It's been bonkers here lately, in this little room. A little while ago I chose to work on multiple small things, instead of the large pieces that have been tortuous in terms of the techniques I use. Everything I make is sewn and beaded and knotted and embroidered by hand, and this is a major part of the "why" of what I do. And in a noisy world, I love the idea of small. But small, well, adds up. It manages to fill every corner, shelf, tabletop. It can't brain you like a safe dropped on your head, but it can trip you something serious. Or bury you under an avalanche.
Appropriately, my next show is titled More is More. "Collection", all twenty pieces, is going there. Three objects had been sold as part of an auction a few months ago, but not the three I had thought, and when I unwrapped them all, I found out that I had remade the wrong objects as replacements. So now there were doubles. Ack. Ack. Ack. (Sorry Cathy. Never a fan, but ack does come in handy when other expletives are not so family friendly. Replace with your favorite blinding expletive of choice). One and a half days left to make three new sculptures.
Mountains of yarn balls. Pom poms everywhere, stuck to my hair, in my cuffs. Globs of acrylic resin, blobs of glue. Oliver rolling stolen wooden balls out the door and down the length of the hallway. My rolling chair rolling into bead-filled boxes balanced precariously on the edge of tables. Plastic box lids skidding underfoot. No one could come in. No one should come in. No one come in! (Though people did). String and yarn and threads strewn about like a pot of cartoon spaghetti had blown up. And packing peanuts! Oh the packing peanuts. If I ever dream again, I see oceans of packing peanuts, being forced to cross an ocean of packing peanuts, and when I do, when I crawl onto the shore I'll be picking static-clinging packing peanuts out of my hair well into the next decade.
I'm almost finished. Wish me luck.