A model story

In the dark ages, when I was a novice weaver, I thought I was a fiber purist, but I was a fiber snob.

Acceptance to an art show, especially the first time, is dependent wholly on pictures submitted. After the first time the jury looks for work that is new, fresh, growing, but, it’s still all about the slides.

Fiber can be a challenge to photograph, and I looked for a photographer who could do this kind of jury slide. At the studio I found the job was well done; rugs photographed from a height, bags in nice little groupings, and shirts laid on a good background and photographed with attention to weave structure and colors.

We were accepted to some decent local and regional shows, and, of course, next I tried for the big time. My first round of applications to national shows included an application to the Smithsonian Craft Show, and the rejection letter included jury remarks the clothes would have presented better on a model.

I took that letter straight to town and slapped it on the counter at the store of my friend Chris, who kept two artist galleries in town. Chris heard out my rant about judging a bird by its feathers and other such analogies. When I got done he said, “Joanne, get a model.”

My new photographer, in upstate New York, put my clothes on the same woman who modeled all the garments he photographed, and Jerry photographed for a lot of fiber artists. His model lived down the road from him, in Woodstock. When he had a job for her she left her garden, walked up the road, put her hair up on her head and modeled, dirt under her fingernails and all.

One day Jerry said he wasn't photographing garments anymore; his model quit. Someone had complained about her wrinkles, and she quit. What to do? I got by on the old slides for another year, but pushing the old slides to three years is so risky.

I thought of my friend Gail. I took her and a stack of clothes to a new photographer not far away.  I told her all she had to do was put her hair on top of her head. She came out of the dressing room with her hair up, the natural skirt and jacket, wearing black heels and carrying another pair which she had brought. The other requirement for modeling for me turned out to be bare feet. And so we carried the last several years of weaving.

Weaving again, I really feel the Smithsonian jury’s remark to put the clothes on a model. Helen, my quiet studio lady form does not complain and does not come to meals, but she just isn’t enough. Fortunately, I still have friends.

The girl in the hat and the periwinkle shirt. She's modeling the denim shirt at the top of the right column, in the Etsy button.

And no, I never applied again to the Smithsonian show. They really were out of our league, but that letter taught me a lot.

A visit from an old friend

Gail visited yesterday. She is an old friend, who predates the BFF I've known since the early seventies. Gail and I go back to the college days, the sixties. Tiny apartments, tiny grocery stores, long walks to the Laundromats or home from the bars. Those days.

Gail is a laid back woman who is domiciled nearby on occasion, house sitting. She came with Lily, an extremely laid back Golden Retriever. I have it on good authority the animal is only laid back in Gail’s company. Gail is an animal whisperer.

Gail also is the only person I can contact easily to second my version of cutting off the end of my husband’s nose. The story does circulate occasionally.

Watching Janice put the quilt together

Jim, my husband, was classically passive aggressive. I had to grow older and read a lot of books to figure that out; so that bit of information is after the fact. The fact is, he expected the house to run smoothly, but he ran counter intuitively to the operation.

One Saturday we were having a large party. He did not get out of bed to assist in straightening the house; when he got up he moved straight to the sofa while I continued preparations. Then he decided he wanted his hair cut. OK, I had time to fit that in. But he wandered off, puttering.

Doesn't look difficult

I didn't refuse to continue, I just needed him to sit still soon enough and long enough to do the job. Yes, guests began arriving, gathering in the kitchen to watch the haircut, which had barely begun. “I want to do this later,” I advised. “You’re going to do it now,” he replied.

I cut hair with a razor in those days. Perhaps something pulled; he jerked, I lost tension on the hair, snatched my hand back and almost missed the end of his nose. I felt it hit, though, and there was a good deal of blood and screaming. He lost a sliver of skin, right on the end of his nose.

The guests were friends from graduate school, one a resident in surgery. He took over, put Jim to bed, prescribed ice and aspirin. The party went on, with Jim occasionally roaring his displeasure from upstairs. The scab on the end of his nose lasted several weeks. It didn't bother me at all.  As Gail said to Jim then and will tell you now, “She said she didn't want to cut your hair.”

Oh, hello

Between schlepping kids I listened in on Gail’s visit, knitting a sock. I've been remiss with socks this winter and have some catching up to do. And the last news, the arsenic and rice team did not move on. Emily hopes to get through high school without being required to participate again; Angela is thinking about arsenic in juice for next year. Well done, ladies.

And another person come to pet me.