It was a typical hot dusty day in the town of Oatman, in about 1978, when I bought these quilt tops from a swap meeter beside the road, Old Route 66. I paid only $25, but to me, they seemed truly precious.
Those hand sewn quilts I got from a swap meeter in Oatman almost 40 years ago--why did I hang on to them for so long?
I've been writing and drawing, trying to get to the bones of their meaning for me, remembering that hot dusty spring day--I think it was spring--when my neighbor was clearing out his grief when his wife died by selling the pieces of her life.
I tried painting the quilts before I sent them home.
That didn't come out well.
I tried drawing them as they might have looked in the old steamer trunk where I found them.
.Still no good.
When I touched them, there was something about the maker in every stitch, something that spoke to me over the years. Something that gave me hope that my chaotic life with young children and a stoner prospector life mate could someday have some order.
I tried to draw that. Twice.
I'm still not satisfied, but I think--I THINK--I like the bottom one best. What do you think? Any suggestions? I'm a big girl; you can tear these apart with ideas about what would make the images work better.
Inspired by the places where land meets water, and by stories.