I explored the suggested pallet for 2017. Then I tried to formulate all the variety of colors. Added a little bit more black here, more water there. Every experiment became another shade to use in my collection. I love it.
This season I've create a pre-order opportunity. Instead of trying to anticipate what is needed and wanted, I'm dying lots of fabric so that I can create the piece you need.
Bolero
Jacket
Poncho
Scarf
Shawl
Tunic dress
Poncho
Colors to choose
Seeking shape
This is part of a two week online writing course with Jena Schwartz, January 9 to January 19, 2017.
“This is where we meet. We write alone, yes. But this is the space where we get to “see” each other and witness each other’s creative process as we move through the prompts and see what emerges.” Jena Schwartz
What feels right?
My commitment, again, to write more regularly feels right. I cleaned my space for you, created your own little corner in the loft, where I sew, and sometimes sleep, when I fear my tossing and turning will keep Larry awake, which happens, actually, more often than not. In the early morning, I frequently crawl back under the flannel covers and nestle my naked body into the curve of his heat and softness. That feels right.
The unclogged drain also feels right. It was a three day ordeal. The kitchen sink. Coconut oil, we are convinced, was the culprit. Google it.
What feels most right was the lack of cussing. Larry is a gentle man, an awesome lover, a great cook, just to mention a few of his wonderful traits. But the cussing, has become more than I can handle.
It was while Mary and I were hanging my show, "Ensemble, a Layering of Color," in her gallery that I recognized how much Larry's cussing has penetrated my body. Mary was on a ladder attempting to toss fishing line over a steel rod so I could drape fabric onto a pole. She missed. Instantly my body braced in anticipation for her cussing. She never cusses. There was no reason for me to react. It was a remnant reaction to Larry's reaction as he pulled the auger out of the pipe, filled the drain with water and nothing flowed.
When I got home and Larry showed me his new automated auger and plastic tubing for filling with hot water and detailed his next strategy for breaking through the coconut oil, I took a stand. No cussing I said. I told him about the incident in the gallery. I warned him. If he cussed, I would spray him with cold water. He was humble and nodded in agreement.
He complied. When the auger got stuck, he paused, rested, tried again.
My 70th birthday.
From this point on I am an Ageless Goddess. I speak what I know, with authority.
Back in the old days, (I get to say that, now) I invented the Garden Girls to accompany me on my quest to live the layered life of an artist.
What does it take to become a Garden Girl?
A desire made manifest, to discuss intimacy, passion, wisdom, and authority.
I like that word, authority: to recognize I am a competent force. There are some things I know, having lived a long life. I distinguish authority from arrogance. I do not believe that I am better or smarter or more important then others. Today, I revisit my Garden Girls. I listen to their wisdom as they explore authority.
The Garden Girls are at an early morning gathering in the woods. No one is clear as to the plan or the direction. Spider-woven fairy handkerchiefs sprinkled in grass lead the way as we follow the instructions on Honeyrose’s invitation: Listen to your intuition and breathe deeply.
Each girl arrives in her own time. Wearing my straw hat I blaze a trail cutting away wineberry brambles. Rose, the writer, tucks red flowers in her mushroom hat. She brings dried apricots and almonds. Clove, the teacher, wraps a turquoise scarf around her neck and dons a ruffled headdress. Her gift is vanilla macaroon granola. Nettles, the gardener in a chestnut cap, arranges a bouquet of orange pansies.
Echinacea, the healer flaunting yellow in a button hat, supplies homemade croissants. Gardenia, the poet wearing a silk bandana, serves roasted dandelion tea. Lily, the silk painter crowned with yellow orange glitter, carries in paints. Lavender in purple braids is empty handed, of course; she’s the philosopher. And Artemisia, old, wise and playful in a bark beret, brings violets and greens. (The secret ingredient for achieving a powerful menopause).
Honeyrose, the woman I am to become, says, “Our life is not our circumstances, our life is our story.”
I gather the Garden Girls to discuss concerns significant not only to our selves but to every weed, tree and shrub that surrounds us. What I want to know is when does the voice of authority arrive, speculation end, and assertion begin?
Our altar in the woods is a large multi-level out-cropping of smooth rocks. We each find a place for the gifts we brought, then begin looking for our perfect spot to sit and speak and receive each other’s messages. As far as I can tell everyone is accounted for.
Honeyrose reads from Sage, the thinker’s, latest letter. “Freedom is the ability to create passion,” Sage wrote. She had become a ritual queen in a colony of women up north. Rose has a picture of her back home on her own altar wearing a twisted green head band. “And our passion,” Honeyrose enunciates, “gets stirred every time we choose freely.”
“What does Sage mean ‘choose freely’?” Gardenia asks, cradling herself between trunks of sycamore trees, sipping roasted dandelion tea.
“She means,” Echinacea answers, breaking croissants in half, “we find passion when we take a risk and choose what we want.”
“When I grow up,” Rose says, “I want to be like Sage.”
“And how’s that?” Honeyrose asks. Reaching into a red velvet bag she pulls out small scraps of torn paper and places them on the altar. Then to keep them from blowing in the wind and in preparation for uncovering stories, she layers on pencils, one for each of us just in case we forgot to bring our own.
“What is it about Sage you yearn for?” Gardenia asks.
“For one,” Rose says, “her authority. She speaks and she thinks and she lives with authority. I feel it in her words, I hear it in her tone, and when I look at her picture on my altar, I see it in her face. What I want to know is when did she begin to speak with such strength?” Using her walking stick, Rose pushes dried leaves, sticks and moss off a flat rock, creating the perfect place, with a view of the pond through the trees, on which to sit and ponder.
“For me,” Clove says, “authority begins when I listen closely to the feelings in my body, like when my heart pounds and I know that I must speak.”
Rose motions to Clove that there is room for two on her rock. They munch on granola, apricots and almonds.
“Feelings?” Lavender questions. “Are they intimate?” Lavender likes to ask philosophical questions.
“Of course they’re intimate,” Clove says. “When you’re close to your feelings you’re close to your body and when you’re close to your body you’re always intimate.”
“But first you have to listen,” Lily reminds us as she places her jar of umber paint among the gifts on the altar and lays a small sable paintbrush beside it.
“And be silent,” Nettles adds adjusting her pansy bouquet.
Fuchsia, my sensuous muse, arrives late to the gathering. Draped in feathers, she brings navel oranges. Her pink, flower-petaled drip is sensual, and her questions are always seductive.
“Can intimacy occur without sex?” she asks, placing her oranges in a circle of small branches.
“Well of course,” Echinacea, Nettles and Clove respond quickly with authority.
“How?” I ask. “I know about intimacy in sex. That place of getting close, real close, face to face, where you can feel and smell the breath, where you can see the tiniest hairs on the stillest arm, where you can climb inside another’s rhythm, where you have no other thought but the thought of that tender moment. What I want to know about is what happens when ideas sift and filter, words penetrate the soul? Is that intimate?” Picking up an orange, I peel a slice then pass it to Clove.
Honeyrose stares up at the trees. Her colors are brilliant, precise and in immaculate order. “When ideas sift and filter,” she says, “words penetrate your soul, the place where intimacy grows. Then you can . . .”
“Listen to your body,” Clove chimes in.
Honeyrose nods, “And speak what you know.” She affirms.
Sitting down on an old sycamore stump her voice softens. “Authority,” she continues, “is to articulate with passion—using your power tone—the stories only Garden Girls know.” Since Honeyrose is the woman I am to become, I listen very closely.
Lily dips her sable brush into umber paint and places it on a scrap of torn paper. One by one we each make our own umber marks. In the rustle of branches I can hear the echo of Honeyrose’s edict, “Speak what you know,” as I close my eyes and see the darkness. In the light upon my eyelids leaves fall, one by one, each leaf floating as when a word comes for a poem.
“Every time you tell your story,” Honeyrose begins to chant, “you create a stance and become the author of your life. But you must also surrender,” she emphasizes then pauses, “to the mundane. And remember. Your life is not your circumstances. Your life is your story. Your circumstances are the matter your stories come from. Author them.”
We all begin to write.
My memoir, "The Garden Girls' Letters and Journal" was published in 2006 by Wind Publications
Growing up, there were always flowers, as evidenced in photos or memories.
My mother, Grace, grew red roses in front of the two bedroom, added onto to make four, ranch, on Eveningside Drive in Topeka. Purple irises bloomed on the side and pale blue bachelor buttons gathered across the back along the fence.
In Tachikawa, Japan she learned Ikibana, the art of flower arrangement. They graced the buffet and changed weekly.
A hedge of red roses framed the front yard of the old frame house in Roaring Springs, Texas where the man who invented the cotton gin once lived. As the years passed and the hedge thickened, cars passed slowly by just to see Grace's roses.
Suddenly, my cabin is filled with orchids. It just happened. All I do is place three ice cubes in each pot, weekly. It must be the light. Our cabin is filled with light.
Everything about me, all my memories show up in my shibori art to wear. Today in velvet I see orchids and roses and green leaves.
Remembering the past, I review old journals. Circumstances may change. The process, however remains the same.
2005
I packed silk and dye in preparation for my journey to the cabin. In small, incremental stages, we will put our life behind us, piece by piece. Each trip down I carry one belonging with me. Today I’ll take my flower-covered Sadler teapot. I’ll leave one artifact behind; the old wooden porch swing by the back door. I’ve asked each child to pick one thing and take it now; a piece of jewelry that hangs on my walls, a painting from my art class or one of my handmade artist books.
Today it is my getaway. When I feel the wind on my skin there is an ache in my chest that calls to me, tugging at my arms, pulling me into it’s sensuous embrace.
Last week we installed the wood stove. Larry sculpted a glistening copper chimney. Later we climbed the roof, nailed metal roofing down, then gathered wood off the mountain. And stacked a woodpile.
During the evening I processed the silk I had dyed earlier. Wrapped in newsprint, heat set the dye as the silk steamed in the old canner on the wood stove. I love hanging the freshly rinsed silks in the barn, the contrast between the rawness of the wood, its roughness and the softness of the silk, sensuously moving as the wind blows through the cracks in the barn. I am in awe of the individually wrapped and twisted silks, saturated with dye that hang from nails spread across old planks— the way the dye drips on the paper beneath making another artwork all of its own from the colors that bleed and drip into curvilinear lines making soft amorphous shapes.
It doesn’t matter that the barn is dirty. It does not interfere with the process. I have deliberately chosen a process that can be flexible. These are the things that make the rhythm of my art apparent. The way I swing the big barn doors open and prop them with an iron rod. The way I move up to the old table where tobacco was tied long ago. The way I envision silk eventually hanging like tobacco from the ceiling, blowing in the wind making a silent sound instead of the rustle of dried tobacco leaves.
I stoke the fire while silk steams, setting the dye, keeping the color brilliant. The hues vary as the seasons change and I gaze through the open barn doors onto the valley and let the colors in the field, the trees, or the reflections in the pond guide me in the choices of colors for that day.
Bourbon Barrel Table by Donnie Wittler
My dad was a T/sgt in the USAF. On week ends, when he was stationed in Japan, he developed photographs in his dark room in the closet. He had a good eye, I now see in hindsight.
"Take shorthand and typing," he said. "If something happens to your husband, you can always get a job as a secretary." He was practical.
I got a job as a service representative at Illinois Bell Telephone in Wheaton, a wealthy suburb west of Chicago. The commuter train ran through the middle of town and quaint shops framed each side. They were the kind of shops you just knew were expensive. I was a Sears or JC Penny's girl.
One day, on my lunch hour, I found myself, standing on carpet in one of those softly lit boutiques. There were perfectly placed mirrors and racks of color coordinated clothing, that draped. Being out of my element, I decided to try on something different. Linen pants. Two pairs. One in bright orange, the other, fuchsia with matching floral blouses. I stared in the mirror, bright and sixties bold. I hate this, I said. And I bought both outfits. I knew if I chose what I liked, it would be more of the same, only expensive.
My dad loved it! He's not one to usually comment on clothing. For some reason, his reaction affected me. It's not that I needed his approval. There was just something different in his intensity. I was never the same after that compliment. And neither was my style.
Tachikawa, Japan, photo by Ray Zabielski
The iridescent leaves shimmer in morning light
moisture clinging to each dried leaf
drizzling rain a soft serenade.
the making of space for winter has begun
the forest opens up
more tall willowy tree trunks appear
we walk deeper the dogs and I
they ever grateful for this privilege they demand
wagging their tails waiting as I arise
the brandy of browns and deep burgundy
await my vision quest for meaning of each new day
affirming the love I have for life
balanced between growing awareness as each day passes
that every life has a beginning and end
a transition so subtleyet instant
as in one day as I walk the trees are green the next Golden
how did that happen so suddenly, I ask
I must pay better attention, I warn
my footsteps are no longer spring soft on the path of grass and dirt
they crinkle, crunch a deep serenade
the brandy of browns and deep burgundy
await my vision quest for meaning of each new day
It may sound trite when I say I make my art for you. I don't know you personally. I do know about you. I know about your desire for passion and wisdom. To express your long earned authority. And for intimacy, those close connections you find in family and friends where you can just be you and express yourself freely with no concern for being judged or criticized or need to defend your beliefs
In these ways we are the same. We have lived long. We have courted danger. We have loved life.
What makes us unique is our failures have not brought us down. We stand tall and walk forward knowing we have something to pass on. We have a legacy
So it is not trite when I guide my vibrant shibori silk under the needle, watch it ripple and gather graciously, marvel at its beauty, ponder how ravishing it is and know that you are going to love wearing the art I create.
I am not praising me. I am praising the inner workings of my soul that has brought all the pieces of creating together to make this masterpiece. Yes, in that moment, when exquisite colors have found their way into my silk. I am thrilled and can't wait to share it with you.
A form of my inner life is embodied in the fabrics I take into my hands and shapes each piece. and I say, “you will love this.”
It is not trite
You will love this!
What I know about you is that you are passionate, you have wisdom from a life well lived, you express what you know with authority and you desire intimacy.
"Our souls crave intimacy"—Erwin Raphael McManus
In order to know what to buy think about how you intend to wear your art;
casually
or for special occasions?
What fabrics are you drawn to; heavier silks like crepe and charmeuse, uber light paj or devore burn-out, medium nuno felted wool, rayon and linen or heavier hemp and wool?
Think about color. Not particular colors. Palettes. Are you the tones of fall, shades of winter, pale tints of spring of bright summer? Are you cool or warm?
My wearables are loose fitting, tribal in design. Their function is to accent the colors and layers you are already wearing. They are meant to be comfortable, first. They are designed to add texture and movement, to sculpt a particular silhouette. They are meant to be worn.
When you clothe your body, you are sculpting a vision you have of yourselves. A vision that is beautiful and strong, luscious, sensuous and sensual, curvilinear, voluptuous and soft, assured and confident, fluid and flowing.
The textures, shapes and colors you place on your body tell a story and becomes your sculpture. They are all in response to the many messages you have received and written.
When you choose to wear art, you step outside your traditional decision making process into a realm of unlimited possibilities. In order to do so you must ask yourself a few basic questions.
What is my bottom line?
This is not directly about money but it can be if you don't want to waste money buying beautiful wearable art you never wear. You want to know what is most important to your self expression. Mine is shape and function. Whatever I wear, the the shape must reflect a silhouette I desire, it must be comfortable and make me feel beautiful.
I want what you place on your body to be in harmony with the world that surrounds you. The reason that is challenging is because there are so many man-made colors, it can get complicated and conflicting with the natural terrain and all her colors. All my shapes and colors are meant to compliment and contrast the world surrounding you, the colorful world of Mother Nature, her curvaceous lines and soft belly.
The way the light lingers, the leaves slowly fall, reminds me another season is eminent. Colors will change brilliantly. I take each step slowly. The year has passed quickly. Yellow is also a fall shade and when I add black to my formulas, olive appears.
Define Your Principles
They apply to all aspects of life, even what you wear.
Repetition.
I repeat what I like. Such repetition creates movement and rhythm. It makes each day interesting. It makes what I do interesting. Nature has this repetition. The waves, the leaves the bark on the trees. It's why I like shibori.
Be inclusive.
I add variety. Hence I will never be bored and every ensemble with be exciting.
Maintain equilibrium.
That balance I seek in day to day life can also be manifest in what I wear. Sometimes subtle, sometimes bold
Hold to a constant standard.
Keep things in proportion. This is the hard part. I tend to over react.
Live the rhythm to my own drum.
This is where my strut lives. Where I ask and answer regularly, "Who do I think I am?" Forty years ago the answer was Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, now it's Nanjo from the film Atelier.
Keep it simple with basic essentials.
No crew necks. Lots of v-necks. Always comfortable.
Determine your bottom line.
Most importantly: know what you want. I want to keep communicating.
Dress to be Seen
My designs are for women with a certain level of self-confidence
They want to just be
just be beautiful
they don’t want to have to try
yet, they want to self-express
through their words
and their style
they are frugal with their money
they want a style that is unique and comfortable
a look that is cohesive
they want efficiency without loosing their sensuality
Quotes from the Japanese film, Atelier
(I love this film)
Me: Why do women have to try so hard to be beautiful?
Atelier: It is human history. Throughout history women in Asia, Africa, North and South American, and of course Europe, all women, in every age and every pace, have been trying tone beautiful all through their existence human’s have bee admiring the beautify of women.
Me: It's all about the drape.
Atelier: Do you understand the beauty of hiding? Lingerie is fascinating because it is enigmatic.
Me: You are fascinating because you are enigmatic: difficult to interpret or understand; mysterious.
Me: Are you saying you can't make a statement because you are poor?
Atelier: Don’t underestimate the poor. You’re not poor. You look poor.
Me: Remember your elements, know your principles and anything is possible.
Listen to friends and Mother Nature
You know who you are.
Experience has been your teacher.
Wear a statement piece of wearable art.
Walk your talk.
You are no longer living what you know,
you are authoring your life in advance of living it.
Repeat what you like
Be inclusive
Maintain equilibrium
Hold to a constant standard
Live the rhythm of your own drum
Keep it simple with basic essentials
Determine your bottom line.
color, value, texture, line, shape
What colors do you like?
Define your palette
What’s your season?
Manifest contrast, strong values,
soft and bold, light and dark
What do you feel?
Experience texture
silky and coarse
Shape your message
What’s your line?
What’s my story?
Walking in the woods yesterday, I saw the brown color I am shibori dyeing for a mother of the bride statement kimono and dress. It was in the leaves left over from last fall; deep, rich, rusty, copper, with a touch of dark, forest green.
Even though the leaves were from last fall, now aged into late spring, they held their vibrancy. Who would think that the colors of spring would include the age of fall? Clearly, every color can be found any season. And you can wear any color, given all the shades, tones, lights and brights to choose. How did I get on my color path, my artful path, my path of self expression?
I let go.
One day when I was on my lunch hour from my first office job, I stepped inside a store that sold a more expensive line of clothing than I was inclined to buy. I was 20. I was a Sears’ girl. I decided that I would try on pants and blouses that were bright and brilliant. The pants were orange and fuchsia. They were each paired with a floral blouse. They were not the bright and brilliant colors of summer. They were subtly toned, as the leaves are when they slowly change. Not my usual choice.
It was a risky step.
I gazed in the mirror and said to myself, “I hate this. This is not me.” I have strong opinions. I bought it, anyway. I was tired of buying the same styles and colors. I wanted to feel what it was like to wear something different.
A relatively safe risk.
My dad loved it! I never thought of him as a stylish person in his USAF uniform or week-end overalls. In hindsight, as I peer into his old black and white photographs, I discover he had a very strong sense of composition. His was not the only compliment I received. This began my journey, not only of exploring colors, also in taking risks with self-expression.
All colors are part of nature.
Find yourself in the rainbow. It is very large, full and forgiving, as you are.
You can wear any color. It’s not about what looks good on you, it’s about what makes you feel wonderful. You are part of nature. In order to determine your place in the rainbow, remember your favorite season. Find it by listening to your body. To what season are you most drawn? Listen to your friends and their compliments. Write it all down.
Are you spring where the colors are soft, or summer, where the colors are bright, bold, and brilliant? Are you sometimes a little of both? Getting to know your self through color is the exciting journey you are now poised to embark upon.
Are you most present in the toned leaves of fall and their bright counterpart, jewels against the sky? Are you in your element in the deep rich and luscious shades of winter, the depth of spruce, and burgundy?
All these seasons come and go, as you do.
You know what you like, what feels good.
Begin with your favorite season, where memories have lived the fullest. Coffee, chocolate, semi sweet, bitter or milky? It’s the season you are drawn to that will determine your palette.
How do you choose your palette?
Ask, “What do I like?”
Today I start with brown. Deep dark, aged, fall leaf, brown. Browns emerge from all colors. The brown I am seeking emerges from yellow and purple, her compliment. They create copper and rust. As the exploration continues, many colors appear. And as you explore, they become your colors, ready to mix and match and enjoy. They will tell your story.
You can wear any color. It’s easy. Nature has already begun to cleanse your canvas when she added grey to your hair. If you, too, choose to add color, are you more drawn to yellow or blue based colors? If you have highlights, are they gold or ash?
Let’s collaborate? Tell me what you feel. This is how you will tell me who you are. What do you like? How tall are you? How full are your hips? What are the colors of your skin, your eyes, your hair, (is it dyed or natural)? The answer to these questions are the beginning of our designing your personal statement piece of wearable art.
I am by no means impeccable, nor is the art I create, perfect. No matter how hard I try, there is always a flaw, somewhere. I don’t let it stop me, however. I respond creatively, then move on to the next piece and try again. I learned my pursuit of perfection from Mr. Blackburn, my instructor in barber college.
In 1973 at Aurora Barber College I learned the fundamentals of barbering and anatomy in the back room and practiced on customers in the barber shop in the front of the building located on a side street of the low rent district of downtown Aurora.
On the first day of school I was assigned chair 29, the last chair. I would eventually make my way to the first chair. Each week as students graduated, we packed up our things and moved up to the next chair. Customers knew that if they asked for the 25 cent hair cut they might get someone who had just begun school. You could start anytime. The winos and bums (we call them “homeless” now) made that choice. Fifty cents was a little better. The odds were your barber had some experience, and of course, a dollar got you first, second or third chair—someone who was about to graduate.
“Chair 29!” I heard my chair called over the intercom. Wearing my turquoise smock over my orange-and-brown tweed mini skirt, my shag haircut pulled back softly, I rose out of my chair. (It’s what we all did, sat in our chairs, read The Practice and Science of Standard Barbering and studied the muscles and bones of the face and head while we waited for our chair number to be called.) I unfolded my perfectly creased chair cloth, moved behind my chair and stared as a scruffy old man sauntered down the long narrow aisle. As I watched him coming toward me, I wondered if he knew I had never cut a head of hair in my life. He didn’t say anything at first, as he settled himself in the chair. I draped him with the black and white striped chair cloth, wrapped a neck strip around his neck according to sanitation regulations and tightened the cloth with a silver clip I kept in my smock’s breast pocket. As I pumped the chair higher, he said, “Give me a regular.” This was code: taper in the back, clean up the sides, a little off the top. Most regular customers of a barber school know enough not to ask the last chair for a shave.
Mr. Blackburn, the owner and head teacher, ran his school strictly, demanding punctuality and cleanliness. Sanitation was maintained with a few drops of a blue solution called Barbercide poured in to a glass jar containing our combs. Little tablets of formaldehyde were stored inside our tool drawers where we kept our shears and clippers. Fragrant bottles of Pinaud Clubman shave cream and talcum powder glistened on our back bars. At the end of each day before anyone could leave, we each stood behind our chairs while Mr. Blackburn paced slowly down the aisle eyeing the chrome base of each chair for hair still remaining after we swept. He wore black pants and a crisp white shirt everyday. Each morning a different student styled his gray hair in a pompadour by using a brush and blow dryer. He, of course, only trusted students in chairs one, two, or three for a haircut.
My grandfather, Julius Zabielski, was a Polish immigrant to Chicago in 1917. I married a barber, became a barber, a hair salon owner and eventually a wearable art designer. There is a connection. Notice the posture.
Bessie Zabielski had her own style. She, too, immigrated from Poland to Chicago in 1917. Coincidentally I wore the same style hat in my first poetry reading and I love flared skirts.
Be still and listen, my grandmother said.
This is my reawakened arena for healing and self-care, personally and for the planet.
Less pontificating.
I was in a meeting last week. There was tension. The ending was uncomfortable. I felt silenced. Many felt there was no resolution.
How could there be? The topic was epic. Racism.
The time small. Two hours.
What do I remember?
Only the stories. None of the opining, preaching and lecturing.
I remember the story a black woman told about her fear of driving alone late at night on dark county roads in South Carolina. A fear I, as a white woman, seldom experience.
I remember the story another woman of color told of mounting fear for her five sons after watching a documentary on lynchings.
And I remember the frustration a woman from Honduras shared at frequently being invited to be on boards of organizations but soon realizing she was a token, she had no real voice.
At first, after the residue from the meeting drifted away, I resolved never to speak again. My stories felt insignificant in light of all these women had experienced.
As the days passed, my courage began to rise. I must speak, I affirmed. I must rise each day, dress for being seen, for being heard and be prepared to speak if necessary.
Every day demands the courage to speak and when I have drawn to me all my allies and power tools, my thoughts are clear. Even my work jeans and bandanas become power tools for statement making when chosen consciously.
Each day that I step into is to be seized and made magnificent. I will not hold back for fear of being insignificant. After being still and listening, I will speak boldly when necessary.
These are the things my grandmother taught when we went to visit in her tiny house on the edge of the cotton field in west Texas. Always dress up when you go to town, she said.
This is what grandmothers teach, even if they birthed no children of their own. They have lived long. They have experience. They are wise.
Be still and listen.
Usually when I think of hot flash, I think red. In hindsight, I think green. It’s been awhile since I have had a hot flash, however, the things I learned during that time are tremendous.
The transition occurred naturally in my body signifying a new beginning was about to happen. A time to take care of me. The children would soon be grown and on their own. I remember that time well. It was like the color green, a time of growth and balance. A time of growth into a mature, wise woman. A time to balance past desires and future dreams.
I remember standing in the University of Kentucky bookstore. I had just enrolled in classes, a returning student, excited to enter this mental world of thinking, studying, validating opinions, discovering new ones, making art, when suddenly my body began to heat up. Little beads of perspiration appeared.
It was uncomfortable. My back pack was slung across my body which was covered with many layers; a vest, a sweater, a jacket, a scarf around my neck. The heat continued to rise. There was nothing I could do.
At home I could strip down. Not here, in the bookstore. In my helplessness I saw I had no control. I saw endurance. I stood there, the heat continued rising. Within that moment I recognized an endurance I intended to embrace.
This was the beginning of a new period of growth that I would not resist, that I would embrace fully and become the wise woman I was meant to be. It just happens. There is no avoiding it.
I am the mother. I told the caller on the phone seeking to speak with the mother in charge.
I am in charge. I know what I am doing. Oh what a glorious balanced path to reach. As I walk in the woods this morning I see that the green cannot get any greener. This is the color I seek to capture.
photo by Anna Esposito
Who do you think you are?
A friend and I were editing her short story. It was based on her rural childhood, filled with details and dialogue that was unique to her roots.
“You should read this at your next county picnic,” I suggested. “It’s very good.”
She shook her head, slowly. “I could never do that,” she said. “They would all ask, ‘Who does she think she is?’”
I was stunned. All these years, I had thought I was the only one who carried that little question inside my head.
Easter, 1957
Who does she think she is?
I don’t think my immigrant grandmother was a Polish princess, but she acted like royalty, with her plastic covered sofa and fur coat. And my mother’s parents weren't rich either, living on a small west Texas cotton farm. When we went to visit, we always dressed up when we went to town. It was not only my grandmother’s way of keeping alive the heritage she was proud of, it was also her way of teaching us to always put our best foot forward, no matter the circumstances of our everyday life.
“You know who you are, honey,” was implied, if not spoken.
The tone changes when you exchange
think
for
know
Locks
First, Mother made sections
laid a rag across her finger
combed smooth
the silky strands
wrapped them down, under,
up and around
tying a knot
sliding her finger out.
Next morning
she untied each one
chocolate swirls
pulling them back
I sat, pretty
Laverne Zabielski, 1951
Who do you want to be?
Words are powerful. And rewriting our stories takes time.
The year I graduated from Rome Free Academy in Rome, New York, 1964, my Dad was stationed at Griffith Air Force Base. That summer between my sophomore and junior year I decided to change my whole style. First thing I did was remove my glasses. I couldn’t see without them but I felt I looked a whole lot better. They had just come out with them and I wanted them, too, but they cost eighty dollars and that was with our base discount. They’d be twice that off base so I had to get them before I graduated from high school or I wouldn’t qualify for the discount anymore. And it was me who would have to come up with the eighty dollars. That would require a lot of babysitting so I started figuring ways to talk myself out of wanting contacts. For one thing I’d heard about the getting used to them part and, I didn’t too much like the idea of going through all of that.
The second thing I did moving to a new base was that I decided not to be shy anymore. I didn’t know if you could just up and do something like that, just decide not be shy. I always figured shy was something you were born with but I figured I’d give it a try. I borrowed a white, low cut, sleeveless, cinched waist, circular-skirt dress from Lorraine. I had a suntan from being a water safety assistant at the pool all summer and that white dress next to my dark tan and no glasses, well, when I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t believe it was me.
We were going to a CAP dance, Civil Air Patrol. It was an outside dance and since I had this new attitude about not being shy, it must have worked because these cadets and airmen were asking me to dance. It might have had something to do with the fact that guys outnumbered girls ten to one, but I didn’t think about that at the time. I just said yes and danced.
Many years later in 1977 when I opened my own hair design business, Om Hair Designs, “Who do you want to be?” became the question I asked my clients, either directly or indirectly, before I could create a haircut that embraced their lifestyle. We were in a transition. The weekly appointment of a wash and set was slowly being replaced with hair cuts that would last six weeks andwe could shampoo and blow dry ourselves. Freedom for full self expression was desired and it had to be easy.
At Om, such designs was our forte: precision haircuts that could be easily shampooed, blown dried and would look good all day, even on a windy day or after making love! When I asked myself that question, I always added, comfortable.
I began to design my looks from the shoes up.
I want the comfortable flowing skirts and dresses, felted jackets, boleros and dusters. I like tight jeans, even though my belly is fuller. And comfortable shoes. Now when I hear that question, "Who do I think I am?" I answer,
"This is who I am and I am comfortable."
Dyed silk and merino jacket, wet felted and prefelted on the FeltLOOM
Honoring what I hear
I listen to my body
those gut feelings that lead to decisions
based on intuition rather than articulated facts.
This is how I capture the divine feminine
Lately I’ve been paying attention to trust and faith. It is clear to me more than ever that in the scheme of things we really have no other choice. Faith; everything will work out. Trust; everything happens for a reason. Not a preconceived, predetermined reason, but simply for the fact that something can be learned from each experience.
My husband, Larry, and I love where we live; the quiet, the beauty, the green. Looking at Larry’s face yesterday during dinner he looked exceptionally handsome; his grey hair at that perfect length just before the need for a haircut sets in; his skin slightly tanned from working in the garden. His insights and wisdom were being shared. We were talking about life after death and the pros and cons of suicide.
Life after death, he said, had many possibilities and he was open to all. Nonetheless, it remains a mystery. Suicide? The question was whether or not it should be left up to each individual. Since a friend’s recent suicide, I have felt it was something of a betrayal. It, too, remains a mystery.
For dinner we had bean burritos with home grown onions we bought at the farmer’s market, organic tomatoes, avocados, cheese, brown rice and salsa. Our friend, Mead, was visiting. For dessert she brought frozen cashew cream. It had the texture of cheesecake and was delicious.
The day was simple. Lengthy conversations continued during our hike in the woods. An episode of West Wing was watched, then to bed early.
Our life is simple and there is value in that simplicity leading to a capacity to go inward more often. When I go inward I’m not only looking for thoughts not fully expressed, I search for how my body feels. Throughout the day, I feel younger than my years and at times I think that I may even look younger.
Conversations at the kitchen table
Honoring what I hear
I listen to my body
those gut feelings that lead to decisions
based on intuition rather than articulated facts.
This is how I capture the divine feminine
On our recent visit to the Art Institute in Chicago I was confronted by a homeless woman on Michigan Ave., a stately avenue on which to take up a homeless residence. She had chosen a space outside a coffee shop protected by a fence that sectioned off the outdoor eating area. She and her belongings were nestled on the outside of the fence, while inside there were cozy tables with umbrellas to shade the sun and heat.
Larry and I had just finished our coffee and sweet roll and as we leave I hear, “Hey, Grandma!”
The homeless woman is walking towards me, dressed in layers, her black matted dreads, a statement of pride. I, too, was dressed for the cool morning weather in a layering of sweaters, jacket and shibori scarves.
“Hey, Grandma?” she calls again.
I am startled. My grandchildren call me Grammy. No one has ever called me grandma. In fact, I don’t even think I look like a grandma, at least not in my preconceived idea of what a grandma should look like. I thought I was different. I did not, however, betray this woman’s observation. “Will you go back in there and buy me a croissant?” She asked.
I nodded, “Why did you call me grandma?” I asked.
“Because I am one, too.” She answered. Camaraderie had been established.
I turned around, walked back inside the coffee shop. She returned to her corner to wait. Someone else had already bought her coffee. Larry meandered down the sidewalk while the transaction was completed.
Honoring what I hear
I listen to my body
those gut feelings that lead to decisions
based on intuition rather than articulated facts.
This is how I capture the divine feminine
Larry and Laverne at Van Gogh's "NIght Cafe"
Sky lightens subtly
trees become black etchings
leaves rustle in a slight breeze,
coolness settles in
moist, fragrant
a rooster calls
daybreak is soon
cars swish on the distant highway
an animal gnaws its prey
birds begin their serenade
ever so slightly
the tree etching widens
brightens against a hint of pink
the air cooler
signifying a sunrise is eminent
every bird a different call
cows contribute tenor
a majestic symphony
in surround sound
before the gold
Gold, generous and giving, always sharing its wisdom, knowledge and wealth with others
“You have to have vision,” I heard my mentor, Arturo Alonzo Sandoval, say from across the room. He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to one of his students. I was fortunate to be working on the FeltLOOM in his classroom and could listen.
You have to have vision.
How true, I now realize. And vision is different than a plan. A plan comes second. A plan comes after the vision has been defined and chosen. We can have many visions and focus is where determination comes in.
What vision do I want to focus on?
In the past there was the vision for the move back to Kentucky. The transition was smooth and provided us with the amazing cabin we now live in. Today, there is the vision from my art, each piece of shibori dyed silk using carefully chosen colors creates many versions of wearable art.
Today, in order to keep from getting bored and to keep from repeating myself, I begin a new vision quest asking myself, “what do I want?” This becomes the quintessential question, the question most necessary to keep in the forefront of my mind everyday.
Today, I say to myself, I want each piece of art I make to become part of an intentional ensemble from the beginning of the vision.
Since I discovered the power of gathering around me only what I like, life is easier. While I realize it can become cluttered, I leave room for those moments when “opportunity knocks.” These are the moments when my questions are being answered, ever so subtly.
What do I want to explore?
Energy.
Everything contains energy. My vision. My art. My cabin in the woods. It’s why I surround myself with art. Wearable art. Art on the wall. Art on the floor. Art in the garden. Art I serve my delicious food in. The art in my home, the handmade items I look at, use, wear, are closer to the maker, and the energy is more intense. It is stronger, hence more transferable to me.
You have to have vision.
Even my Garden Girls remind me of this fact when they talk about writing. In my creative writing I invented the Garden Girls to accompany me on my quest to take risks and live the layered life of an artist.
“How do you find the words?” Rose asked.
“Look at your hands,” Clove said.
“I think you mean that’s really all I have to do.” Rose said.
“Of course I mean it,” Clove said. “Look at your hands, Rose it’s all in your body, in the way you walk, the way you smile, the way you think. Look at your hands and take a deep breath and you’ll find the words.”
The thought was exciting, physically. Rose felt her body move. Mentally she felt her mind churn. “Let’s write together again,” she said, “the next time we can claim a moment to own.”
In writing, Rose was seeking passion, the passion that gets you excited and keeps you awake at night. Rose was always passionate; there was no getting around it. She wasn’t ever going to give it up. To be able to create passion, that’s what freedom is, that’s what life is; just keep on writing because what else is there? Sometimes preachy thoughts showed up, talking to Rose, but she listened only when she had to. Mostly there were other sounds to consider— the voices and the quiet. When the voice was soft and the message was sweet love was all around it. Mostly when Rose heard the voice it meant listen.
When ideas were overwhelming, she’d take long hot baths, one right after another. The writing challenged her not to divert her eyes, keeping them on her vision which is to keep on moving, not stopping, except to meditate, watch her breath, while looking at her hands to find the words waiting, and believing they will come, because they’re right there in the table, the light, and window.
First I’ll make a list, a quick one, Rose decided. “Do I write it all down? Do I make notes?” She asked Clove.
“You can,” Clove said, “or you can just look at your hands. It’s in your body, Rose it’s all in there.”
“Do you realize that you are saying there are no right answers. You are saying that whatever I say is okay, to just be me and say it. Take the risk.”
What does it take to become a Garden Girl? A desire made manifest, to discuss intimacy, passion, wisdom, and authority. And take risks.
Today, I take a deep breathe. What I want is in my body. I begin a new exploration of layering fabric, color and textures creating statement wearable art ensembles.
Laverne Zabielski, artist, designer and writer, studied fiber art with Arturo Alonzo Sandavol at
the University of Kentucky, Lexington and received her
MFA in writing from Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky.
You are unique, darlin’
PRAISE FOR LAVERNE
Finished Mariposa. Nothing short of spectacular!
Mariposa. . . it, by far, is the most meaningful poetry I’ve ever read! I can visualize every word; and I can empathize with your feelings.
Laverne, Your book, Mariposa, Opioid Abatement Poems. Both subtle and powerful.
I thought your performance of Mariposa, Opioid Abatement Poems was amazing. It was so powerful. Seriously, Laverne, it had me in tears.
Mariposa, Opioid Abatement Poems is one of the loveliest and most loving things I have ever seen.
“The saying goes, ‘when the student is ready the teacher will appear.’ It feels like so much synchronicity that we reconnected at this time. This student is ready, and I can't wait to be a part of your Creativity Membership Club. Your life practice of living a layered life speaks to me in a deep way. Like you said, we don't have any time to waste, and I'm looking forward to experiencing all the ways of living my creative life fully.”
“Being in your studio relaxes me.”
“Laverne! I'm still soaking in our connection, the shades and tones and textures, the relationship between infinite possibility and boundary.”
“Thank you for the Self-Publishing class. I enjoyed it and I learned so much. It has prompted me to move forward with more confidence and it gave me some tools to tap into along the way.”
"Everything about your email newsletter gave me a lift. It makes me happy and gives me hope for our world knowing people like you are living and creating beauty and sharing what you know."
"I rekindled my interest in journaling after attending your writers' retreat. Your wisdom that emotions can only be transcribed by personal reflections sank deeply with me."
"What a beautiful gift of silk! Even more than the gift, I loved the note card and the note itself! I’ve reread it several times! Thank you thank you thank you!"
"What an incredible, mouth dropping open, delightful surprise I got in the mail. When I opened it in the lovely wrapped tissue, with even a shiny cord around that, I was tickled, with a one sided Popeye squint. The scarf is luxuriously lovely. The colors are Perfect. The rich deep brilliance of the blues make me smile all the way from inside. And the purple always feels royal to me."
" I so appreciate your insights on us women who can dress and lead a beautiful fufilling life after 70. I love my life now. It is free, open, enchanting, beautiful, and each blessed morning is a grand delight."
"As always, I think your work is stunning, beautiful, full of life, spirit, soul and united with the universe. These new botanical prints are just that. United to the universe."
"Thank you Laverne - the workshop was great and I have lots of thoughts and ideas about future ambitions on the FeltLoom. It was so much fun, the time just slipped away and you were a real inspiration for discovery and process."
"I feel wonderful and special each time I wear your art."
"Not only are you; a true inspiration and love your philosophy, but your work is stunning! Keep it up! Go girl go!"
"Thanks for making me feel young and lovely!"
“Your beautiful scarf arrived and it some of your best work. It truly is magic. I am proud of you and delighted to have had a front row seat in observing your metamorphic evolution as a fabric artist. Laverne, you truly astound me.”
“Thank you for the very personal journal. It arrived at a time most needed as transcendental things often due. We all have work to do, if we are alive and growing and your inspiration continues to help me peel my onion.”
"Your color palette is unmatched by anyone and your passion and spirit means a great deal to me. I feel ablessed to have something worked by your hands and heart. I am by no means a beauty queen, but your work makes me feel lovely and wonderful. You may receive expressions of gratitude but maybe not as heartfelt as this... Thank you so much for your time and energy."
"I love your words and writings as much as I adore your clothing.......You are a rare raven...spreading your wings and embracing creative flair as you travel thru the Universe."
"I want to thank you for the compliments I received when I wore the scarf I purchased at the fashion show event. I went to a meeting in Louisville and at least six people came up to me to comment on my beautiful scarf. The work you do is amazing and I appreciate the attention it brings to the wearer! Thanks Laverne!"
"This past Saturday, I wore the floral jacket I got from you a few years ago, to a Gala. It was gorgeous! It was just the right touch to my long black dress. Thank you for making me feel like a “hit” at such a joyous occasion. I truly enjoyed wearing your art to this fancy, black tie event."
“Having an interest in felt after dappling in wet and nuno felting, I took two FeltLoom classes under the guidance of Laverne Zabielski. Inspired, I also have completed the Sibori dying class. More than a teacher, Laverne Zabielski mentors and guides her students through art theory and color theory while demonstrating the process of the art form she is teaching.
“Laverne’s teaching methods are based upon sound educational pedagogy, demonstrating, explaining, and collaborating. After displaying examples of FeltLoom products and listening to her students, Laverne introduced some wool rovings, silk, and ribbon embellishments that could be incorporated into the silk and wool batting scarf that would be created in the beginning FeltLoom class. Reminding students of the color wheel and simple art theory concepts to help guide us in designing our pieces.
“I left my first class with Laverne, inspired and empowered, believing in myself as a creator of art.
“Since the first class, with guidance from Laverne and the magic of the FeltLoom, I’ve made a shawl and then repurposed nuno felting scarves, I completed a 4’ x 6’ wall hanging. I’m looking forward to expanding my Sibori dying abilities. Laverne Zabielski is unique, being a creative, skilled artist and teacher.” —Peggy W.
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