Needle and Thread

I spent the better part of last year working on an edition of an artist’s book by Louise Bourgeois called Ode a l'Oubli, loosely translated as Homage to Forgetting. I found such contentment in this job every day—spending 8 hours embroidering dots in a specific but random scattering, drawing and cutting out patterns, and quilting checkered cotton. On a bad day I would run over my thumb with a rotary blade while cutting shapes out of silk. On a good day all of 32 stripes, individually sewn, would line up perfectly to form concentric squares.

I suppose I am attracted to repetitious, mind numbing work of some sorts. Or maybe most of the satisfaction from this job came from leaving the studio at the end of the day having made something beautiful, even if it wasn’t my own.

Today I spent the afternoon at a work-related gathering at Lakeside Lounge and my boss from the Bourgeois project was in attendance. After the usual pleasantries she asked if my life was “still in flux.” Wouldn’t most people say "yes"? She then outlined a production she is undertaking with a new artist, and asked if I might be interested in more freelance sewing work; however this time the thread will be the artist’s own hair.

I couldn’t help picturing myself over the next few months, hunched over yards of linen reminding myself not to lick the thread while sliding it through the needle. Regardless, it’s always good to know you have marketable skills—maybe hair-stitching is the new painting.