I completed A Natural History of the Palette a while back and returned it to the library. The book continued on its course of part travel log, part history, part trivia colour facts and by the end of the book I was quite bored living vicariously through the author’s words and adventures. Overall it was a good book in a “I’ll take colour for 200, Alex” vein and hope that somewhere I’ll be able to impress someone about the demise and rise of Aboriginal Art under colonial powers.
I moved on and purchased and read Art and Fear, a book about how we make art, the actual doing of it, regardless of one’s methods, materials, philosophies…how does art get made, and more importantly, how do I (personal) make art, you (global) make art.
This book was like meeting a new friend over lunch or dinner and talking about what actually gets done and how. I really enjoyed the tone but a little over half-way through it I concluded that it isn’t fear of making art that hinders me but I need the book entitled Art & Rage. Either out of my wisdom or my stupidity I feel fearless. The one emotion that consumes me is rage…I can draw this up pretty easily at take your pick numerous occurrences daily. When I run my sewing machine it soothes the raging soul but one of the issues that enrages me is that I don’t have space to leave my machine up permanently. I’ve tried holding the image of Anna Williams quilting in her small cluttered bedroom and the photo of the woman hand quilting in her barn with hams hanging over her head as a reminder to do with where I find myself. Making do has been a survival technique that has supported many generations upon generations and saying that I’m not a make do kinda woman just further lends itself to my generalized anger and pissivity. As a result I’ve been piddling with hand work and not holding my breath.