My Creative Space

I’m off on Craft Camp this weekend and have instigated a No New Projects Policy. Which simply translates to a need to start as many projects as possible before I leave.

Kate, Queen of the Crocheted Trim, is letting me babysit that treasure, above, for a few weeks. But I haven’t started on any trim things yet, because my permanently-scantily-clad-in-the-middle-of-freezing-winter kid, said she’d like to wear a cardigan. A pink and purple cardigan. Then I spotted Kate’s knitted ‘Olearia’ and then I was in Wondoflex buying pink AND purple all-at-the-same-time yarn. Lately I’m grateful for any sort of planetary alignment, so I’m not even complaining about the small but audible ‘squeak’ the acrylic bit of the yarn makes as I knit. Though I suspect it’s making me... tense.

This is a sultry shot of squeaky yarn in action and one of my snazzy stitch markers.



The ladies at Wondoflex think I am a nutter. First I was in their shop negotiating all-at-the-same-time pink and purple wool/acrylic stuff, then making strange, excited yelps, when I spotted the rug making stuff. There were only raised eyebrows and an ‘Have you heard of latch hook?’ response to my french knotted rug notion. The following day, I’m back again to buy a different shade of red, except they don’t have it, so I buy the same red, remarking to the raised eyebrow that “I’ll just sort of swish it around in some dye stuff for a little minute”.

So I did half swish my first dye job in half a package of dark brown stuff for a little minute. Or twenty little minutes. Twice. And except for the bit about the wool doing it’s felty, fuzzy thing in the scaldingly hot water, it almost, mostly, worked.



Oh, and if you’re worried about the destiny of Dead Fly, I’m on the case. I’ve been collecting Dead Mozzie reference images. You’ll note that I spared you the pics that come with squished blood splatter.



Visit Kirst for a trillion other spaces of the creative kind...

Baked With Heart and Issues With the Batman Logo

The repertoire is becoming somewhat repetitive because that there is more french knottery in red. May I clarify, that as yawningly boring as this may be, what you also see before you is a project COMPLETED.

Hello?

HELLOOOOOOOOOO?

??

?

Hmphf.

While you’re doing jaw-from-floor retrieval, I’ll go on to tell you about this excessively large bread bag, for a generally-excellent, recently-birthdaying, big-hearted lady, who has embraced the Art of Living Slow and bakes stuff (when her oven isn’t exploding). Her baking repertoire includes posh things with french accents.







Even though I spent an inordinate amount of time on Gina’s blog studying raspberry jam pips, (spread on freshly baked goodness), as my only source of bread loaf scale reference, the bag turned out big enough for a bakery load of brioche. Sorry, G.



The stencil didn’t quite work according to plan either. I originally cut the words ‘BAKED WITH HEART’ out of the paper. Except, then I came over all clever-like and replaced the ‘A’ in ‘HEART’ with the french knotted heart shape. At the eleventh hour, (just before printing), I realised that it actually read: ‘BAKED WITH HERT’ – because your eye dismissed the heart shape and focused only on the pain. And there you have it. The reason why anyone in the world, particularly designery types, with some too-clever-by-half, tricksy, visual notion, should first go see my mother. My mother sees only a gaping-wide, tonsilled mouth in the Batman logo.

(Anyone?)



PS. If you’re having a bit of a tough week and going over to Gina’s to measure raspberry jam pips anyway, scroll down to the pic below the jammy bread and have yourself a wee giggle at Gina’s expense.

Just Another Example of Taking Things That One Step Too Far

If you read the last post, you’ll know what sort of ridiculous I’m up to.



Give me strength.

My Creative Space: No Flies On Me

I’ve been crafting at the rate of (french) knots this last week and have a completed dead fly to show for myself. I’ve never seen the Mr so enthusiastic over anything I’ve made before – which goes to show we’re all a bunch of weirdos around here. He has also suggested that I french knot us a new living room rug.

Excitingly, I have discovered that a 180 degree twirl can dramatically revive a fly.



Dead or alive, there has been serious second-thinking on the destiny of Fly. I’ve developed a fondness for the critter. Any cushion in this house, is almost entirely utilised as soft fall landing for surreptitious dive bombers off the couch. There were a lot of knots you know.



In case you’d like to gain a greater understanding of how many knots (which, I admit, was an enjoyable, extended exercise in crafty, goggle-eyed therapy), here is some scale reference for your viewing pleasure:



So, while I did source fly-spotted fabric co-ordinates for cushion backings and whatnot...



...what if there’s a grander, wittier destiny? Something involving fly swats?



Pop by and visit Kirst (who, incidentally, can teach a mean french knot) for more Spacery of the Creative kind.

Bill Cosby: “Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope”

Recently my father downsized from the house he grew up in, to a granny flat-style arrangement at the bottom of the garden. There is no singular doubt which of my parents passed on the You Never Know When It’ll Come In Handy gene. Mountains of conclusive proof was unearthed when Dad required help with the downsizing of his stuff. Which included my grandparents’ stuff: stuff that stayed in the house after they died. The whole experience hasn’t helped with the rationalisation of stuff at my place.

Amongst the stuff I now house, is one typewriter:



Nana Eunice’s recipe books:



Sets of picnic ware:



And a number of objects that I am not at all sure what to do with, but nonetheless feel a great sense of responsibility towards.

This is a vase:



I’m at a floral loss.

What I did not feel compelled to rescue, was still-packaged, soap-on-a-rope, found at the back of Dad’s bathroom cabinet. Said soap-on-a-rope was purchased for ten cents in 1979, by eight year old me, at the school Father’s Day Stall. After thirty one years of pretended gratitude, Dad seemed relieved to see it go. Evil, thirty nine year old me, (encouraged by Mr Cosby), has since whipped up Dad’s Father’s Day Card:



You can find cards for other soap-on-a-rope traumatised Dads here.

My Creative Space

I have a spare cushion innard requiring a cover. I have newly-found smitten-ness for the art of embroidery (by that I mean, I know how to do backstitch and a french knot). I have breathless, I-can’t-wait-for-the-kids-to-get-to-bed enthusiasm for the crafting of a cushion cover.

With linen leftovers and an array of thread spread before me in rainbowed glory, I plotted: I connived. A tendrilled, delicate floral composition of intrinsic, detailed beauty? The tentative flutter of a butterfly wing captured mid-flight? A weather-inspired (yep, it’s still winter) piece of abstract, arty, designery whimsy?

A dead fly?



Dead Fly almost made it on to some museum graphics a couple of years ago and I’ve been hanging on to him since. There wasn’t even a need to consult the digital archives (although this could say more about a general aversion to filing and admin).

I figure I am embarking on a journey* to discover the inherent beauty in the unexpected. Even if this involves an embroidered insect carcass cushioned on my couch and I’m coming over a bit weirdy-like.



* not a word I use lightly, so I must be serious

To navigate a billion more spaces of the creative kind, (including magnetised procrastination), go see Kirsty.

Grey Old Day

I know that in a blink of an eye, frosty fingers will be replaced with sweaty palms. Rather than the dance of voluptuous, dollopy raindrops over puddles, the grass will become frazzled and stingy. Soon the cicadas will shriek again: tuneless and shrill. The sun will prickle 40 degree heat down on pale, vulnerable skin and torment with tangled, sleepless nights.

I’ve loved the last couple of weeks: it’s been proper winter. Like it used to be. Today there’s a Sunday quiet that comes with leaden winter skies and the call of inside warm. Even the washing machine has gone into weather-induced hibernation and I’m in clean-undie-supply denial (I’ll so kick myself, come morning).



Outside, the garden is lush and generous:



Bejewelled and extravagant in diamonds:



Snug in wintry,



fur coats:



Holding promises aplenty:



All reflected in Impressionist-painted puddles:



Inside there’s a slow Sunday roast dinner cooking, courtesy of the Mr, kids snoozing on bean bags, time to fall head over heels with the therapeutic quality of a zillion french knots. Time to breathe.



Exhale.