i.
Fabric in the sky
And through the winding aisles
Makes a girl dream big.
ii.
Well, now that’s not good:
I’ve used up all my data.
Sorry, Instagram.
iii.
List of things to do:
Hang with Denyse and Tula,
Shamelessly name drop.
iv.
Quilts are made of gold;
It’s up to us to guard them.
(Do not screw this up.)
I have arrived in Houston. It’s time for Market.
The picture above is from early this morning, when I dragged myself — I had immunization shots yesterday and have felt extremely bleh since — to a hair appointment to do a major color job. Above is the “Before” picture; what do you suppose I did to the ol’ head?
Dispatches from the field beginning tomorrow. I’ll make sure to show the hair. Pictures will be on Instagram; deeper observations made right here.
Goodnight, Houston!
In my Quilt Scout column earlier this month I took on the “Are quilts art?” question. Being in art school, I’m approaching this question differently than I have in the past; turns out I still feel the way I did before but for better, sounder reasons.
The thing is, “Are quilts art?” might not even be the right question — but it’s true that quilts do occupy a funky place in the art/craft conversation and it’s more than worth turning over in your mind for awhile, especially if you have cookie bars and some binding to do at your next retreat.
Consider a Mariner’s Compass from 1890. Though beautiful and artful — impressive technique, intelligent color placement — it’s argued by some that it’s still just (!?) craft, because the Mariner’s Compass doesn’t have a deeper meaning behind it. There are no implications, no ironies, no symbolism. It’s a blanket. Sure, it’s a stunningly beautiful blanket, but but the woman who made the quilt wasn’t like, working out her grief about the death of her child through the patchwork in the quilt.
…Or was she?
That’s the trouble. The people who make determinations about what art is or is not are usually not the people making the quilts, recording the stories, or keeping the “blankets” safe. See what I mean?
Over the summer, I started making a quilt and with a deeper meaning behind it. Will someone know that in 100 years? Will someone keep the records? I can’t know. But I know that my quilt, “Bachelorette,” is a monochromatic Log Cabin I’m making using all my old sheets and pillowcases and my favorite white shirts from the past five years.
A lot has happened to me in the past five years. Divorce. Illness. Career stuff. Tens of thousands of words. So much love. Heartache. Moves. Moving back. So much travel. School. Change, change, change. And I was going to get rid of some old sheets in June and I was replacing some worn-out old white (and off-white) shirts in June and I stopped myself:
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said (out loud, of course.) “Not so fast.”
It’s going to be a big quilt. The paper-pieced blocks you see finish 7”; I have made 64 of them. I have 26 left or something daunting like that. I’m stitching in labels from clothes that I wore during — well, I’ll write the whole story later. That’s part of this quilt: The story of it, on paper.
It’s white, like paper. It’s softer, though, and lived-in. And it’s definitely art.
Definitely.
I had my knee appointment yesterday. The good news is that I don’t have to have my knees replaced this summer, which is what I had convinced myself I was going to have to do. They’ve been hurting so terribly and really, I think I was looking forward to major surgery in some sick way: It would mean I’d have to stop moving. Think of all the reading I could do!
So no surgery, but I do have some kind of patella syndrome. Can you believe that? Patella syndrome! Just when I thought I was gimpy enough, I gotta have some kind of patella syndrome. The nerve(s).
That my patellas have syndromized* is what my knee doctor told me, anyway. He was capable and I liked his Maltese accent, but I do think I’ll get a second opinion; there were a few concerns he didn’t address even after I mentioned them a couple times and feel like I owe my (cute, beguiling) patellas another looksee. I have a script for some physical therapy, but the meds he recommended I can’t take because of UC-related stuff. I shrug, I wince, I get the second opinion and wonder if I’m really weird enough to want someone to tell me that I have to have double-knee surgery so I can rest for Lord’s sake.
What I really wanted to tell you is that at the hospital yesterday I got to wear a pair of absolutely ginormous paper shorts.
My X-ray tech was named Angel.
“Hi,” I said, putting out my hand. “I’m Mary.”
“Miss Mary,” Angel said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please put on these shorts. I will wait outside; you let me know when you’re ready, okay? Just knock on the door.” I thanked him and he went into the hall.
Apparently, all they had were XL paper shorts. The shorts I was holding were pure comedy. I’m not saying that extra-large shorts are funny: I’m saying clothes that are way, way too big or way, way too small for a person are funny. It’s like a basic rule of comedy. And when the clothes are made of paper and have elastic… This is commedia dell’arte stuff.
I chatted with Angel while he did my X-rays. He was such a cool guy. He moved here from El Salvador twenty years ago and worked his way through radiology school while working as a janitor at Northwestern. He told me about his daughter and how she’s already talking about being a doctor.
“You have to tell her how cool the clothes are,” I laughed. “Scrubs, paper shorts…”
We laughed. We talked about the election. I asked him if I could keep the shorts when we were done. He looked at me like no one had ever asked him that before.
“No one has ever asked me that before,” he said. “But…be my guest.”
Last night, because I am so cool, I posted a series of pictures on my Instagram account of me posing and duck-facing with my shorts. I used them as a cowl, a hood, a hat, a scarf. I’m glad my knees aren’t as bad as I thought they were. I just wish they didn’t ache like they do.
Interesting note: While I was goofing off with paper X-ray shorts on my head, they didn’t hurt at all.
*my term
The Lemon’s Lament
by Mary Fons © 2015
A lemon’s a tragic figure,
And we’ve all got juice on our hands;
Without wish to understand it,
We make lemony demands.
We clamor for slices and wedges,
Ne’er valuing his or her whole —
Unless there’s food to squeeze it on,
A lemon rots within th’ bowl.
“Water with lemon,” we oft request;
“Lemon with my fish!”
While lemon must quell its agony
And roundly reject the wish
To feel fingers peel away
Its pockmarked, pithy skin,
Exposing tender fruit meat,
Poised to drip down someone’s chin.
Nay, this has never happened;
(A lemon hardly peels!)
Instead it’s razed into sour wafers
With no regard to how that feels.
Tabbouleh, pound cake, salad dressing
All need a touch of tart;
For the chef to achieve th’ flavor profiles,
It’s tang they must impart.
‘Course they won’t then toss the lemon in
To whatever dish they serve;
The lemon’s tossed into the bin,
(The callousness, the nerve!)
But Lemon knows they cannot do it —
It’s accepted this as fact;
It has no life beyond a garnish,
The squirt its closing act.
For when we choose a fruit to eat
The lemon has no place;
It offers only pain to man —
It’s written on his face.
Lemon plays the outfield, always
Never pitcher, never hitter,
Forever weeping acid tears;
And you wonder why it’s bitter.
*Hello! I thought I’d post a recently revised and updated version of The Lemon’s Lament tonight. Whenever life seems a bit on the bewildering side, writing fruit poetry makes everything better. This is an actual fact of honest truth in my life. Read this one aloud to someone you love who is nearby: husband, girlfriend, cat, plant! All of ’em at once!