|Posted by lucindaquilts on June 13, 2015 at 7:35 PM||comments (0)|
I've been updating this site, and just came upon a wonderful bunch of resources -- back issues of SAQA (Studio Art Quilt Associates) now available to non-members. Visually thrilling! Enjoy!
|Posted by lucindaquilts on July 25, 2009 at 12:57 AM||comments (0)|
Someday I'll get organized enough to pay homage to everyone who helped me along the way; in the meantime I'm desperate to organize my ZILLION bookmarks so will just add this link to Sonya Lee Barrington's site -- I studied with her in San Francisco.
|Posted by lucindaquilts on June 23, 2009 at 11:37 AM||comments (0)|
This quilt marks the turning point, between years of my Dad asking in exasperated tones, 'You think you'll ever make any money at that?' -- to his displaying this proudly in his living room and telling all his friends that his daughter was a quiltmaker (even, oh chagrin, asking me years ago if I had a website he could tell them about!)
|Posted by lucindaquilts on June 21, 2009 at 11:15 AM||comments (0)|
Happy Fathers' Day to all the dads I know (including some quiltmakers who are also dads...)!
and, because our house and gardens here in Guad are full of quiet -- and 'noisy' -- blossoms, some lines from the poem 'Making':
"From the making made and, made, now making
certain order – thus excellent despair
is laid,and in the room the patches of the quilt
seize light and throw it back upon the air.
A grace is made, a loveliness is caught
Quilting a quiet blossom as a work." -- Phyllis Webb, Selected Poems, p.56
|Posted by lucindaquilts on May 7, 2009 at 9:04 PM||comments (0)|
|Posted by lucindaquilts on May 5, 2009 at 11:57 PM||comments (4)|
from "Transcendental Etude" by Adrienne Cecile Rich
[The Fact of a Doorframe: Poems Selected and New 1950-1984 (New York: Norton, 1984), p.264]
-- For Michelle Cliff
Vision begins to happen in such a life
as if a woman quietly walked away
from the argument and jargon in a room
and sitting down in the kitchen, began turning in her lap
bits of yarn, calico and velvet scraps,
laying them out absently on the scrubbed boards
in the lamplight, with small rainbow- colored shells
sent in cotton-wool from somewhere far away
and skeins of milkweed from the nearest meadow --
original domestic silk, the finest findings ---
and the darkblue petal of the petunia,
and the dry darkbrown face of seaweed;
not forgotten either, the shed silver
whisker of the cat,
the spiral of paper-wasp-nest curling
beside the finch's yellow feather.
Such a composition has nothing to do with eternity,
the striving for greatness, brilliance?
only with the musing of a mind
one with her body, experienced fingers quietly pushing
dark against bright; silk against roughness,
putting the tenets of a life together
with no mere will to mastery,
only care for the many-lived, unending
forms in which she finds herself,
becoming now the sherd of broken glass
slicing light in a corner, dangerous
to flesh, now the plentiful, soft leaf
that wrapped round the throbbing finger, soothes the wound;
and now the stone foundation, rockshelf further
forming underneath everything that grows.