Intention

My Choctaw potter neighbour, who collects his clay from the arroyo, said it best: art is a way of reaching my arms around this land. 

As a writer, I’ve always thought of words as things – as ‘thingy’ – and battled with their tendency to abstract themselves into cerebral realms or concretise into just more information. Weaving is laying down sentences without the limitation of content, but with all the sensual wonder of texture and colour.

Each weaving is one-of-kind, just as every day is, and each is titled to reflect the moment that began it: 

Sky and Sandstone Dawn, January 23, Pink Cerillos Hills at 5pm, Raven Under Monsoon Rain, July, 3:15, etcetera.

I try to plan as little as possible. The warp and structure must be predetermined, but once the loom is ready, the improvisation begins. Though continuity can’t be ignored, I let the weave adapt to the weather. Here in the Galisteo Basin, a shirt-sleeved morning in March becomes an evening slush storm. The term ‘high desert’ is misleading: winter brings the snow; summer, the monsoons; and spring and autumn, whatever the fickle sky decides.

The Basin and its particular beauties and challenges – this earth, this air, this water, these fires – inspire the colours and patterns. And when I complete my dye studies with Maiwa Textiles (I recommend them highly!) I’ll be weaving with threads that I’ve dyed from local plants and bugs.

I said this in ‘About’ but it’s worth repeating: I sing mantras when I warp or weave. I feel this is in keeping with the spirit of the indigenous culture from which I first learned, as well as the Tibetan tradition that graciously taught me to still my mind. I hope the weavings absorb the songs and carry them into the world.