This morning, a line came to me: The sound of scissors slicing through fabric.
Is it something different than the beginnings of a poem about needles? Perhaps. Maybe it's a poem about how we think that sewing is about putting pieces together, but it's really a skill that requires lots of cutting. We think of piecing as putting together small scraps into a larger whole, but we lose sight of the process that makes the small scraps.
Something apocalyptic lurks in the background of my thinking this morning. I like the idea of linking hobbies that we see as evoking a cozy domesticity to larger societal collapse--I have always loved that juxtaposition.
I also like the idea of something that most people see as useless--embroidery, for example--to some larger skill that will be needed in the future. The woman who can embroider will be able to suture your skin together when the emergency room has collapsed when the power grid went down. Too much?
I only have a few hours left of Quilt Camp, so let me return to fabric arts today--back to art with words tomorrow.
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