THE ART of TEXTILE

Several years ago I went to the Bellevue Art Museum and was captivated by an interactive wall of textiles.  The colors and patterns were amazing.  The end result would be the collective vision of thousands of people who strolled into the Imagination Station (display), sat for a spell, and contributed to the weave.  How cool is that?

The allure of this craft stayed with me for weeks, as I'm all about fabric, patterns and color. So over the period of several months I collected different yarns, fabrics and anything else that looked remotely curious.

My anchors were two long pieces of driftwood my son and I found on Double Bluff about ten years ago that we used for walking sticks.  I secured rows of hemp between them and started to weave.  What a beautiful process - like knitting on steroids.  I didn't plan anything, just chose the colors and got to work.  My hands were on autopilot, and the rhythm cathartic. I was completely present in the moment, similar to when I have a camera in my hands.

Different objects found their way into the weave.  Two old collars, a leash and a tug-o-war sheet from my sweet Sparky, who I had lost the summer before.  Long shards of bark from two cedars I planted 12 years ago that had to be taken down unexpectedly.  And a jangling testimony to half a century of my life - jewelry, pins, oddities and baubles collected over the years.

What started out as an experiment resulted in a deeply cherished and personal work of art.  What a nice surprise. :)

    

Yes, I'm a tree hugger. I feel an incredible respect and affinity for trees; always have. It started when I used to climb trees as a kid in Detroit. Our backyard was barren, aside from overgrown grass and a beautiful maple tree. I remember climbing that tree so many times, resting in the crook of large limbs, looking down over the scraggly back yard and quiet alley. I felt invisible and protected there.

About a year ago I found my childhood home on Google Earth and was sad to see the house was a wreck, along with the rest of the neighborhood.  My tree was gone.

Since those days in the late 60's and early 70's, I've lived among trees.  I've lived under trees; fallen out of trees; driven around fallen trees and planted trees. I've slept under trees, picnicked under trees, cried under trees and made love under them. And I've been in four terrifying storms where trees fell all around me. It's the most eerie feeling in the world to be standing outside on a relatively clear morning, no rain, with only the deafening roar of wind in your ears, watching trees tumble over across the lake. Not hearing them crash - just seeing them. It's like being the star in a David Lynch movie.

Despite my tree PTSD, I continue to plant trees around my home and marvel at those around me that are well over 100 ft. tall. Any one of them could reduce my house to matchsticks, and take me out in the process. But I can't imagine not living among them. There are worse ways to go.

Autumn Soup!

Here are a few images from a photo shoot last fall at the Washington Arboretum which I'm calling "Autumn Soup." Absolutely lovely how Mother Nature created these ethereal, three-dimensional layers of floating beauty as dying leaves drift and settle at the bottom of the pond.  

I can't take credit for this masterpiece - just happened to be in the right place at the right time to capture the magic.
 

Canary in a Coal Mine

Last fall, wandering the Wupatki ruins north of Flagstaff at dusk, I came across this beautiful lone Monarch butterfly. It appeared to be basking in the late day sun, it's wings slowly opening and closing. One of them was torn. Who knows what her journey had been thus far, and where it would take her. 

I haven't seen a Monarch since I was a child.  I felt both blessed and melancholy, wondering if I'd ever see another ...

Cedar Cove

Vintage Parlour Box ~ This Vintage Parlour Box was created for my Guest Artist Show at Whidbey Art Gallery in Langley during the month of July, 2017.  When I started the project, I wasn't quite sure where it would take me and how it would turn out.  I decided it would be best to simply tap into my emotions.  Anything coming from that place of unedited, authentic truth can't be wrong.

This Parlor Box is called "Cedar Cove," an ode to three beautiful cedar trees in the woods behind my property that were recently taken down to make way for two houses.  Progress?   Ugh. Here's the poem that accompanies the piece. 

Cedar Cove

Every morning

for twelve and a half years,

     early

cup of coffee in hand

I shuffled onto the back porch

rain or shine,

     in bare feet 

raised my gaze to the clouds

admiring the towering majesty

of your limbs

Most times quiet

Other times thrashing in the island current,

a mammoth, cone-shaped monolith

blacked in the night sky

blocking out the stars and moon

     at times

always steady, always there.

Witness to Marlboro tears

snapping rage and biting loneliness

to soul-searching, reawakening, 

moments of serenity and lightness of being,

always steady, always there.

Until this morning.

I awoke to the chainsaws

and I could not save you

because you were not mine to save.

I’m so sorry.

 

Sandy Rubini (c)

Glory Days ~ 7/2017 WAG Show

Putting the final touches on "Glory Days"

Glory Days
 

First time was a howl back.

Same bar

similar town,

Same stranger

with beguiling eyes and a toothy grin. 

No good intentions put forth

and none asked for. 

2:05 AM.

Long, rolling stretches of desert hillside,

windows rolled down

no headlamps,

no souls for at least a hundred miles.

He’s navigating by moonlight.

Drink can let the wild one out -

the one with rapid-cycling ambitions

who longs to get out of this hell hole,

away from the same beguiling eyes and toothy grin. 

Different. 

But just the same.

Sandy Rubini (c)

SELF

I started this piece in September of 2006 - yes; a full ten years ago.  Since then it's been wedged between the pages of a large sketch pad under my bed in perpetual limbo.  Protected from ...  Dust? Fade? Fear? The Horrors of Perfectionism? Completion? Rejection? Possibilities? F*ck if I know.

What I can tell you is I started this piece during a very pivotal time of my life. I had been doing heavy hypnotherapy work around my father and was finding it difficult being alone with the hamster wheel in my head. I also recently turned 40, and had been sober little over a year.  Truly born again - as if a black hood was ripped off my head and light was flowing into my crown chakra like something you'd see in a B horror movie.  Seriously.  I was getting healthy and hopeful again and everything was so intense.  In many ways I was like a five-year-old, experiencing life with swings between angst, wonder and revelation.

I had been divorced for five years and coming off a string of ridiculous relationships.  The last one (my favorite mistake) left me feeling like I was defective and would be alone forever.  Just listen to Alanis Morsette’s' Jagged Little Pill, and that pretty much summed me up.

My son was with his father over Labor Day weekend.  I was crawling out of my skin and had to get off the island.   I hopped in my Jeep and took the five-hour drive through the North Cascades to Winthrop.  I was absolutely broke, with only a full tank of gas and $20 to my name until payday – but it was enough for a pack of smokes, a spot at Pearrygin State Park for the night, and coffee in the morning.

I got to the campground late. It was dark, full moon, and the grounds were quiet - mainly just a few people chillin by campfires, and the rest probably sleeping.  I crawled in the back of the Jeep, slipped into my sleeping bag and crashed.  All this angst was wearing me out.

Something woke me up at exactly 3 AM.  I got out of the Jeep and what I saw was nothing short of mystical.  The campgrounds were completely dark and still, and a tethered mist floated throughout - curving around tents, trees and vehicles.  Because of the topography, the full moon looked mid-level in the sky, and much larger than it should have that early in the morning.

I walked barefoot up the hill to the main dirt road that meandered toward town.  When I reached the top, I stopped and considered that brilliant moon.  I thought of my father.  "I deserve the best, don't I?"  At that precise moment, three thick, sideways streaks of light erupted in front of me, crossing over the sky and the moon. Blazon trails suspended for a good five minutes, maybe more.

Hence the birth of "SELF." I drove home the next day and created her on my kitchen table, blasting the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Stadium Arcadium for hours.  No plan, just totally organic.  Oil pastel, marker and pencil.  It appears to be a womb and impending birth, which totally makes sense for where I was at.

I pulled SELF from under the bed about a month ago and finished her.  Darkened the fade; touched up lines and details; made her lighter in spots.  Then a 3-D mount with an industrial flair was the natural finishing touch - 'cause there ain’t nothing calm and pretty about birth.  Transformation is brutal.

Early Evening Embers

 

Just before I fell asleep last night this image came to mind.  I captured it in  2011 on my way to Monterey.  The sun had just tipped toward dusk, and my son was asleep in the backseat. I slowed and turned the wheel to take the Jeep from the main road; to creep up a deserted, open and hilly brown and sage landscape for what must have been at least five miles. When I stopped and got out of my car with the camera there was complete silence - even the birds were taking a break. A scrawny young coyote scurried across the dirt road and I smiled, as my love / hate relationship with them had come full circle to love again. When I turned, there was something very lovely about this particular spot - the way the sun filtered through the trees and settled upon the grass, making it look as though a low-lying mist was floating across the brush. Light caught the wings of little bugs drifting in the late afternoon.  They looked like embers to me - both beautiful and haunting - and I thought maybe they were actually tiny souls drifting through; those who have lain down under trees and brush to rest. And it made me think of my father.

Once ...

I came here when I was feeling lost - a hidden cove overlooking swaying wheat fields, ocean and mountains. I'd sit on a wooden bench chain smoking Marlboro Lights and feeling the day's angst or despair in the pit of my gut - pain so deep I thought it might kill me. A bittersweet break-up; crippling loneliness; impending financial collapse; generalized fear and anxiety about pretty much everyone and everything - wondering how in the hell I would ever make it through.

It's been many years since my last visit to this place. The bench is rotted away and the view is covered by brambles of wild rose.

I'm filled with quiet melancholy for a place that no longer exists. For a young woman who no longer exists...

 

 
Pike Place Market Tulips

 

At times I'm surprised how my photography resonates with others. Some express joy; others melancholy - and still others describe how the images stir memories from childhood.  I suppose they are the souls who best "feel" what the subject is trying to convey. Empaths of a sort.

I'm humbled that Oriah Mountain Dreamer, author of the life-afirming poem, "The Invitation" and many other fine works, recently paired this photograph with one of the the daily musings on her FB page.  This particular day focused on the importance of doing one thing at a time, and being fully present with each task at hand.  This is a message I need to hear over and over again, as it seems the "American Way" of life - Go! Go! Go! Multitask! can get the best of me.

Wishing you a day of focus and pleasure.  One moment at a time.