A needlepoint journal about a hand-stitched life.

Full Blown Rose

Even though Easter came early this year I enjoyed a vase were filled with inexpensive grocery store roses.  There was one bloom that captured attention as its buttermilk yellow petals slowly unfurled into a glorious petticoat of tie-dyed sherbet hues, over the course of a week.

At breakfast each morning my elegant companion reminded me of the first time I was allowed to cut a few lilies my father had grown from seed.

We placed each stalk in a tall water glass.  I was enchanted by the sophisticated lily perfume, and the impetous falling beads of rusty pollen. 

I suspect my father's passion for growing backyard dahlias, lilies, and bearded iris has greatly influenced my selection of floral needlepoint canvases.  I really enjoy the challenge of stitching the depth and arch of each petal, straining to go beyond graphic design toward realism.

I also prefer stitching a flurry of ragged, ruffled edges, rather than the sturdy honey-comb, tubular petals of a Pom Pom dahlia.  (Irregularity seems less "commercial flower industry" to me.)

One of my greatest successes is a canvas I embroidered almost six years ago.  Here is a photograph of the front side of the finished pillow.

Though the original design encased the full blown rose within a nosegay surround of large leaves, I clipped away all periphrey foliage before I turned the raw edges underneath the rose.

The flower is inserted into former pieces of a recently purchased $16.00 scarf which has been machine quilted.  It is surrounded by hand-sewn lilac China silk binding, undulating with imperfections, just like all of us.

The reverse side of this lush silky cushion features another heart shaped pocket.  It is adorned with a black beaded treble clef. 

The recipient told me she is returning to private practice as a therapist, a decision which makes "her heart sing with joy."  I hope the musical notation will bring a smile to her face each day!

 

 

The Genesis of Segues

Once in a while, when I've recently completed an entire "pillow cycle," I feel pretty bereft.  Though a tempting new canvas may want to spring into my hands, I am too spent to thread another needlepoint needle right away.  I need to segue into a inspiring period of experimentation and personal reflection for a while.

The "J'adore le chocolat!" silk cushion absorbed about eighteen months of my attention.  There were times when I picked up the canvas and focused solely on the remaining details of last night's stitching.  During other days I could sense an audacious, fast forwarding mental slide tray revealing various options for:  What could be better?" 

Each week reminded me of my on-going middle-aged goal of learning to ride a bicycle.  Lots of bruises and careful avoidance of scary steep declines, just so I will stay confident before mastery.

 ( center of Chocolat pillow back side.)

It's been a wise choice.  During this pillow cycle, I created a new label for my future projects. I also became accustomed to a new habit of putting a project aside for a while to judge my progress dispassionately.  And most importantly, I made a personal commitment to maintain a weekly photographic journal for each future original design. 

While I was on needlepoint hiatus, I learned a dear friend of mine was recently diagnosed with prostrate cancer.  His wife is a treasured, talented jewelry artist.  Barb and John have been game witnesses to my needlepoint trials.  They have viewed my Chocolat outtakes numerous times, always eager to offer constructive suggestions for current errors.

Consequently, during tears I held back until time alone, it was natural for me to reach for some of the silk crepe de chine I quilted and rejected earlier for the Chocolat cushion.  John and Barb loved that fabric.  They even moaned as I decided the murky dull ebony, gray, and chocolate whirls didn't match the fiery fumes of melting Theo chocolate I wanted to replicate!  Surely now was the best time to recycle an abandoned idea.  I wanted to make my first prayer pillow,just for them.

Like you, I had no knowledge of prayer pillows until I read an article revealing their purpose. The Power of a Prayer Pillow was featured in the March-April 2010 issue of Spirituality and Health magazine. 

Sister Karen Zielinski, OSF, wrote about her thank you mail from people who received the heart shaped cushions.  She said:  "At first, people bought them for friends or family who were ill, as a get-well greeting they could take home with them when they were released a hospital...Eventually, I realized that the pillows were more than material and fiberfill.  They were aknowledgments of concern, love, and presence.  These pillows touched people's lives because they were a physical ritual, or sacrament, of someone's saying I care for you.  Or thank you. Or I love you through your pain."  (page 31.)

Though I didn't want to sew an identical pillow, I was captivated by the photograph of a valentine applique on each cushion.  It enclosed a little card assuring the recipient of the sisters thoughts and prayers for well-being.  The inclusion was exactly what I wanted to replicate! 

I traced a heart on the darkest side of the quilted silk to construct a pocket.  It was deliberately lined with the same chocolate brown satin I selected for my new label. Then I used the reverse lighter  side of the same murky crepe de chine as a foundation for the applique. 

( Segue:  Thank you for your tolerance.  I know this photograph is quite dark.  But believe it or not, the color is pretty accurate!)

I also enclosed a copy of my artist statement within a protective black cotton pillow slip for John and Barbara. 

It read:  "The imagery for this cushion arose spontaneously as I gazed at dormant gardens beside my feet.  On my daily walks I wondered how I could illustrate the loving, hopeful emotions I send you each day.

I noticed the wet dark brown loam giving vital nutrients to shy hellebores.  I saw blackened decaying agapanthus flower stalks ready to keel over for new shoots.

Inspired by the arches of past blooms co-existing with the early promise of surprising new growth, I chose tints of black, brown, and white.

I pray regular episodes of profound healing will occur for each of you during each day of John's recovery."

(This is the reverse side of the pillow.  The silver metal florets are from Fusion Beads, a shop Barb and I frequently visit.)

When I compare the length of time I devoted to each pillow project (eighteen months vs. one week) I realize they have the same emotional impact upon the viewer.  Both cushions express the love and devotion I feel for the recipient.  Both were made spontaneously during whatever period of time it took to match my artistic vision with a finished product. 

For me, it's easier to design a gift for someone else.  I try to be respectful of their decor, the closeness and duration of our relationship, and how they might welcome a present from me.  

Consequently, I'm seriously considering giving the Theo Chocolate Factory and my tour friend, Karen, copies of a Shutterfly book as a record of our mutual passion of chocolate.  I want them to know they have created memories for me I will always treasure. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sliding Doors

Through most of 2012 I sought solutions to a few irritating questions which threatened the tranquility of my domestic existence.  Then one morning in November I realized singleton life in a one bedroom apartment has become an ongoing cornucopia of choices.

Right now I have fifteen pillows, one Christmas stocking, and eight stitched canvas waiting for my finishing ideas.  It's SRO underneath my bed and along my bedroom closet shelf!  For a woman who values a wide open expanse, this is a vexing use of space.

An "Ah Ha" moment happened this week.  For some reason, known to anyone who has mindlessly washed and dried a stack of dirty pans, I passed the time recalling memorable Gweneth Paltrow movies.  I concluded the lesser known film, Sliding Doors, was probably the best example of her patrician acting talent.

The 1998 movie alternated between two parallel plots.  They were based on the two paths the central character's life could take depending on whether or not she caught a train.

Though this "either/or" script fascinated me with its unpredictable events, I greatly admired the denouement of the stories.  Both were gracefully open-ended in a way few evolving decisions are ever reconciled.

As I write this post I become more aware of what is important to me right now.  I do want to keep some cushions for religious holidays, or patriotic events like the Fourth of July and upcoming elections. Yet there is no reason why they need to advertise specific celebrations with blatant needlepoint messages.  I could rely upon my passion for unusual cotton and silk fabrics to convey generalized seasonal joy.  Then I could give some of my "duplicate" pillows to dear friends.

These adjustments have nudged me toward other flexible solutions.  When I was a frugal newlywed I entered a house built the same year I was born.  We paid half of the purchase price up front and cleared out our savings.  As the door eased toward proud ownership I encountered 2400 square feet of bare walls and empty space.  What to do?

I adored the rooms of House Beautiful magazine since the days I could start borrowing magazines from the Seattle Public Library.  They inspired me to decorate our home with the few handmade treasures I possessed.  In place of paintings I hung small quilts, silk fabrics mounted like Japanese scrolls, and a few of my husband's floral photographic portraits.

Once the walls were "taken care of," I winced.  Our barren and solitary living sofa still looked like it hadn't left the downtown Frederick and Nelson furniture floor!

You know, if you leave an ambitious bride alone until late at night, you may find her downstairs in a state of teary, exhausted triumph.  Picture me greeting my swing shift husband with a sketch in one hand, and a few four by four inch needlepointed coasters in the other palm.

I can remember thinking they were too fancy to use for iced tea as I stitched each one during a vacation.  But during my desperate tizzy I wondered if they might be more suitable for applique, perhaps on rotating sashes.

I experimented with the materials I had on hand the next day, and didn't worry about perfection.  I just wanted something cheery to brighten up an unwelcoming room.  Here is a photograph of my first success.  As you can see, they still slide back and forth around two complementary fabrics (the front and back sides of one pillow,) some thirty-five years later.

I've always enjoyed the proporations of my early triumph.  And I've wondered if I should standardize the size of future zipped pillows to enable the transfer of one padded insert routinely.  This idea would allow stacks of finished "pillow cases" to accumulate on top of one another within a smaller cubic space. 

Even though I have felt cramped at times, I know it's been a sacred blessing to be able to live alone for quite a few years.   Each day I've had the opportunity to gaze at life slowly, without influence. Now I sense it's the appropriate time to walk beyond the door frame of unnecessary limitations.  There are a lot of needlepoint adventures awaiting me, just ahead in the next room.

 

Going Once, Going Twice, Sold!!!

My thoughts this afternoon are spiraling around within boomerang arcs; between memories of the past year, and visions for next year.  The exuberance is familiar, but it is a bit scary.  Yet I know this mental state can be highly desirable any time I want to eliminate future futile attempts.

A few years ago I began donating some of my needlepoint bracelets and pillows to silent bid auctions for a few local charities.  I wanted to support low income housing, and also help establish a fund for a new heating system in my church with a check plus my artwork.  I hoped the rarity of contemporary needlepoint objects would be equal to an expensive bid.

That didn't happen.  The beaded cuff bracelets fetched about $125.00 a piece.  And what was more astonishing, one exquisite pillow that took six months to complete sold for under $200.00!

Ultimately, I didn't regret the submission of my contributions.  I felt I received a valuable reward because I invented quite a few beading techniques I could use for future canvas/fabric embellishment projects.  In time I began to wonder if there were other, more appreciative charitable "markets."

 

This fall I decided to take another risk.  I donated two more pillows, plus a set of 8 handmade luncheon napkins to a local ballet company to help raise funds for dance scholarships.  I priced a floral needlepoint pillow (15 x 15 inches) for a minimum bid of two hundred dollars.

The other cushion (21 x 21 inches) features two curious cats slinking over a wall to pounce on something below.  I listed the value at $250.00 on the silent auction donation form.  (Both canvases were designed by other artists, not me.)

Here is the front of the cat pillow.

And here is a photograph of the back of the pillow.  (The fabric is a Couture Christian Dior fabric I bought years ago in Vancouver, B.C. Canada.)

(I free-motion quilted the abstracted, undulating floral outlines to link the fabric and needlepoint motifs together.)

Both designs are devoid of my more recent impulse to create "sentimental" needlepoint.  They were essential therapeutic company as I sat in waiting rooms during caregiving, or personal appointments years ago.  They gave me the opportunity to escape into routine, when days of emotional concern were painfully drawn out.  I hope they will soon perch on another sofa, to claim a new identity in a different home.

Beyond the urge to relinquish triggers for historic depression, I suspect this set of donations may be more valued by patrons shopping at a ballet school auction.  I've noticed people who make financial donations to regional arts organizations often take great pride in the interior decoration of their home.  They search for unusual textiles, collect DVDs of acclaimed performances, and frequently like to entertain at home.

I will learn in another month or so how my donations are received.  I provided fifty "Needlepoint Artist" business cards to have on display.  Though I dream of helping other people design personalized canvases and teaching them some of my easy finishing techniques, I'm quite realistic.  Most people who employed outside the home have minimal recreational time nowadays. 

Hopefully,for the benefit of Pacific Northwest Ballet School, donors who are blessed with "discretionary funds" will consider offering a "fair trade" silent auction bid to purchase one of my donations.  That would be a winter blessing similar to the one Tiny Tim announced as he sat on his father's shoulders on Christmas Eve.

 

 

A Christmas Angel

I don't know if you remember my 2011 holiday to-do list.  Among other projects, I hoped to design an icon-like cushion for a Christmas angel enrobed in gold and silver needlepoint.  Now, one year later, she is appliqued within medieval splendor.  Here she is, lute in hand, ensconced by a canopy of bead shop ornamentation and translucent lavender blue buttons.

She was created within the context of teenage memories.  The best one was associated with the weekly PBS television series, Civilsation, hosted by Sir Kenneth Clark.

In my youth I attended a neighborhood Free Methodist church.  It was constructed with the austere adornment of a Frank Lloyd Wright protege.  The stained glass windows didn't illustrate Biblical stories.  They shone with solid rectangles of pure Josef Albers hues.

My childhood mind was forced to wander among the pews for distraction.  I noted the details of gabardine shoulders, the spirals within rigid helmet hairdos, and the proper distance congregants were careful to maintain between one another.

After years of spare Sunday ritual I grew hungry for sensory stimulation.  I became satiated as I  flipped through the library pages of 1960's Harper's Bazaar and Vogue magazines.  Here were photographs of rich paisleys embellished with gold threads, pictures of the dome of Haiga Sophia in Constantinople, and articles about museum exhibitions.

I began to realize what the term "artistic beauty" meant to me.  I also saw close-ups of fine needlework, like needlepoint and hand-rolled scarf edging for the first time!

By the time Civilsation aired I was primed for visual and aural satisfaction.  I was completely overwhelmed with joy during Clark's Gothic episode.  I can remember how the haunting slow ecclesiastical melodies complemented an elongated stone Madonna within a private chapel niche.  I can picture the pierced details of bronze organ pipes behind the altar.  I can still see many of the delicate silver leaf details used to draw a congregation toward Heaven and Grace.

All of these memories are deliberately replicated within the details of my angelic pillow.  I appliqued the stitched canvas to a harmonious silk damask, hoping to create the same vision of gentle quietude.

You may notice the angel tilts a bit.  (I noticed this disgusting flaw a month after purchase, before I began stitching.  Moral of the story, always bring a T-square when you shop for a new painted canvas!)

I felt blessed by this forewarning detail.  I knew, in time, this could be a design challenge with a variety of optical solutions.  The "best" turned out to be the most obvious---create a slightly off kelter, glittering canopy so the angel would appear perfectly upright.

Even though I had to cast away my pre-discovery plan of sewing silk pleats on either side of the angel, I think the off-set way the crystals and metal ornaments are laid creates an excellent optical illusion.  They honor the visual beauty and sense of religious veneration during Gothic times.

In a similar manner, each inch of appliqued silver trim intentionally replicates the novel artistic wonder I experienced with the guidance of Sir Kenneth Clark.

This pillow is my 2012 Christmas gift, given to myself.  She is nestled on a creme leather loveseat, in front of a sky blue cashmere shawl.  I'm thrilled she is at home with me.

 

 

Sakura: The season of floral transcendence.

Waving boughs of semi-clad maple trees have lined the paths of my morning walk for the past few days.  I enjoy their rustle as they toss about in the winds of autumn.  But I also feel a little sad.  I will miss their company once they form a decomposing carpet beneath my chilled gait.

How can a needlepoint artist depict seasonal changes within the static ground of a pillow?  Beyond the use of textural stitches, or unusual knitting yarns, I think one solution can be found during the finishing process.

About two weeks ago I attended a sewing class.  Among other skills, I learned how to bond a large piece (12 x 20 inches) of medium weight, all purpose, woven fusible interfacing to a flimsy piece of cotton.

I noted the strengthed fabric was still malleable and easy to pierce with a needle.  As I drove home I couldn't help wondering how a lightweight fusible interfacing would affect china silk.  Had I discovered an applique method I could use to depict scattered petals or desiccated leaves?

Yes, I think so.

Presently, I have three stitched and blocked "posy" designs.  (The artists painted a single enlarged blossom in the center of their composition, surrounded by a plain and unembellished ground.)

These posies were embroidered years ago.  Thankfully, they haven't wilted despite continued efforts to applique a floral portrait to a new complementary fabric. 

As time progressed, I began to realize my 20th century eyes yearned for the limitless expanse of a Rothko stained painting.  I wanted to stitch blossoms nestled in their natural environ, an abundant garden.

Here is a photograph of the canvas which stimulated my most recent questions.  It's a tangible bridge between my past and future solutions.

As you will note, I deliberately avoided a plain background.  This composition depicts an array of hydrangea florets, in tight focus with an undefined border.

Once again I hoped for visual unity as I tacked the needlepoint directly on top of the chintz bouquet.  (Here is a photograph of the back side of the pillow pre-applique.)

I think this recent experiment (two years ago) was semi-successful.  Free motion quilting did balance the textural contrast of needlepoint vs. fabric.  But the edges of the canvas didn't dissolve into the glazed cotton background.

If I had to provide a judge's rating I would say:  "The front of the pillow resembles a beautiful late Monet water lily painting - floral flotillas floating toward a nearby viewer at pond's edge."

Don't worry, I'm not going to rip out my applique stitches and search for another fabric.  I'm very proud of my progress thus far.  Ah ha moments can happen during any unpredictable season of experimentation.

These precious fleeting experiences are akin to the Sakura days of late March and early April; a time during which cherry blossom trees release a pale pink snow every where.  The petals linger on the ground for a week or so; time long enough to link past memories to present surprise and gratitude.

 

 

A journey with Matisse

As my birthday draws near I have spent time each morning gazing at a sepia photo that commerates my baptism.  It's an adorable studio portrait of a toddler. 

She's wearing an organza dress with tiny puffed sleeves, and a crisp bow sash.  Little ruffled socks are tucked inside her white Buster Brown shoes.  Her eyebrows are alert and quizzical.  With tentative outreach, and patient hope, her arms are uplifted to escape her perch.

This inquisitive September ritual has helped me realize I don't dread my future journey travelling toward elderhood.   I agree with the observations of Rabbi Harold Kushner.  He wrote in his book, Conquering Fear:  Living Boldly in an Uncertain World:  "We do ourselves and others a disservice when we make old age something to be feared.  Life is not a resource to be used up, so that the older we get, the less life we have left.  Life is the accumulation of wisdom, love and experience of people encountered and obstacles overcome.  The longer we live, the more life we possess."

I also realized people like Julia Child, Henri Matisse, Mary Oliver, and Rabbi Kushner didn't fret about what they "couldn't do" during their sunset years. They focused on expansive, regenerative projects that would take advantage of their current abilities.  Even though they continued to butt against failure or infirmnity from time to time, they were sustained by new achievements and colleagues.  All four have truly lived.

Aided by these insights, I decided a Jean Smith 14 mesh painted canvas titled Sweetheart Rosewould be the best choice to depict my future goals.  The colors and shapes in this rosy bouquet are reminescent of Matisse's love of textiles.  They encourage me to think large in macro scale detail (something this 18 mesh girl has avoided up until now!)

The title of this design will also help me.   I realized this summer I had been too solitary during my fifties.  I sustained a lot of emotional and relationship losses.  It got to the point where I wondered:  "Who is going to say Adios now - in word or avoidance?" 

Now I realize that period of life is long over.  I want to discard the self-comforting words I kept company with for the last eight years.  They exist within the title of Smith's canvas.

Believe it or not, "Sweetheart" is a private endearment I have used to cajole my self, in a Humphrey Bogart cadence, as I gone about my day.  And "Rose" is linked to Bette Midler's famous song, The Rose.  (I listen to it whenever I need quietude and realistic perspective.) 

This design will teach me how to suggest complementary shadows and depth with brighter hues.  I hope it will be a Fauve illustration depicting my sixtieth year of grateful life .  I will rename it once the last stitch is drawn through its hole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part IV: Eau de Chocolat est un fait accompli!

Please join me as I hum snatches of Handel's glorious Hallelujah Chorus.  I completed a widespread search for aromatic chocolate hues and motifs late one night this week.  My "J'adore le chocolat" design is no longer a figment of sustained imagination.  It is a "fait accompli."

Now, a few days later, I am fascinated with all of the organic bubbles and gurgles filling my needlepoint heart.  I am also astonished I was able to avoid gettting caught up in mirror imaging.  (It was so tempting when I saw that paisley swirl emerge without premeditation at the bottom of the heart.)

What is most special is a wish fulfilled.  I was able to be honest about my failures, and the days when I had to take a time out to gain fresh perspective.  I wasn't worried about getting judgmental comments from any of you.  I sensed we all share a love of handmade textiles, and a supportive curiosity about the needlepoint design process.

Before I reveal a few final decisions, I thought you might want to read about a moment in my life when I learned the enormous value of tenacity.  It was a time when I had to "suck it up" day after day until a healthier solution was reached.

Shortly after my twenty-second birthday, on the afternoon of my four month wedding anniversary, I was a pedestrian in a marked crosswalk with the approval of a green light.  A three quarter ton truck ran the light at 35 miles per hour and smacked into my right hip.  The impact of the collision instantly propelled my body up in the air.  I flew about four feet above the pavement, and landed on my right buttock half way down the block. 

Fortunately, there was a bucket truck of utility pole workers who were alarmed witnesses to this rapid, crazy journey.  They yelled at the elderly driver to stop.  But he must have been in shock.  He continued driving and came very close to running over me.

This sequence of events happened so quickly I didn't absorb the possibility of my death or being a lifelong cripple until I reached the emergency room.  Amazingly, I was blessed to have no broken bones.  I sustained lots of torn ligaments, tendons, plus a cardboard box containing two pulverized bakery cupcakes I clutched throughout the entire ordeal!  I recuperated at home.

It took two years before I didn't feel like a horse had kicked my back.  During that span of time I learned the daily discipline of "trying again," albeit within relationships, self-education, or maintaining a calm, hopeful demeanor during physical pain.  It seems I can get through just about anything - accidents, divorce, or fair weather friendships if I take a short break to contemplate the possibility of Plan B.

Eighteen months ago, when I realized my first Chocolat design had to be tossed, I removed all of my preliminary stitches, and deliberately used the same canvas for further attempts.  I slowed down the whole "stitch and decide if this is a keeper" process to encourage more opportunities for observation and reflection.

Even so, there were many times this summer when I felt discouraged with my artistic progress.  Personal faith returned when I began to visualize a few days beforehand what color or shape was needed in the next unstitched area of the canvas.

The evolution of this newly acquired skill reached a zenith within the area surrounding the individual letters spelling chocolat during late August.  I had noticed how my eye was attracted to the undulations of "peak and valley" spacing.  It seemed as though the canopy of pale orange stitches above the word encased it, and enabled it to be read correctly from a distance within the pale taupe background.

Once that area was completed I needed to rip out stitches to the left and the right of chocolat.  They were the same intensity in value as the taupe.  And they didn't provide any contrast patterning.

Lots of careful snipping ensued.  Then I punched up the buttressing motifs with brighter oscillations of scarlet, vermillion, and ebony swirls.  C'est bon!

In hindsight, I discovered I made substantial progress once I fell into a nightly routine of needlepointing for about 45 minutes an hour before bedtime.  I didn't look at my progress until the next morning.  I was surprised by my lack of panic whenever the overall design looked misaligned.  And there were many times when I realized I just needed to look at the embroidered canvas in full daylight!

This weekend I will initiate the final stage of this project.  This endeavor includes blocking my finished canvas, calculating the best dimensions for the pillow it will be appliqued on, and sewing the cushion myself.

The dynamic rust/amber/chocolate brown African cotton batik I photographed for Eau de Chocolat, Part III has been tucked away for another project.  Though beautiful and inspiring, it has the same level of detail as my final version of "J'adore le chocolat!"  It would distract any viewer who valued clarity.

During this final week of stitching I discovered a bolt of scarlet/orange silk damask (dress weight) at Nancy's Sewing Basket.  I hope the subtle repeat pattern of acanthus leaves will evoke thoughts of the cocoa bean in tropical environs.  It could also showcase my passion for dark chocolate (whenever it is melting, smelt, or consumed.)

However the pillow is constructed it will be important to design a gradual progression of hues from the foreground of the heart to the background fabric.  My question is how?  Once again, Sherlock Holmes' game is afoot!

This original design emerged from many episodes of intuition and experiment.  It reminded me of the days after my accident when I learned what I was incapable of doing.  One time early in recovery I tried to take an independent shower while my husband was at work.  I was able to hoist my leg over the edge of the tub.  But ten minutes later, when the water was shut off, I couldn't repeat the motion.

Visions of being trapped there until he came home were highly realistic.  So I experimented.  I lowered myself inch by inch to a seating position on the rim of the bathtub and waited a while.  My next goal was to reach up for a towel to dry off.  With incremental progress I walked out of the bathroom about an hour later - just like my needlepoint tribute to honor le chocolat. 

 

A Summer Ritual: Eau de Chocolat Part III.

Long ago, during the winter of 6th grade, a bedridden feverish little girl was elated to receive a most welcome diversion in the mail.  It was her first Scholastic Book Club order--a fifty cent paperback copy of the Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Though a stubborn staph infection pulsated within her ear canal, though she winced every time she moved her covers or felt a draft, she was ecstatic.  She owned a book she would never have to return to the library!

Some forty plus years later I can vaguely remember my first reading of this classic.  I did rise to the challenge of imaging how the drooling, monstrous hound appeared as he bounded across the Scottish moors.  But so many other details were beyond my childish abilities.  I guess that's one blessing of youth.  There are numerous opportunities to discern and savor important missed clues when a book is reread several times in later life.

Now each summer, during a rare spell of hot humid Seattle weather, I reread Doyle's literary masterpiece to further discover how mystery is created.  This ritual comforts and cools me in a way no ice cube can.  It is a welcome diversion during the design phase of an intriguing needlepoint canvas.

I awakened last week from the slumber of stagnation to a cold energizing dawn.  As I enjoyed my breakfast I realized I hadn't asked myself a most essential question.  What produces delicious aromas?

A little memory travel ensued.  I imagined myself on the Theo Chocolate tour as I entered the confection kitchen.  That's where I experienced a somersault of multiple sensations.  Heat, continuous drifts of unfurling odor, and the sheer pleasure of chocolate vapor enveloped my body.  These associations called for rich oranges, scarlet reds, gem quality ambers, deep browns, and even some warm champagne tans.  All are descriptive hues to depict the complex perfume of melting chocolate, and its tropical origins.

Once discovered, I knew I wanted to replicate the experience of peering into a large double boiler of warming chocolat.  Its plop pop energy alerting me it was time to take it off the heat.

I thought my mental picture could be illustrated with batik patterns, or faint lines of soaring arcs, or a looser, revised tracing of the plumes within my previous design (Eau de Chocolat:  Part II.)  And eventually, I decided to pull together elements from all three options--largely because I enjoy the adventure and freedom of "needlepoint discovery."  (A stitch and go method of glancing at fabric motifs as guides for color choice and thread placement.)

I ripped out all of my former stitches.  Then I changed the color of the lettering to a passionate Trebizond scarlet red silk.  Here's a photo of my progress thus far.

 

Now that you've had a chance to look at some of my new paisley-like spirals a few of my upcoming choices will be more evident.  First of all, I need to link the color dynamics of the rust/brown/ivory batik pillow fabric to my canvas.  But I don't want  a "perfect match."  So, to prevent visual boredom, I've punched up the perimeter of the heart with accents of vibrant pure red and oranges.

I also found some Silk Lame Braid in a variety of brown/rust hues.  This selection is complemented by the warm beiges and rich ivory tones of Neon Rays sparkling ribbon.  I'm hoping these sporadic iridescent twinkles will reflect the intoxicating aroma of the Theo Chocolate Factory!

Ultimately, I want to guide the viewer's eye from a darker border into a light filled center.  Though I need "J'adore le chocolat!" to be easily read, I don't want to create a stark contrast between foreground and background.

With a little over two months to go before my sixtieth birthday, the canvas may be completely embroidered.  Rescued by the diverting tale of The Hound of the Baskervilles once again, I feel confident my needlepoint mysteries can be solved.

Mary Oliver's Swan

What do you muse about as you needlepoint--during those solitary times when ticking clocks and hushed footsteps throughout your home are the strongest metronomes of repetitive noise?  During June and July I retreat to nightly memories of annual visits to the Swan Pond at Stanley Park in Vancouver, B.C.

It is a magical place best experienced during dawn or dusk, when the water fowl ferry back and forth between nest and yonder shore with regal confidence--ever mindful of their neighbor's territory.  I've never seen a swan fly, but the egrets do.

Sometimes my heart wells with protective recall as tiny goslings waddle like droopy drawer toddlers before me.  "Why doesn't that nasty owner read the sign?  No dogs allowed!" I harrumph.  A few stitches later I calm right down.  I remember that small teal duck with its inquisitive neck.  It was such a delightful companion as I knelt by the shore on one early Fourth of July fifteen years ago.

Is it no surprise to you one of my favorite poems can be found in a volume of poetry and prose by Pulitzer Prize winner Mary Oliver?  The book is titled Winter Hours.         

                   The Swan

"Across the wide waters

    something comes

        floating--a slim

            and delicate

ship, filled

   with white flowers--

      and it moves

         on its miraculous muscles

as though time didn't exist,

   as though bringing such gifts

      to the dry shore

         was a happiness

almost beyond bearing.

   And now it turns its dark eyes,

     it rearranges the clouds of its wings,

it trails

   an elaborate webbed foot,

     the color of charcoal

        Soon it will be here.

Oh, what shall I do

   when that poppy-colored beak

      rests in my hand?

         Said Mrs. Blake of the poet:

I miss my husband's company--

    he is so often

       in paradise.

         Oh course!  the path to heaven

doesn't lie down in flat miles.

   It's in the imagination

      with which you perceive

         this world,

and the gestures

   with which you honor it.

      Oh, what will I do, what will I say, when those

                white wings

         touch the shore?"