I had a feeling I was going to do that, get so busy with fabric and sewing, two machines going, two mamas making and boys rushing through (hers and mine), and summer's breath, and music floating lightly, and the camera bag there, forgotten, in the corner.
Good thing there are images held, processed bright in the darkroom of the mind, and words stitched into a mosaic conversation, all of it together capturing deeper, more detailed pictures than a camera ever could.
(Good thing, too, that I had images of handbags from a making day a month or so ago!)
We were making handbags. Both of us learning something; both of us learning even more than that.
And I thought about art, the making. And how art has no size, but has fathoms of depth; how its voice can say the words that you never could. We talked together of how easy it is to wait too long for the 'time' to come; thinking that the art will come then, that the making will happen then, when the right now is all time we'll ever really have.
Fabric in hands, with needles going through, we talked about clouds - broiling, thundrous clouds, moody clouds rank with rain, and how we are arrested by that, how we study that, how we want to take up a drawing pencil and produce an image, spoken across a page. Just. like. that. And we talked of the mystery of cable knit, and, how does one make those twists, anyway?
That's why a sketchbook was waiting, there at arm's length, why a (first-ever cable-knit!) knitting project could be found in the take-everywhere bag. It's why we were at our machines, sewing right then.
For the art.
For the time.
For the right now.