There are times when I quite literally have to stop what I’m doing, and write.
Sometimes the writing winds up on a scrap of paper, the back of a canvas, a little notebook … on the wall … but today, it winds up here.
I’ve been painting papers today. It’s an early step in the process I use to create collages. I collect papers from my travels, save notes and letters, ideas that come to me in the night, and pretty bags and wrappers. I have lots ~ I paint them all, and then tear them into tiny pieces, to create images.
My friends and family know that no doily is safe around me, and I’ll check most any paper for texture and tear-ability.
Today I painted colors that will go into my next collection … the one to go on exhibit at the Peaks of Otter in October. Colors of the mountains and sky, colors of green leaves, blue water, and bright wildflowers. What I most adore is integrating papers with meaning.
Mom saves papers for me … and this weekend she gave me copies of her poetry … extras that would’ve otherwise gone in the recycling bin, so this is a good way to save the landfill. My friend, Rebecca Mays also gathered for me a gorgeous stack of letters from years gone by. Handwritings sent to her from around the country. Old air mail envelopes that read “See the USA …. Vacationland of the World!” What beautiful notes inside!
From this early step in the process, I fall in love with the papers, the people, the memories, and the places that float through my mind as I work. Just this morning I found myself wishing I could record the constant mental journaling that happens … I’d have several lovely volumes already. There is hardly a quiet moment in my mind.
Thank you Mom and Rebecca, for bringing such joy to me today. As I worked, images of Christmas’s past, sisters eating ice cream, and little ones who love their daddies floated in and around my heart. You gave this to me.
So much love to you both ~
Reading my own mother’s words, and bringing them into my work is an honor I can hardly describe. My heart and eyes were full today ~ this poem, I particularly enjoyed. My mom, as a little girl …
Five Cent Ice Cream Cone
I remember when I was a child
of six or seven
Longing for an ice cream cone.
My sister and I would each
take an empty milk bottle
worth a nickel deposit
and walk to the dairy
for an ice cream cone,
Right on the bottle, it said,
“Maple Grove Dairies
They came to visit
not to stay
return our bottles every day”
Summer days were never too hot
nor was the way too long.
We’d plunk our bottles on the counter
and order chocolate or vanilla.
Then we’d watch the dairyman
through the window
behind Ms. Lassiter
while she filled our cones
with ice cream, real ice cream
pure old-fashioned ice cream,
the kind you can’t get much anymore.
Then we’d walk back home
licking the drippy ice cream cones.
It was an awful lot for a nickel.
~ by Joy S. Barefoot
Cherish each nickel, sweet friends … and each moment with those you love,
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