follow that light

it's where it's at

tapestry; silk, flax, used coffee filters, natural dye; 1.5” x 1.5”

Poised between one thing and another—

— shifting by the hour—

—when the light is lovely all over—

—it’s hard to know quite where to put my attention.

Every shadow,

thyme in a teacup

—and drop of sun —

—every bit of ripening, curing, drying fruit—

—feels exquisite.

Well, maybe a dried grape isn’t exactly exquisite (at least visually).

But then again, maybe it is.

Certainly a raisin is as surprising as the fairgrounds at dawn where, at first glance, all seems quiet.

The concessions are not yet open.

The carousel horses are not moving (though apparently deeply impatient to be off and away).

And the other rides seem mellow and relaxed.

But inside the barns things are hopping. And mooing. And clucking. And Baaing. There, kids of all sizes—braided and be-jeaned—are clomping about in oversized wellies (the human kids, not the caprine kids), brushing sheep, hosing hogs, cleaning pens, pushing loaded wheelbarrows and generally fluffing up their beloved animals for that day’s competitions.

It’s a symphony to be sure— all the instruments tuning up in the warm, hay-smelling spaces—but also weirdly peaceful, at least for me (none of it is my responsibility don’t cha know), and definitely our best time of day, fair-going-wise. It’s all I usually do.

But this year for some weird reason (maybe widow’s brain kicking in again, or widow’s stomach), I had a hankering to taste the deep fried doughy delight that is an elephant ear. After hearing enough people talk about this iconic fair food with a certain awed reverence, I was sufficiently intrigued to (naively) hope a brief mid-afternoon foray into the hubbub wouldn’t be too overwhelming.

Guess I was wrong.

And I suppose three nibbles of elephant ear was all I really wanted.

At any rate, it was all I got.¹

And since we were no longer encumbered with an acre of fried dough, I persuaded Beryl to check out the bovine barn in case she might feel some secret ancestral connection. Alas, cattle dog heritage or no cattle dog heritage, she was not thrilled.

Ah well. Live and learn.

We went home. I ate some raisins.

Anyway, the dawn light was equally lovely and the streets restfully empty in other parts of town.

And by changing our route we happily chanced upon a few stalks of yellowing milkweed to bring home for splicing experiments² —a thing I’d been wanting/intending to try for ages.

Rewatching Sally Pointer’s excellent video³ got me started, and despite a certain elemental sloppiness (on my part, not hers), the process worked beautifully. Well, not beautifully exactly, but well enough that I learned a thing or two, which is what I was after.

Unlike Sally who wound her super fine singles into a ball, I used these oh-so-handy cardboard tubes (insides of dog poop bag rolls), to keep mine from getting snarled and they worked really well both for winding —

—and unwinding when I plied.

The resulting balanced yarn was interesting if inconsistent, and not too bad for a first go.

Indeed some of it was thrillingly fine—at least when compared with my “regular” cordage, so overall I was pleased.

Pleased, but not in love. Fast, fine, efficient, and historically fascinating though splicing most definitely is, I nonetheless did not find the process as elementally pleasurable as the making of cordage.

This this could be because I’m just better at the latter. (I’ve certainly done it more).

It might also be that making singles and then plying them in a second step is so similar to the other yarn-making I do that it doesn’t feel special, while cordage (essentially spinning and plying at the same time), feels so much it’s own thing.

Certainly with the latter I can read (slowly) and twist at the same time—and I’m always a sucker for that, especially when the light is luscious at the scarred pink formica table.

Or on the shiny black keys of a blue typewriter.

NOTE: the typing video above is just that — 2+ minutes of clickety clacking and if it is not to your taste, don’t click that arrow!)

On the other hand it is possible that why isn’t a word that even needs to come into this discussion—that I can like what I like even when it involves creating things that are neither use nor ornament but are simply, elementally, sun-in-a-blue-room pleasurable, to me.

How easy it can be to forget that sometimes we actually do get to notice the light that calls to us, and to have our own kind of elemental fun.⁴

Remember to comment (country fair or favorite light moments) with the button above rather than by hitting reply, for if you choose the latter I won’t see your lovely words. Thanks

And if you know anyone who might enjoy these whacky meanderings, please do click the button below and see what they think!

1. The elephant ear actually fell on the ground when Beryl flipped as the pigs crossed her path, so I was able to ask the pig’s people if they (the pigs not the people), would like it. They said yes. Having it fly straight into the pig’s mouth was easier to draw though. And more dramatic, eh?

I ‘ve no idea why I’m so drawn to drawing pigs (rather than goats or steers or poultry) but mine is not to question, just admire their magnificence. Of course as a non-meat eater it’s a little tough to think about their future, but they are utterly worthy of attention and admiration in the moment no matter my personal predilections. And their people adore them, which is a fine fine thing.

2. We are entering what seems to me to be best time for milkweed gathering: after any possible monarchs have flown and just before the stalks dry out (at which point the fibers become glued to the stalks only to be released by the freezing and thawing of winter retting). To that end I only gather three or four stalks at a time, for if they sit around they will dry out in a minute and become unusable.

3. HERE is the link to Sally Pointer’s fantastic nettle video in which she compares cordage -making with two methods of splicing. Her description of the second splicing method (the one I was trying) , begins at about minute 24.

4. Almost forgot to let you know that I will be away next week— driving, chatting with amazing weavers, and giving a wee talk at Tapestry by the Campfire, a Celebration of Tapestry and Jackie Wollenberg at Pacific Textile Arts in Fort Bragg, CA. The Gusset and I will be back on 26 September, to tell you all about it. In the meantime, lets all do our best to find some elemental fun.