Obviously a few years ago, i enjoyed sketching, painting, drawing–why did i stop? Maybe that’s why i feel stale, stagnant and like i’m repeating myself.
Not everything made it to cloth, but i have a stockpile to pick from.
I translated ideas in my head, on paper and then on the cloth:
We are usually our own worst critics. “I should have done this, done that, not done it, oh my gadz what was i thinking”: the whole shitshubola of insecurity rolls through our minds as we cringe inwards. BUT, i think sometimes too when you look back you can see freer expression and less inhibition about trying new media or subjects. I’ve started looking at previous work (done before the last 3 years) with older (semi) wiser eyes and see common threads that i have/had lost through preciousness and the search for acceptance. In that respect i mean being part of a current trend or on the bandwagon rather than acceptance of what i do because i do it, rather than “this is what is popular”. (This year has been one of going back to myself rather than worrying about what everyone else is doing, or what the current hoopla is about online, so i say “had lost”.) The origins of our own art can be a minefield or a mine of new motherlodes. Since the “word of the year” for me is “Origin”, i’m re-exploring some of that. June 1,2012
Looking at myself again, inside, that long path behind the subconscious.
I have a (self imposed) deadline for the winged figure piece, but am going to take some deliberate time with mark makers of various sorts again.
albedo too 
My garden for the second year in a row is holding its breath–a kind of regrouping, a rest, making sure those roots are deep, the buds turning the right way, and then surely waiting for the sky to blue deeply. Even though i’m a flowergirl by day at work, flowers, plants, roots have been on my mind much more than normal this summer. Time to plant another garden, one in my thoughts and growing from my fingers, deeper soil.
Since the flood in 2013, roots have been prevalent in my work.
I think of how roots not only let things grow, but anchor, delve deep into layers and layers, pierce stone, search water, search earth, seeking nurture and permanency.
Every time we go to the mountains, my eyes find the seekers, the holders of place and time. Taken at Red Rock Canyon in Waterton Park last week, these visible reminders show me the dominion of tenacity, the innate desire and need of solid ground to moor so growth, flowering and seeding can happen.
Roots are veins as well, and tendons, supports, carriers of blood, droghers bearing impulse, explorers of new territory, guardians and defenders of old ground.
There are always cuttings on my windowsills with fine filaments waiting for soil.
I’ve been struggling, seriously doubting, second guessing, sabotaging and burying things the last month or two. Despite a good life, a decent job, and people and animals who love me, i’ve been fighting the Black Dog again. *That* root is unfortunately very strong, going to my bedrock. I’d like to bury that damn dog far below the surface, fossilize it, break it into small parts that will feed new growth, root new stock. Go back to origin. Go to ground. Till over and start again. Make it disappear but for a few fragments of coal.
Or diamonds, should i be so lucky.
I can’t not make, as presently hard as either approbation is.