My quilts are objects that come together from materials I can touch, but also from some kind of fantasy of what I hope and dream yet can not name.
Slow to make, with many repetitive tasks that put me into a meditative state, they are listeners for the things I can’t say out loud in my normal life.
When I made my first quilts, and even later, after I had been going along for years, I had a fantasy.
My fantasy was about my own work. I thought it was unusual.
I thought that it was creative. I knew that it was art.
But when I look now at what has been done and continues to be done by the giants of this immense world, I realize that my work is rather ordinary. This realization does not mean that I am going to slow down or stop making it. And it doesn't mean that I am going to stop having the fantasy that what I'm making is something new and true and different.
It only means that I realize that I'm a speck, and that it is a big world.
“I’m sorry for forgetting how small I was in relation to an inlet.
Every day is a last day, and it is more than enough. Max Porter
this is much how I feel when I (inevitably) compare my work to yours ... and yet, I sometimes stop to really look at my own work done years past and think to myself "did I really do this? how wonderful!" ... how it can be "new and true and different" and that is where the joy can be found
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