I love it when I find cash in the pocket of some long-unworn item of clothing. Today I was sorting through a pile of papers. Near the bottom I found an envelope with “home studio” written on it, and inside $20.

I have a big bright studio now. And it’s also my home. There’s a lot to be said for putting money in an envelope labeled with your dream.

When I was little and stayed home sick, there were some very specific things I liked to do. I liked to get out all my mother’s issues of 100 Idées (my all-time favorite magazine) and I would leaf through them, dreaming of building tree houses, embroidering blouses, hosting tea parties, and mailing letters with envelopes painted to match the stamps. After reading the magazines, I would organize them; stacking them first by month, then chronologically. Neatly.

I would move on to her sewing box, which was a brown Tupperware container with a removable divided tray. She had a pincushion with a band of elastic so she could wear in on her wrist while sewing. It became threadbare from use and she replaced the fabric on top with a scrap from a skirt she made for herself, and passed on to me a couple of years ago:

I liked to take her glass-headed pins and stick them into the cushion, placing them where the pinheads matched the colors in the fabric as closely as possible. A mosaic on the surface. Then I categorized her buttons: by size, by color, by number of holes… those that were loners, and those that came in multiples.

We have a home movie of me, age 6, sewing beads onto fabric. Thirty years later my whole life is built around making things from beads, yarn and cloth, which makes me wonder why I ever bothered questioning my life path at all? Maybe it just takes a while to accept the six-year-old’s passions.

I think it’s time I reread Daybook by Anne Truitt. I think I remember her quoting the sculptor David Smith saying that it takes fifteen years to make an artist. It seems to me that it’s taken that long to get over my schooling, and to give in to who I am. A long beginning.

My companions, seen here hard at work on Plan Relaxation, a project they’re devoting their lives to. They’re advanced practitioners, but very supportive of my beginner attempts.

It snowed here last night for the first time this winter. There was a light dusting on the roofs, the sun came out, and it’s gone. Kind of pathetic. I should really be grateful that there wasn’t enough to cause the huge slush lakes at every street corner which have me walking 15 feet down the sidewalk just to find a point where I can cross without drowning.

I thought I’d share another piece I made for circle play, this one a bizarre crochet lotus I made while on a camping trip in Michigan. Must have been going for my “crazy crafter” girl scout badge.

I felt a little under the weather yesterday so I spent the afternoon camped out in bed with herbal tea, a West Wing DVD, and a long-overdue sewing project.

Since July 2004 (long before I’d heard of any of the cool swaps that are happening in the craft/blog world – which isn’t really saying much since I’m invariably a late comer to these things) I’ve been exchanging small artworks with two friends, one in Maine, the other in upstate New York.

We call it Circle Play, the idea being that we explore (very loosely) the notion of “circle”, and the word “play” is a good reminder not to get too perfectionistic. We were inspired to start by a small book that S had found, and which P and I ran out and bought immediately.

It’s full of embroideries exchanged between two women in Denmark and the US – this little focussed project that went on for years. It seemed like such a great way to stay creatively connected to each other when we live so far apart. And to make experimental objects – things we might not make otherwise. We figured out what our parameters were and got started.

And it worked! After our first year we gathered for a weekend and laid our all our treasured experiments on a long dining table, covering it. I had forgotten so many of the pieces I’d made, and seeing them again was like coming back to a familiar place. With all the work together I could see the relationships between the months – unconscious similarities or repetitions of a theme, reuse of materials and colors.

Last year Circle Play slowed way down, all of us pulled in other directions. It’s been months since I received the last piece from P, and it’s been nagging at me, like a letter that needs answering. Yesterday I sat on my bed watching “good daddy president” Martin Sheen and started my reply. I’m not ready to show it yet so instead here’s my very first piece from 2004.

Today was a good day, although my mind would have me thinking otherwise.

It was what I consider a “noodling” day, where things get done, but in a non-linear, roundabout way. My brain hates these days. They don’t make sense! What’s going on?! There should be structure, and planning, and the crossing off of lists. Instead I answered some emails, paid a bill, returned a phone call, kissed the cats, and bought milk and oranges at the market.

I noticed the guy wearing the brand new superman t-shirt. He looked happy. On my way home I stopped and, leaving my groceries on the curb, I took pictures of graffiti. It dawned on me with surprise that I was enjoying myself, and that this might be a good use of my time. I know how to noodle my way through a day, but this may have been the first time I haven’t felt guilty about it.

One of the curses of self-employment is that there is always work to be done, right there in front of me. No bell rings to say that school is over and it’s time to go home for the night. There isn’t a commute to mark the beginning and end of my workday, or that relaxed feeling that I did the best I could and now I’m off for a few hours.

And there is no boss: there’s just my brain, whose default setting is permanent high alert, watching for danger and deadlines. My brain is a bad boss with a puritanical sense of priorities, who thinks Sisyphus was gainfully employed just because he was working so hard.

Well. I am taking back the “self” in self-employment. I’m going to go listen to Laurie Anderson.  And then – I’m firing my boss.

I don’t know about your brain –
but mine is really bossy.
I come home…
and I find all these messages
on wrinkled up scraps of paper
and they say things like:
Why don’t you get a real job?
or: You and whose army?
or: Get a horse.

I don’t yearn for freedom: these days I yearn for security. I’m tired of being in between things/jobs/rent-paying gigs, and of the inherent uncertainty. Some days run smooth – a sequence of moments during which I appreciate being in my studio and having the time to explore and make things. Then comes a growly, frightened day when I wake up scared and anxious.

Yesterday I came across the Girl at Play archive, which chronicles Alex Beauchamp‘s transition from executive secretary to freelance writer and artist. It comforts me to read another woman’s creative angst, knowing how successful she’s become. Other people’s life paths appear straight and true when seen from the outside. By comparison my own path is the one walked on by Little Red Riding Hood, darkly shaded by trees and stalked by hungry beasts.