My art is a rite of passage. I emerge from it weary, frustrated and temperamental. It is a journey that winds sinews around brain, heart, hands.
When I draw, my eyes wander over the surfaces of my subject: curves that wind and widen, dip and disappear, straighten, stop and start. The slightest fold is an expedition into texture, light and shadow. It's no wonder, perhaps, that a square inch of work leaves me tired and shaking.
I finished this today:
It's a favorite subject of mine. Scarves. I have so many: silk, cotton, velvet; stamped with patterns of cities, castles outlined in turquoise, leaves and peach-colored shells. They are embroidered with fiery sequins and beads, decorated with knots, bows and spirited fringes.
This particular article was a mild, pastel green. In my uneducated hands it felt like rough silk. The fabric was delicate, with each individual thread standing apart and catching its own angle of light; so what I held was like five feet of shimmering air.
This took me about a week to draw. Every day, as I peered into the green folds, it seemed as if I was traversing meadows, hillsides and bowers that I'd never seen before. Sometimes the path was wide and verdant…sometimes it took a sudden turn and vanished completely.
I like this picture. It is a travelogue, a cartographer's fancy. It is my sculpture; carving into stone, through silk and across fields.