At a Crossroads

It’s been a funny kind of time. Not funny as in ha-ha funny, but strange. Perhaps you know the feeling.

I’ve been in a bit of a funky mood lately, although I can’t quite put my finger on why. I have been taking some time to relax and giving myself permission not to be constantly busy, but somehow I can’t seem to get myself going again.

And that is not like me.

I am usually someone who has a direction. A goal. An idea of where I am going and what I am working towards. Even when there are many things happening at once, there is usually a thread connecting them.

But right now, I feel a little rudderless.

The strange thing is that I haven’t stopped creating.

I am still working on the small concertina book I began while I was in Grand Rapids. It is taking me a long time to finish, partly because of the nature of the work itself. There are fabrics and pieces of lace to choose, pages to consider and decisions to make about what belongs where. And then, of course, there is the slow and wonderful business of sewing everything by hand.

I am still doing my daily stitching at night too.

So it isn’t that I have stopped.

Perhaps it is simply that I don’t know where I am going.

And I think those are two very different things.

I know that my work is changing. My art is changing. I can feel it, although I can’t yet explain exactly how or why. Something is shifting, and perhaps part of my discomfort is that I haven’t yet caught up with it.

Maybe my hands know something that my mind hasn’t figured out yet.

Lately, while I stitch, I have been listening to documentaries about abandoned buildings and their stories.

I find them fascinating.

Old houses, hotels, schools and other buildings that have been left behind. The stories of the people who lived and worked there. The traces they left behind. The layers of time that remain.

And as I listen, I find myself thinking about how closely this connects to the work I already do.

Vintage textiles and old buildings have something in common. They both carry evidence of lives.

A piece of lace made by someone’s hands. A vintage napkin with a monogram stitched into one corner. A worn edge. A repair. A stain that makes us wonder.

We may never know the whole story, but something remains.

The same is true of old buildings. The peeling wallpaper, the worn floors, the objects that have been left behind. They all hold fragments of stories.

And perhaps that is what I am beginning to explore in my own work.

Perhaps without even realizing it.

I have always been drawn to textiles with a history. To lace and linens that have already lived a life before arriving in my studio. I love the thought of the hands that made them and the hands that used them. I find myself increasingly interested in stories, in memory, in layers and in the traces we leave behind.

And now I find myself creating books. Books that hold pieces of fabric, lace, stitches and fragments together. Books that, in their own way, hold stories.

Maybe none of this is accidental.

Maybe the reason I am taking so long to choose the fabrics and lace for this latest concertina book is that I am beginning to ask different questions.

Not just:

What looks good here?

But perhaps:

What belongs here? Why does this belong beside that? What story might these things tell together?

I don’t know.

And perhaps that is the most difficult part for me right now.

I don’t know what comes next.

Earlier this year, I set myself a goal. That goal is now coming to an end, and I find myself looking ahead and wondering: What now? Where do I go from here? What do I want from my art?

For someone who usually likes having a direction, that is an uncomfortable place to be.

But perhaps this is simply a crossroads.

Perhaps I am not lost.

Perhaps I am standing in the space between one direction and the next.

The road behind me is clear because I have just travelled it.

The road ahead is not.

And maybe, for now, I don’t need to see it.

Perhaps I need to keep doing what I am doing.

Keep stitching.

Keep making.

Keep listening.

Keep paying attention to the things that catch my imagination.

The abandoned buildings.

The stories.

The objects left behind.

The vintage textiles.

The lace.

The hands that made them.

The layers.

The fragments.

The memories.

Perhaps I don’t need to force an answer. Perhaps I simply need to follow the clues.

I have been thinking about collecting them – little breadcrumbs of ideas, images, stories and questions – without worrying about where they will lead. No project. No deadline. No final outcome.

Just paying attention.

And perhaps, one day, I will look back and realize that there was a path there all along.

For now, I am trying to become comfortable with not knowing. To accept that perhaps my work is changing before I can put words to the change. To trust that something may be quietly gathering beneath the surface.

And to remind myself that sometimes we don’t have to know where we are going.

Sometimes we simply have to keep going.

One stitch at a time.

Thank you for reading. Until I write again …

Ana