Abusive? Me?

My Janome New Home is in the shop for repairs. It was really a sad sad happening. I was super zigzagging away through something that I knew was way too thick for that machine, but I did it anyway...it's a trooper. And then nothing. Push the peddle. Nothing. Hmmm. I broke it. I'm sorry Jan. I don't seem to be able to cultivate appropriate relationships.

So, I took her into the shop for repair and Bob says "You are too rough on this machine. You batter it. This is a delicate instrument. A beautiful machine." Good heavens, yes, I know Bob. I'm abusive. I admit it. I'm not trying to hide that. It's perfectly evident. Can you fix her or have I killed her?

"This machine is not meant for that sort of thing." Oh, please stop scolding me. I know this. I've had enough trouble these past few weeks. You aren't my father nor are you Jan's dad. You are her "physician", so stop judging and get to diagnosing and repairing. I am still waiting for the sewing machine police to come to my front door and arrest me and book me on abuse charges.

This went on for countless minutes. The shaking of the head. The tisk-tisking. Onandonandonandon. I was rescued by his lovely co-worker (I forget her name but I should name a machine after her) who said "Have you ever thought of using an older model machine? Something all metal and sturdy, since you only use a zigzag and a straight stitch". Why, yes lovely co-worker...I used to use my Mom's old machine but it broke and I got this new fangled thing that is apparently a delicate flower, too precious to be man-handled by the likes of me. I am very interested in a sturdy mule-like machine. Do you have any?

She guided me by the elbow around the corner (they keep the elderly machines in a side hallway away from all the pretty young things) and my heart almost stopped. Two rows filled with refurbished, rewired geriatric puke green sewing machines. It was like a dream. Beautiful.
I found Jan's great grannie...an old Janome New Home. It's the best. It matches my favorite mug. There's no "up-down" feature for the needle, but this baby is solid. After a few minor incidents (confused threading, bobbin insertion issues and a misjudgment of needle position...through my index finger was not the correct position), we have settled into one another. Bob said he would call me when Jan had "recuperated" after her "surgery" and I have a strange feeling he's going to make me sign some sort of technical release form. Sewing probation.

However...in tribute to the supposedly frail young Jan, I present to you her workhorse heart. All the tough stuff was done on her before she collapsed. I just finished up the embroidery and design amendments over the past few days, though.

Architectural Study V (measures about 10x15 inches including the scraggledies on that falling bundle). I decided to remake some of the Architectural Study pieces. Yes, they were just ideas posing as work (very trendy indeed) but when I got ready to mount them the action was missing and I need that movement. I added the seed/circular elements and the falling bundle. I think I'm going to add some skinny stick-ish rectangular elements but I'm just going to wait a few days and see if it's me simply requiring MORE or the piece requiring a better compositional resolution.

Bundle Study 144 (about 5x6inches). I'm trying to simplify them, if that's possible. De-clutter the bundles...de-clutter the life.

Bundle Study 145 is actually a bit larger than usual, measuring about 6x10 inches.

And of course, I always appreciate when I am credited with being an inspiration of some sort... Jan Jackson (no relation to my sewing machine) has created a fun sonji-ish piece with the fabric she purchased from me. Thanks for sharing Jan. Your other work is totally amazing, too. And, to my Jan...I never meant to hurt you. I won't do it again. Only three layer sandwiches of the traditional sort(ish) for you from now on.

Pissarro, Paul and my Pops (no particular order)

This afternoon, I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum for a walking lecture on the current exhibition of Camille Pissarro's work. I decided that I should really take advantage of my museum membership more often instead of relying on the fact (?) I am an art historical genius already (gag...). More importantly, today would have been my Father's 86th birthdayand although he's been dead for 26 years, I still celebrate in some way. I loved my Daddy bigger than anything. Is everyone tearing up? I am. It seems I always am lately.

When this exhibit opened in June, I went to see it immediately because I adore Pissarro. He was an Impressionist, sometimes referred to as the "Father of Impressionism" and such, but to me, he was such an individual and I tend to think he should not be grouped with the rest of the Impressionists (fabu as they are...I'm just sayin'). He was close with Cezanne and his love of paint for paint's sake and geometry for geometry's sake and color for color's sake and optics and color "reality" are so obvious. His formalist tendencies are bare naked, despite the subject matter.

One of the first oil paintings I ever made was for my Father and it was a copy of a Pissarro landscape. It might still be in the basement or I might have thrown it out last year in a fit of trying to live a new life and not dwelling on the past. I'm scared to check. Anyway, I vividly remember making it. On my 12th birthday, my parents gave me a beautiful wooden paint box complete with a set of oils and round and flat white bristle brushes, plus an easel, jars of linseed oil and turpentine, a real artists apron with my initials on it and some stretched canvases. That's quite a gift for anyone, let alone a 12 year old girl. My parents always indulged my art, but that gift was extra special. All of it was piled in front of my bedroom door when I opened it my birthday morning. I believe I was so cool about it (being 12 and artistic) that I just climbed over everything and pretended not to notice for as long as I could...which wasn't very long. Even back then oil paint was oxygen.

Why or how I decided on that particular Pissarro landscape is a mystery. I used to look at tons of books and then show my parents and they'd tell me what they liked and asked if I thought I could copy it, so that's most likely where the idea came from. My Mother loved modern art and abstraction whereas my Dad liked landscapes and cityscapes. Knowing their personalities, I always thought it should be the other way round, but what do I know. Art is a mysterious thing. My Dad would also draw seven legged cats to make me laugh and my Mom would copy fashion drawings out of the newspaper with me. OK, I'm digressing again and I'm going to cry more. Let's get back to that lecture...

We all had to wear headphones because the curator's voice was so soft and there were over 100 people present...that's a lot and the museum staff was very happy. I enjoyed the enthusiasm the curator had regarding Pissarro's work and I did learn a few things about him personally that made me like him even more, such as:

• he preferred to live on the fringe of towns instead of in big cities
• he lived with his lover for 5 years and had two kids prior to their getting married because his family disapproved of the class of the woman he loved (I also admire his woman...screw societal expectations I say).
• when he was exhibiting salon style at the beginning of his career, he purposefully signed his name HUGE and painted on large than average canvases because he knew his work would be hung very high on the wall...good business smarts.

I bought a t-shirt emblazzened with a great quote attributed to Pissarro , "It is absurd to look for perfection." I also purchased this book at the museum store about the Paul R. Jones Collection , newly installed at the University of Delaware. A couple of years ago he spoke in Milwaukee and I didn't hear a single word he said because his mic didn't work and no one wanted to tell him to stop talking because he was on a roll. So, I was pleased to find this book and learn more about his collecting. It chronicles 40 years of his passion. Very cool.

Now, baseball on the radio and the Habitat door fabric in the sewing machine. Life goes on.