i wish i could sleep like tess and gwen. last night, i did, with close to ten hours in bed, reading a little, and sleeping. this is what infections do to me, or maybe it's the antibiotic. this year i seem to be in a battle against microbes...
i am a weaver. at least, that is my background, but these days i think of myself as a papermaker/book artist. i go back to weaver because there's a long connection, back to my mother, elva weaver, her father, john weaver... you see where this is going? west virginia. mountain people are intelligent problem solvers, used to eeking out a livelihood on a scrap of mountainside land. my mom could keep cars going, make a dress without a pattern, cook a meal for one or thirty, clean a cruddy floor so it would shine. with a kid on her hip.
i once saw a book about families and their stuff. each family was photographed outside their home, with all the people and possessions outside in front of the house. western households had lots of toys, places more marginal had their foodstuffs displayed.
so what use or worth is what i make? i know i'm not good at weaving functional stuff, i tried it. i often make stacks and stacks of botanical or rag paper, but they are rather expensive (in every sense). the artists' books that capture my imagination nowadays are one of a kind or small editions. is it worth it? is art worth it?
