I had planned to paint tonight, but a series of mishaps with equipment and a low hum of anticipation (my family has been away for a week and returns tonight) has interfered with my concentration. After several decades experience I know that no good will come of forcing the work under these circumstances. Fortunately I have a long list of tasks for just this sort of occasion and went downstairs to clean the cellar.
Cleaning went well, and now I have a large bag for “Coats for Kids”, a fat stack of collapsed boxes destined for the Strawberry Hill transfer station, and a Rubbermaid box of Irish crochet materials which I immediately brought upstairs and spread out on the table. The tiny balls of thin, strong cotton and silk in pastel colors, old books and reproductions of magnificent bodices and stoles, the delicate silver hooks: I have a weakness, what can I say?
Back in the day, when my son took two hours of violin lessons three times a week, I did quite a bit of crochet. I’ve been thinking lately I would take it up again and make the motifs at a much larger gauge in brighter colors – black and green, red and lavender. I’ll take some better pictures of the older work tomorrow in sunlight, but meanwhile here is an unfinished evening purse in the chrysanthemum pattern. It is, as Julia and Leon used to say, “an art of work”.