I found out in December that I will be teaching a Journal Making workshop in May
'23 at Gray Bear Lodge in Hohenwald, Tennessee. The immediate reaction to the
news was total elation. What had recently become a scary path of medical
diagnoses, tests, more diagnoses, more tests, and uncertain findings was
sidetracked buy the anticipation of gathering around the book arts table with a
group of likeminded bookartists making our own unique handmade journals. I
imagined being at the paste-painting table, dollops of colored paste-paint
moving around the paper as we joyfully brushed, stamped, combed and scraped
patterns and images onto large once-blank sheets of drawing paper. Folding and
assembling the variety of colorful pastepapers around more blank pages for the
text blocks. And then the meditative piercing of the sewing holes in the
coverboards and text blocks. Then, the final step... an ancient style of sewing
the binding.. poking the needles in and out of the sewing holes, criss-crossing
inside each section, then linking each section to the last in a beautiful
waxed-linen-thread chain of symetry and strength.
Journals bound with the exposed ancient Coptic chainstitch binding are wonderful
journals, sketchbooks, and registers because each page opens flat so there is no
skewed markmaking due to an uneven page. When things are smooth with no bumps,
sometimes it's just easier.
But
life is always filled with bumps, curves, dips, dives... from the
first breath to the last gasp. In May, I'll tell my students that journals are a
wonderful way to record a tiny bit of their life. Not much of a journaler
myself, I usually like
making the journals more than writing in them. But
this past November, with the recent unexpected news of a new health concern I
began a new journal. These are a few pages from that journal...
Dec. 13:
"normal"
"normal"
“low”
“intermediate”
“abnormal”
...........
Korean
dramas in bed all day
'drink water' (as if that will help)
'be positive' (I don’t
feel like it)
Jan 13, 2023:
Red String Game
a skein
of red yarn
spun out
over time
and draped
across chairs and tables,
beds...
through doors
around corners
down paths.
crossing over
and under itself
wrapping like a
misshapen package
or some mummy
what is
a life.
I first played The String Game at my 7th birthday party. A surprise party, I opened the door to a room of my friends and a criss-crossed tangle of red yarn. Each child had a piece of yarn with their own name at one end and a surprise gift hidden at the other end. All of the strings were taped to a spot on the floor near the entry. The game began with each child finding their string, then winding it up inch-by-inch... following it over and under chairs, tables and all the other tangle of strings, slowly and carefully rewinding it into a ball without separating it from the anticipated prize... until the end was found and the prize revealed. I don't have any memory of what prize I found that day, but I will never forget the image of all those criss-crossed red strings and a dozen 2nd graders carefully navigating the maze of threads as they wound up their own balls of Red String...
