What turned to dust. What blew away. What remained.

As I was working in my studio yesterday I heard a radio story on the changes to America caused by the building of the Interstate highway system. In some places, new commercial centers were created. And in some places, towns were left behind.

I looked at a number of those towns in South Carolina and Georgia last week. Intentionally avoiding the interstate on our ride home to Florida, we drove through town after town. Each had a small central business district of brick buildings. Large glass windows faced what was once the main street. Most of these towns looked like they were barely holding on.

I was intrigued with this view – looking through the window, into the abandoned interior, and through the door and window on the other side

As we drove through the towns to the rural area before arriving at the next name on the map, we passed an occasional small home near the road. I stopped to photograph interesting abandoned homes. Others looked abandoned, but a second look made me stop. “Somebody lives here.”

Where do those people work?
What are their daily lives like?
Did they once go into the small town nearby for shopping and civic life?

What are their memories? What are their dreams?

I love this picture of a back door into the kitchen. The pattern of light makes it look warm and welcoming. Come on in! But this house was quite overgrown and in a state of disrepair close to falling down.

I have held onto the images of these small towns, and I am grateful for my photos to remind me of the feel of them. As an artist I believe it’s important to spend time looking. I hope to be able to see beyond the obvious. It’s important to hold on to the images and turn them over a number of times to discover all that’s there.

Such contrasts. The foliage around this home was verdant and lush. The home itself was dusty and long-empty.

Today I was back in the studio working on some new pieces. As I create work that digs into memories and stories, I want to remember the places I’ve seen and revisit the questions I asked.  Some of the photos will, I hope, become incorporated into future artwork. I will feel a sense of obligation to the images, to use them to cause viewers to question and wonder.

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A year ago, on a similar drive home through rural South Carolina, I discovered this intriguing building. Somebody once lived there. I was captivated by the vines and trees growing up through the inside.

I created “Something Else will Grow There” based on those photos.

“Something Else Will Grow There” is on my website, HERE.

Thank you for reading. I always enjoy questions and comments.
--Bobbi

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What’s the same… What’s Changing? Seeing Ideas Evolve

I spent some time today looking through collected images of my own work. It’s a good exercise – much like looking back through my sketchbook at ideas I had cooking for awhile. But, when I review completed work, I begin to see patterns.

First of all – just to get past this – it’s very humbling. There are a fair amount of things I just don’t like anymore, about which I wonder, “What was I thinking?” OK. The only way never to fail is never to make anything. So I try to accept the ones that don’t much please me.

But “What was I thinking?” may be the exact right question. What impulses have I seen re-emerging throughout my artmaking? I have been working consistently In textiles since about 2010, experimenting with printing and construction techniques and subject matter. With so much variety, is there some common element?

I think so. And it helps to find it. In some way, an interest in surface vs inner has been what interests me. Sometimes, it’s taken the form of landscape explorations, where I’ve tried to see above ground and below ground at one time. Sometimes it’s been in the form of memory pieces, where I have scratched the surface of my own life, digging into issues of outer appearances compared to inner realities.

For 2018, I am focusing on a body of work developing images of little houses. I will fill them with patterns and windows into the inner life, with the shape of the house indicating what’s seen from the outside. I am very excited as I look at the new sketches and mockups, and interested to see how this all evolves.

The weight of the work of one's hands

Note to Self... Just thinking about the work ahead in the studio for this week.

Work that comes from my hands seems to bear a special responsibility. It did not exist before I drew the line, or sewed the seam, or painted the background, or glued it together. The physical touch and action of my hands is an act of creation. Like sorcerers, artists call things into being. So it should be a creation worth making. This is the goal for every painter. Or writer. Or wood turner. Or potter. I like to envision the earliest cave painters, whose marks on walls were made only after arduous and – to me – terrifying descents into cramped underground spaces, made as part of ceremonies infused with meaning that we can only imagine. The marks on the walls were not created easily. And they had deep meaning. The impulse to create is powerful. And so, I hope that the marks I make this week are worth making.