get to a point at which I can see the idea. So these days hardly anything gets thrown out in my studio.
This method also provides some continuity to the work coming out of my studio. And I feel more inclined to dare to do something unexpected--it is, after all, just a scrap I'm committing to the cause.
And sometimes, just the right scrap turns the piece around. Like this detail, where the blue circle (which I think of as the Earth), changed the composition (which you can't see in the detail) and made the whole thing work.
Ann Miller Titus thinks I give her all my scraps. I used to do so. And I still give her some things I think I'll never use again. But now I keep the best ones for myself.
Because I never know when they'll come in handy. Like in this little piece I made last week:
It is quite small, like 3"x5". The background is one of the leftovers from the silk piece I cut up last fall, the part where I decided it would be a good idea to add some black paint. Not. Anyway, a small piece found its way into the jumbled bin I keep such little treasures in. I pulled it out the other day, found a piece of already fused hand dyed green silk. The shapes I cut of the green were inspired by some rubber stamp designs from my stamp carving month. Pretty simple.
But these leftovers find themselves in my larger pieces, too. I'm in the process of getting Strata 4 up on my website; part of its focal point is some leftover strips trimmed off of a previous work.
I guess the point of this is that I'm starting to see how these little bits and pieces tie everything together--because my palette evolves over time rather than jumping from color to color, I can see the evolution by looking at these pieces side by side. I've been working on putting together a professional looking portfolio, and after I printed out some pictures of works and laid them in a row to determine their order, I finally saw the connection between the pieces that I hadn't noticed before. I am starting to see the 'style' that others have seen in my body of work.
All that being said, the main purpose of saving these bits and pieces is a practical one--I can try out an idea quickly, with little investment of time or supplies, and can tell whether to pursue the idea or not because I already have something that meets the idea's criteria in that bin of bits. Sometimes I end up making a bigger or slightly different bit from scratch, but the saved bit led the way.
And it's kind of a treasure hunt--just today I found a piece leftover froma couple of silk pieces that I had completely forgotten about--the leftover piece, I mean. It's big enough to do something with. So I'm off down another tangent, thanks to my scrap bin.
Sorry, Ann. But not too sorry.
Can you do a study AFTER a piece is done? I feel like that's what I have done, so I guess one can. It started with the scraps from the piece I've been showing in other blog entries like here, and was driven by ideas I had while making it. Like thinking what if I use this color of thread? What if I add more rust to it? So this is the result of my first 'after study':
November B
The piece is quite small compared to the big one--which by the way as been named November--but I needed something quick and easier to handle than the big one (it had been a while since I tried to force something that big under the needle). It measures 10.5" wide by 8.5" high, and features some of the same elements as November--the amorphic cheesecloth, the vertical 'tree trunks'.
But the primary stitching is done in a yellow green thread from Sulky. I had added some hand stitching to the original piece in these colors, but it only shows up when you get close to it. And from a distance, it's not real obvious on this piece. But it adds a liveliness to the piece that I like.
It was lacking focus, though. I had a kayak shaped piece of rust silk I auditioned on it (kayaks being one of my favorite go to shapes), but it was too large. I started by cutting it down with free hand rotary cutting, and the shape of the piece and the slice chopped off caught my eye--the negative space between them. So I cut the other side off, too, so that I would have three pieces, and was left with I think of as a 'deconstructed kayak.' I really like this shape; it will surely show up in future pieces.
So I guess the final answer to my question is yes, you can do studies after the fact. Working on a big piece always presents alternate paths that deserve to be explored, even if just in studies. Who knows where that path will lead? This is the joy of doing a series--the serendipity of discovery along the way.
By the way, this piece is for sale, directly from me, for $75. It is mainly silk with some cotton cheesecloth, and should be mounted on mat board for display.
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