As a mixed media artist I want my hands touching everything; paper, paint, fabric, thread, and me. Rusted metal, tea-dyed canvas, string, shells, driftwood, and vintage books are just a few of the objects that are highly tactile. These are humble materials, almost as if they were rubble from an explosion or the sweepings from the sea, or a pile of junk from a hoarder’s collection. I ask myself, why am I so attracted to these objects? Aside from their inherent beauty as simple objects, they have a story to tell. They too have lived a life. When I begin a new artwork, I pull out boxes of rusted tools, (which for me represents strength and resilience) piles of fabric (which represents intimacy), a basket full of wood pieces smoothed from the Baltic Sea (which represents the poetry inside the object).
That’s the real story. When I sew into eco-dyed fabric, each stitch is like a word that tells a new story. Did that wood come from a mother tree in a forest in Latvia, or did it come from a woodpile in Vermont? I prefer using organic elements which is a means for me to connect to nature even though I live in New York City. I get to experience the sensorial world of wood, shells, stones, feathers, baby deer antlers, and metal from the earth.
These materials have lived a life, were tumbled, scattered, showered with rain and wind. A curved piece of pine was once a chair leg, the chair owned by a farmer 50 years ago and in that chair he told stories to his grand children. A calico cloth patch was once a girl’s dress that held memories of a childhood. I imagine the story behind each article as I work and give it new life, a new story is imbued with another beginning, a reincarnation of sorts. What once was time-worn is reborn.
These elements show me their vulnerability and tenacity. Making art from them is a process of healing, making whole what was once part of a broken world. It becomes a renewal for the shell, the ridged curve of a silky piece of driftwood, the rusted metal gear that evolved into a thing of beauty. They changed, adapted and became fragments of their former life. This is the spirit of Wabi Sabi, the Japanese philosophy of revering the cracked cup, the rusted hammer.
From these items I have learned about flexibility because they survived their own losses, just as we humans do. Yet, they have retained their beauty and strength. They are timeless. By being both artist and author, I partake in their renewal, and we share having lived long lives.
Because these objects are being given a new story in art making, I as the artist am being given a new story of my own. G&S
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