Translating text to textiles

Green Lovers - Marc Chagall 

                    Green and blue 

                    First-named of colours believe these two. 

                    They first of colours by men were seen 

                    This grass colour, tree colour, 

                    Sky colour, sea colour, 

                    Magic-named, mystic-souled, blue and green.

                    Later came 

                    Small subtle colours like tongues of flame, 

                    Small jewel colours for treasure trove, 

                    Not fruit colour, flower colour, 

                    Cloud colour, shower colour, 

                    But purple, amethyst, violet and mauve. 

                    These remain, 

                    Two broad fair colours for our larger gain

                    Stretched underfoot or spreading wide on high, 

                    Green beech colour, vine colour, 

                    Gum colour, pine colour,

                    Blue of the noonday and the moonlit sky. 

I’ve been thinking about how to interpret this poem by Lesbia Harford in a textile format. 

The words have the same effect on my brain that the feel of textiles has in my hands.

Can words be tactile? 

Palpable. A synonym of tactile: a feeling or atmosphere so intense as to seem almost tangible. 

I’ve been exploring artists too. 

Modernist Marc Chagall uses a lot of blue and green and interesting vistas and skies.  (The Tate has a great teachers pack for an introduction and a little self-directed learning.) 

A further poke around the Tate online brought me back to Wassily Kandinsky and his inspiring use of colour and line. 

 Circles in Squares - Wassily Kandinsky

I’ve been pondering on how to express this poem in fabric and stitch for a fair while now. I have silk sari strips and threads. A few days ago I found some interesting wire frames tucked away in the garage. They may be just the thing to help create a work that is either flat of 3D – or both?

On the passing of a good friend and making blue birds

Life has been just too busy - I find it hard to really believe it has been so long since I posted - though I know that it is three months since I met with the groups I belong to.

I have been making and stitching sporadically. Short trips to the studio have left me with a number of birds like the ones above. They seem to grow in my hands and I love making them. Bandaged birds I call them – they are made by wrapping Paverpol soaked strips of fabric around a polystyrene ball which is shaped with alfoil. Some of them are covered with gauze bandage as well which gives a lovely surface texture.
But, mostly I have been caught up worrying and trying to help an unwell friend who lived quite a distance away - my divided time between her, paid work and family.

Grace passed away on the 18th August and her service was last Friday. I will miss her. She was a great champion and encouraged me in all my art endeveours.
This poem is for Grace:

What the Living Do

Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
 
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
 
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
 
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
 
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
 
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
 
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
 
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

From What the Living Do, copyright © 1998 by Marie Howe.

An Apple a Day

An Apple a Day is a personal challenge to use a theme in mixed media over the next 12 months = featuring the humble apple.

In the first fortnight I have -

•   drawn apples roughly – more a doodle than a quick sketch
•  done a quick sketch on an envelope
• embroidered a tiny apple in chain stitch on a crazy patch piece I am working on
• added apple blossom inspired by blossom photos and motifs sourced from the internet – and then discovered I should have used white tinged with pink rather than pink if I was going for uber realism
•  stamped using ink pads and fun foam – see Stitchers Plus blog for what we all did as a quick exercise.  
•  actually carved a couple of stamps and played with acrylic paint
• stemmed stitched another apple in blue onto that crazy patch piece
•  played with stitch on a stamped fabric apple, and
• spent some time thinking/looking/reading about apples in myth, legend and religion.  

In the course of doing this I have read quite a bit of poetry including Robert Frost's work After Apple picking which I have cut and pasted below so you can read it with ease.

After Apple-Picking

BY ROBERT FROST

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

thinking about colour

I am still exploring Lesbia Harford's poetry.  She has a very evocative style.  


Her poem Green and Blue made me think about how I react and feel colour and how I use it.    I would like to try ans translate some her poems into stitch - sometimes- like this poem - an idea jumps right out and makes me want to rush off and try it.    

Green and blue                                               

First-named of colours believe these two        
They first of colours by men were seen              
This grass colour, tree colour,                   
Sky colour, sea colour,                                   
Magic-named, mystic-souled, blue and green. 
Later came                                                            
Small subtle colours like tongues of flame,      
Small jewel colours for treasure trove,            
Not fruit colour, flower colour,                       
Cloud colour, shower colour,                           
But purple, amethyst, violet and mauve.          
These remain,                                                  
Two broad fair colours for our larger gain       
Stretched underfoot or spreading wide on high, 
Green beech colour, vine colour,                       
Gum colour, pine colour,                                    
Blue of the noonday and the moonlit sky.