When I was seven or eight, I bought a vivid magenta pink beret from a jumble sale. In retrospect it was probably quite alarming in colour, but it was made from soft angora wool and I considered it beautiful. I wore it constantly for a while; my mum was great about things like that. In fact, as our mutual wardrobes consisted of jumble sale finds and hand-me-downs, I have few (if any) memories of going into high street clothes shops for the latest fashions. (Which is probably why I am somewhat lacks-a-daisical in my dress sense now). The pink beret disappeared with the majority of my belongings when my parents died and near-relatives took matters into their own hands. When I left my foster home, four years later, I started wearing a beret again. I think it must have been a kind of security blanket, although I didn't realise it at the time - I just liked berets. I had a red one, which I practically lived in, and a black one, as I thought I was an anarchist. I'm about sixteen/seventeen here, living in my first bedsit. Looking at these old photos with fresh eyes, I am a bit shocked at how skinny my arms are, though I remember I was hungry a lot of the time. The dole money didn't stretch very far and I had a tendency to fritter away the little I had in charity shops, finding second-hand treasures to fill my life with.
Plus ca change. The middle picture was taken seconds after I had found an old cookery book in a bin (you can just see it in my hands). Naturally I rescued it. Not only was it a book, but it was very similar to my mother's cookbook, from where she did most of her baking, including the Christmas cake. Another way of trying to reconstruct my lost past. From then on I clung on to my possessions fiercely, determined never to have them ripped from me again. In fact, it is full of very good recipes, despite its plain appearance and I still use it now, over and above all my others.
I haven't worn a beret for years, not since I met Andy. But I still have a fondness for them, so I gave my newest creation , Petit Jaune, his very own.
He is off to his lovely new home in Italy, having done his duty on Etsy for a few hours. I am not a natural dog-person; I find it hard to see graphic shapes in their form, (which is easy to do with naturally graceful cats) but I will persevere. Doggedly, you might say. Sally arrived at her new home, looking a little stunned from the tender mercies of Royal Mail, but is recovered now and enjoying her new 'job'. As Eric noticed, the toys I am making now are essentially the same as the toys I've been painting for years - and I am loving creating them in Real Life. But they still start off as sketches - like this one for Petit Jaune -
Quite how they transmogrify into 3D from there, I really don't know. I just start one and it gradually forms under my needle. Although it is technically a textile art, needle felting is nearer to sculpting than any kind of sewing. Sculpting with rainbows and air.
As I write, and doing my usual dipping into blogs, I read with complete horror that my friend Rima has lost ALL of her art records, digitally stored, from which she makes her prints, her amazing animations and in short, from which she earns her living. Anyone who knows Rima's work and her life will know that that this is not only a devastating loss to her business, but that she simply cannot afford to get her data recovered from a specialist company. There is a general whip-round going on, so that she can pay to get her hard drive seen to and her artwork recovered - read more about it here.
