Cloth has always called to me. Coming down the steps into the basement of the J.C. Penney store in my hometown you could see the entire fabric department, my favorite, bathed in flourescent light. From that vantage point there was a plethora of color, pattern and fiber, the sheer abundance of it a promise and a lure. My mother made the little cotton dresses I wore to school, so cotton prints were what we concentrated on, sometimes starting at the big pattern books to look for variations on the puff sleeve, gathered skirt, sash tied standard. Sewing for me and my sisters was a creative outlet for my mother and I felt her interest as she pulled fabric, pattern and trim details together. I always liked the clothes she made for me, but the best part was the pile of uncut fabric waiting for her to begin. Like the view of all the bolts from the stairs, the various prints stacked together were more beautiful than any one dress. Bright and uncut, they were all possibility ... still just cloth in the moment before becoming something else.
I still like cloth for itself. Flexible like skin and prone, as we are, to the wearing effects of time and environment, cloth serves as a potent metaphor for us, alive. No other medium is quite as intimate or familiar. The thousands of interlacing strands in fabric easily evoke and hold the memories and emotions that weave through our relationships with each other and our world. What could be more nostalgic than the print of your second grade Easter dress, or your mother's favorite maternity smock? Just picturing them transports you instantly into the past and sends echos of feeling back to the present.
Working with textiles, especially weaving, dyeing and hand sewing them, is also a powerful connector to all who have performed the same actions in the past...and cloth has been with us for so so long. The smells of the dye plants, the strain of stirring, the heat of the fire, the drag of the thread, the prick of the needle are all sensations I have in common with people long dead and far removed from me, but brought back by those shared experiences. As I bend to my task I often feel as though I am sprouting tentacles or threads from myself that permeate my work and my life, reaching back before I was born and projecting into the future; drawing stimulus, nourishment and life to me, even as they add my color to everything around. The older I get, the less distinct I feel. I may eventually disappear entirely.