I don’t begin with images, not even in my head. When I don’t know where to start, I reach for a pen, and spill out words. Not sentences, just words, and phrases. They seem disjointed but they’re connected, a web of thoughts.
A few weeks ago I learned that something scary and wonderful may happen. I might be part of an exhibition. Maybe. If it happens. If they want me. I don’t feel ready. But I’ll never feel ready, so I can’t let that make a difference.
Since the possibility emerged, the enormous hole of fear has gradually been mending, patched with fragments of ideas scribbled onto little squares of paper, here and there.
This morning I opened a blank sketchbook, pasted in the little squares, scribbled some more, saw where I might go.
Worrying that I can’t begin by seeing, looking, drawing, I turn (of course) to a book for reassurance.
This is a common way of working for many artists who, for one reason or another, do not find observational drawing a suitable basis for their ideas or thoughts. For many, it would be impossible to draw what they want to express.
Creating Sketchbooks for Embroiderers and Textile Artists, Kay Greenlees, Batsford, 2005, 59 – 68.
Scraps of paper, crammed with words, building blocks of ideas I need to dwell with, within. Foundations for pieced thoughts.