Since my last check-in I've basically been working on the mourning veil. Needle lace is a slow, meditative technique and I often don't feel like I've made a dent until my partner says something like, "Wow, you've made a lot of progress!" I think I'm so focused on moving from one stitch to the next that it's hard to recognize how those little bits slowly add up until someone else points it out.
I didn't realize how much I have been craving a project like this. One where finishing is so far off that you almost have to forget about the end goal. The work is slow and repetitive, and there's a lot of room for thought. Sometimes uncomfortable feelings bubble up during those quiet stretches, which feels like a fitting connection to the work itself. There's something about processing and grieving that requires being willing to sit with things, to bear witness to thoughts and feelings without immediately trying to fix them or bury them.
I've also noticed that, mounted in the doorway between my living room and kitchen, the veil has started to look a little like a giant mandala. I hadn't anticipated that, but I really enjoy seeing it take shape.
Of course, the anxiety I mentioned in my last post is still there. I won't really know if this is going to turn out the way I want for at least another few weeks. Maybe longer. Some days I look at it and think it's so cool, and other days I wonder if it's a huge waste of time.
I also had the opportunity to do an artist demonstration at Austin Creative Reuse's Reuse on the Runway as part of my residency. It was such a joyful experience. I loved getting to talk with so many people about my work and process but one of my favorite parts was hearing the stories and memories that the work sparked for other people. It's always interesting to see where someone else's mind goes when they encounter something you've made.
And now for something a little less related to the residency, but sticky enough that I wanted to add it to the timeline.
A few weekends ago, I went on a photography walk. My partner has gotten into photography over the last few years, and it's reminded me of when I was in high school, taking photos for my photojournalism/newspaper classes and wandering around town taking pictures with friends. My partner gave me a film camera for my birthday earlier this year, and I finally took it out for a photo walk hosted by a local photography group. The photos came back from the lab last week, and I've included a few of my favorites here.
There was something about the experience of shooting film that I want to hold on to.
I set out to shoot an entire roll during that walk, but I definitely framed up way more shots than I actually took. I didn't want to be so precious about the film that I ended up not taking any pictures, but I also didn't want to use a frame on something that was just meh.
At first, not taking the picture made me feel uncomfortable, like I didn’t know what I was doing. Eventually though, every once in a whil something would catch my attention and I'd press the shutter. But I couldn't check the picture to see if I'd gotten it right. There was no immediate confirmation of success or failure. I just had to go back to scanning the world around me, looking for the next thing that caught my eye without knowing if I was doing it well or not.
When I took the last shot on the roll, I got this wave of anticipatory excitement. It would be at least another few weeks before I knew what I'd captured. While I felt uneasy not knowing how each picture turned out I went along,, there was something really satisfying about reaching the end of the roll and having to wait.
There are a few things about this experience I'd like to carry back into my art practice.
one. I actually like not knowing how something will turn out. But I also worry I am wasting time, money, attention, resources when I do something that may not work out.
two. Deciding not to do something is also part of the creative process. When I was taking photographs, I felt like I wasn't doing anything because I kept deciding not to take the picture. I would frame something up, look at it, feel nothing and move on. I felt like I wasn’t being successful because I wasn’t producing a photo every time I saw something interesting enough to raise the camera for. An I interpreted that discomfort in the moment as a sign of not being good enough.
But eventually the right subject, in the right light, at the right focal length, would come together, and I'd know I wanted to take the shot. That feeling was different and it couldn’t be manufactured at will.
And out of those twenty-something shots/moments that I felt something come together, I only liked 11 of the pictures once they were developed. And even then, I narrowed that down to 6 to show here.
I'm not sure I have a neat conclusion to all of this yet. But between the veil and the photography, I've been thinking a lot about patience, attention, and being comfortable with the space between making something and knowing whether it will work.