winding our way slowly home along the two-lanes from my uncle's house the summer my son was a baby, we stopped to spend the night in a tidy little roadside motel. flowers were blooming in every patch of earth to be seen around the grounds and the elderly couple who owned the place came out to our car to greet us. my son, a sweaty sweet bundle, slept as i lifted him from his warm car seat and pressed his head against the hollow of my neck.
as i turned to the kind woman who was showing us to a room, she reached out and caressed my son's little fist with her crooked finger. she asked the usual friendly questions about his age and name and where we were from as she walked us to the door. as i waited for my husband to get our few bags inside, she looked at me and said;
"you can never love your mother as much as she loved you. and you never know how much your mother loved you until you have a child of your own."
then she walked away, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open. i wasn't sure if i wanted to laugh or cry, but i have never forgotten that tender encounter with a stranger. i recall it especially on this day.
i wish you all happy mother's day!
i've been working lately with my photographs and printer, making new and layered prints. today i got some framing done... in the bricolage way. i printed the tulips photo on an old piece of watercolor paper and the layered prints on strathmore textured stationery samples from my stash. both papers were hand-me-downs, donated by someone who had no use for them anymore. i prefer the way my photos look on the unorthodox matte papers rather than the glossies i get from the kodak plant. but i'm never sure if they will last as long as professional photo prints. the black frame is from ikea and the others were rescued from the trash. two of these prints are gifts. i guess one man's trash is another's gifts and art projects :)
thoughts of how these things are interconnected have been rolling around in my head these days. being greatly experienced in frugality and economy (but not loving it all the time), i have done things in a bricolage way for most of my life. the day i discovered the definition of the word {something constructed by using whatever materials happen to be available} it seemed as if a hundred light bulbs flipped on above my head, not just one. an inspired moment of recognition set me on a new path and gave me a sense of validation. it has become second nature to me; when i don't have the resources to go out and buy the perfect tools and supplies, i must stretch my creative muscles to come up with unique solutions and substitutions. some of my most important and beloved equipment has come to me as gifts from generous friends and family (for which i am grateful on a daily basis).
i have grown to embrace the challenge of my financial limitations over the years (but not love them all the time) and realize that i apply bricolage ways to almost everything i do in life. some my favorite recipes for cooking involve the meals i manufacture out of the last four ingredients left in the pantry. some of the best displays i have built consisted of lovely merchandise mixed with props found in the basement and alley. my home is a rented space, decorated in a mix of new, old, handmade and hand-me-down furnishings. and some of my favorite art projects are initiated by the desire to make something new out of scraps usually discarded.
over the past year i have happily discovered that this way of working, of living, is much more universal than i originally imagined. that's been the icing on my cake :) and i've been asked often about the title bricolagelife and what it means... but this is probably way more definition than anyone expected, so thanks for reading as i ramble on. my brain runneth over...
beware. stumbling upon a cache of your own old photos is a like falling into a deep hole. a hole where time does not exist. nor laundry, to do lists, dinner... as soon as i lifted the lid on the box marked simply; photos, i was a goner. lost. sifting thru the past. there is a dreamy spooky quality in the grainy richness of the ilford film shots that i still love so much. i am not a professional, not technically proficient. never was. my little rollei 35 mm camera doesn't even allow me to focus thru the lens. but the ilford forgives. it doesn't judge. it's nice that way.
the more i looked, the more i stacked and sorted. and then the scanning started. late in the day my ever-patient spouse poked his head in the door and asked, "what are you doing? taking a trip down memory lane?"
oh, yes. here is some of what i found...
as it was then, my eye is still drawn to windows,
and what i see out of the windows,
and to the light and shadows and corners of my home,
and to recording the everyday moments all around me.
and no one is cuter than my sweetie.
and grey
and a little bit pink
and a little bit green
and very blue.
i know it's silly but i always feel like i am witnessing a miracle when i see the sun and the moon up in the sky at the same time. it feels rare and exciting and i will always point it out to someone as if i have discovered a new planet. and then take its picture.
we also "discovered" this huge old tree growing in the corner of a grade school playground. twelve to fifteen feet up from it's roots it is covered with the lumpy scars of children's carvings, some enclosed in hearts, now indecipherable. how long ago did young students lean against the sturdy grey trunk of the tree and cut with elbows raised into the soft flesh of its bark? do children still do this?
i think it's done... or almost done...
i'm working on it. that's how it goes around here. a project leads me so far and then it sits in a corner or on a shelf for a while (or a year). i look at it every day. i think about it sometimes while i read the same paragraph over and over in bed at night. i consider what's next for it while i stir the soup pot before dinner, while i drift off during the commercials on top chef. i make notes. mental and tangible. and then one day i take it from the shelf and dust it off. i gather bits and stuff and tools together and i work away at a solution. with several projects in various stages of this process there is always lots to occupy my mind. that's why my face looks like that :)
{i know i am the last person on earth to have seen this but it hit the spot for me this week.}
and, if you haven't seen this yet, you must! (via the amazing road side scholar)
i blame sally field. i was very young and impressionable when i saw the made-for-tv movie maybe i'll come home in the spring. it contains a scene that remains indelibly etched into my psyche. in which sally field steps out of the shower, wipes the steamy mirror, and proceeds to give herself a perfect shag haircut.
i never fully recovered. even tho my intellect and experience tell me it is impossible to achieve, i continue years later to attempt this self-transformation. over and over again i move thru the stages of haircut love and loathing. maybe some of these are familiar to you as well...
stage one: a trusted professional hair stylist cuts my hair. in a professional salon. i am happy with the results. i love my hair stylist.
stage two: (lasting anywhere from a week to two months) i love my hair stylist! i tell others how wonderful she is. i love my haircut! i consider sending my hair stylist a thank you note. or a gift. she is a grand master in the art of hair cutting. she deserves an award!
stage three: i begin to lust after haircuts i see on television. in magazines. on the streets. even if they are physically impossible for me to attain. even if they are curly (my hair is stick-straight). even if they are inappropriate. even if they are on men. i start collecting pictures and making sketches of haircuts that will change my life.
stage four: i wonder if i should just grow my hair long. this is a way to avoid getting the haircut that will change my life (which i cannot afford). i am saving money and growing my hair long! i am frugal and committed to a long term project!
stage five (the next day): i hate my scraggly grown out hair. it will not submit to any of the styling tricks i know and i don't want to devote any time to styling it anyway. it looks awful. i pull it into pitifully insufficient pigtails. i am filled with self loathing. i begin to fantasize about cutting my own hair.
stage six: (lasting anywhere from an hour to one week) i am preoccupied with imagining the techniques i will use to cut my own hair. i picture the possible styles i might execute with the scissors, mirrors and shaving razors at my disposal. i review all the skills i've studied watching my hair stylist. and nick arrojo on what not to wear. i convince myself i can do it. i try to talk myself out of it. stage six is mentally exhausting.
stage seven: after a little creative financing, i call my hair stylist for an appointment.
or, i cut my own hair. like i did on friday afternoon.
darn that sally field!
there is a bittersweet mix of emotions that wash over me when i find these bins, boxes and drawers of old photos in thrift shops. i could stand and look for hours (and i have) thru these captured and abandoned images.
i'm curious about who these people were, what they meant to each other, and what kind of crooked path left them finally dumped here, tossed together with strangers. i wonder, is there no one left alive who knew them, who shared their small triumphs and treasured their happy occasions? a weight of melancholy settles on me.
i consider my own collection of photos, sorted in albums and boxes at home. the snapshots of my parents' lives, now both gone, overlapping with the pictures documenting my years and my son's. some of the very old brittle black and whites in my husband's family shots include faces and locations no one now recalls.
and in thirty or forty years will someone dig thru a pile of my pictures and feel a sadness contemplating my unknown stories?
all of this thinking makes me want to start a little project... or a big one. who wants to play?
Jane Austen: The Complete Novels (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)
Bill Bryson: A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail
Pema Chodron: Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living (Shambhala Classics)
Tracy L. Kane: Fairy Houses (The Fairy Houses Series) (Fairy Houses)
