There was still grade 13 in those days, and classes were streamed either for university prep or for technical college. We had home rooms.
There were sports teams and band that practiced after school. There were school dances. My brother and I were not allowed to go to dances or try out for sports, but we were allowed to go to band practice, and did so. That happened on Mondays at 6 pm so we stayed in town and waited.
My parents had purchased some rental buildings in town, and one of them had a basement that my dad used as a workshop, so I waited in that little dark space and remember eating chocolate powder and being alone. I don’t remember reading or watching TV. How did I pass the time? And where was my brother? I don't remember him waiting...maybe he went home on the bus and then drove back in the car to pick me up. He was two years older. About art. I took art and music in grade 9, but in grade 10 I took Latin and typing. I was allowed to go into the art room during lunch hours and paint there with oil paints. I loved this and created quite a few paintings inspired by National Geographic photography during my high school years. Teachers bought them.
A mish mash of photos illustrate this post. They make sense if you think about how cloth is connected to life story. Otherwise, I can't explain them.
From the top: a detail of my studio wall about ten years ago, before I cleaned it off
: my 2017 Bidwell quilt with French knot embroidery inspired by murmurations of black birds
: the summer dining room, with the amazing table cloth received from one of my daughters
: my 2019 exhibition Beauty, Emotion, Spirit, Soul, with Lake and Monumental Simplicity hanging from the ceiling like sculptures
: this morning, June 8 2021, showing the folded up rock cut wool sculpture, and if you look, you can see more of my textiles in company with the beautiful suzani embroidery that I bought in Turkey when we were there in 2013.
The text is memory. And how we remember. And how much. And what we censor.