Life, Death and Art, a Creative Act

I thought of you while

wrapping and drizzling dye, your

walk, smile, endless strength.

When I die, there will be

no retrospective. I intend

to disperse everything.

At 80, a friend asks,

what’s there to do,

and why?

Planning a memorial

is the new

event planning event.

Once, we were into

where we wanted our ashes

spread. Then, we were not.

When he took his life

he left a note. “Don’t be sad.

I’m out of pain, now.”

I thought of him while

wrapping and drizzling dye, his

smile and endless strength.

Focus, Record, Implement, Document

As we get older it is important to create a life that is meaningful.

Looking back on all that you have accomplished, focus on that which has given you the most pleasure. 

Reinventing the next phase of your life is not about doing everything different. 

It’s about building on what you have accomplished. It’s about looking back and gaining insight about ways to keep doing those things, without the stress. 

What needs to change? 

What can you add?

What needs to go?

For me what gives me pleasure is when 

I share, 

entertain, 

create connection.


Write down what you discover and describe the ways that these experiences manifest. For me, 

I share when I write poems and make books. 

I entertain when I have tea parties, dinner parties, organize poetry readings. 

I create connection when I create opportunities to listen to others as they discover their passion for self-expression.


Create ways to do more of what you love to do. 

Remember, this is not about creating a job or money. 

It is about doing more of the things you like to do, the tasks you let slip away. Gardening, 

grilling out, 

projects, 

inviting friends over. 

This is the pleasure that will be with you the rest of your life. 


Everything you do from now on is very important. 

Don’t just take photos. Make prints, and small books. 

Write about what happened, who was there. 

Find the stories and poetry in your life. 


This is your legacy.

Reinventing Oneself

I have been thinking, writing and making changes in my life as a means for changing focus and gaining clarity. I call this process reinventing oneself. I will be writing more, but today when I came across this mini memoir I wrote long ago, I realized that this reinventing has been going on for me for a long time.

Contacts, Pleasure and Pain

1964

The year I graduated from Rome Free Academy in Rome, New York, my Dad was stationed at Griffith Air Force Base. I remember the gate to the base, the fence around the sergeants’ section and the fence around the officers’ section. The base hospital was a few blocks away and the pavilion was up on a hill behind it. They sold Kent cigarettes in the cigarette machine in the lobby of the hospital. They cost thirty-five cents and I bought a pack, took them up to the pavilion to try them out. 

The pavilion was dark and damp. No one else was inside. It was a wet, rainy weekday after school and Lorraine and I walked up there. Lorraine smoked all the time. I hadn’t tried anything and I was going on seventeen.

That summer between my sophomore and junior year when we moved up there from Topeka 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. Karen was getting contacts. That was the latest. 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.

 So I started saying to myself the beauty would be more than I could handle. There are benefits in looking good, but there comes a point where you can look too good. I hadn’t reached that point, yet, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Look at Marcie. In sixth grade she was my best friend and had a long blond ponytail and someone wrote I like to f*** Marcie up on the water tower on Burnet’s Mound where everyone went parking. I know it wasn’t true because Marcie was my best friend and if it were true she would have told me so. Somebody must have written that because of her blond ponytail. So anyway, I figured it’d be best if I didn’t get contacts.

Karen got hers, though. There were a bunch of kids in her family, like mine. She worked in a beauty shop sweeping up hair, and she saved her money. She ended up getting murdered in a restaurant bathroom in Florida the summer after we graduated. I decided then and there when I read the murder story in True Detective Magazine and looked at her senior picture with no glasses, staring out at me, the photo blown up to fill the full page, that I was never getting contacts.

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.

The cadets weren’t bad, the airmen were too old and the base kids who happened to show up were the best. Tony asked me to dance three times. He was a big football player at the school I’d be going to. He walked me home and I let him kiss me good night. That was the second kiss I’d ever had. The first kiss was by Kenny back in Topeka. He was out of high school already and told Marcie I didn’t even know how to kiss.

Well, I figured I did better with Tony because my period was due and not coming. I was certain that sperm crawled out of him, down my borrowed dress and got up inside somehow. It had to: Why else would my period not come. Thank goodness it finally did, six weeks later. I still didn’t go out with Tony anymore. I just stared at his butt at football games.

Lorraine lit my Kent cigarette in the pavilion and handed it to me. I sucked in hard like she said, but it must have been too hard because I coughed forever. This is not fun, I said. Why do you do it? I asked her. It gets easier, she said, but I decided, then and there, I wasn’t going through pain for pleasure. I think of Karen every time I enter a restaurant bathroom.


Luigart Studios, 110 Luigart Ct. Lexington, Ky



Who Goes First

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Who Goes First   

Laverne Zabielski, narrator


I have had enough. The weeds growing between the rocks. 

It’s Larry‘s job to do the weed eating. I can’t. I don’t want to. 

What will I do when he doesn’t want to? Can’t? 


I’ve had enough worrying about who goes first. 


He pays all the bills on the computer. I don’t know the passwords. 

We should pay them together, he said. 


I don’t want to. What if we both live another ten years? 

That would be ten years wasted me doing what I don’t want to do 

when he does it so well. 


Maybe you should just do it all, he said. 

Get used to it. Just in case I go first.


I fall quiet. I’m stern. 

You do not want me to manage the money, I tell him. 

Ask either of my previous husbands. Yes, I can do it. 

I know about due dates and bank balances.

But, I have different values and I’m not as frugal as you are, I tell him.

That’s why I threaten him I’m going shopping when he won’t weed eat. 

I don’t expect him to weed eat like before, when we lived in the country. 

And he was a weed eating maniac. 


I asked my son, Johnny, to move all the rocks so I could mow 

right up to the edge of the flower bed. Make it neat. 

I want the petunias to show and the zinnias not buried behind weeds. 

If we move the rocks, I won’t have to nag Larry about weed eating. 

I won’t have to threaten I'm going shopping. 

Which I never actually do. I understand frugality is necessary 

to have a little cash in our old age. 


I want the rocks! Larry said. I will weed eat. 

I called Johnny back. 

Don’t 

move 

the rocks! 


Larry got up early today to move the rocks closer together 

so the weeds won’t squeeze through. 


I’m waiting with anticipation for when I arrive home 

but not with too much anticipation. 

This has been anticipated before. 


And I’m not going to start paying bills, either. 

I will deal with it when the time comes 

which it may never come. I may go first. 

Mom Danced the Charleston

mom, on the right,  dances the charleston, 1956

mom, on the right, dances the charleston, 1956

When we moved to Tachikawa Air Force  Base in Japan in 1955, I was in the third grade. My mother blossomed. She entered a social realm, had more friends, as couples they gathered for dinners. She participated in a events at the NCO Club, non-commissioned officers club. It was not as “Country Club-ish” as the officers club, but better than what the airmen had, which was no club at all. Airman didn’t seem to have families. They must’ve gotten out of the military if had not made the rank of sergeant. 

While in Japan, Mom learned the Can-Can and the Charleston and they would perform at dinners at the Club.

Mom and Dad relax after her can-can performance.

Mom and Dad relax after her can-can performance.

Mom modeling

Mom modeling

She sewed her own clothes and modeled them herself in fashion shows,  also at the club, probably at a women's luncheon. 

New Year’s Eve, 1956   Photo by Dad

New Year’s Eve, 1956 Photo by Dad

Dad got into photography. He met Japanese photographers, bought state of the art, wide lens cameras. He developed his own film in a dark room on the base. He took me with him at times. When we moved to Topeka, Kansas, he set up a dark room in an unused utility room off of my added on bedroom. There are photos Dad took of us dressed for Easter in front of the house we lived in. At first, when I saw them, I couldn’t understand why his focus was so off-center. Now I appreciate it. We are all standing to the right in front of the decorative gas yard light. To the left you can see the house we lived in, and VW bus, and another sibling waiting for their turn to be photographed.

Looking back I see it’s not so much what my mother taught me directly, it’s what I absorbed. Today I model what I’ve sewn.

repurposed felted from old clothes

repurposed felted from old clothes

Red Dirt

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On road trips 

the landscape changes. 

Dirt determines the location. 

the terrain.


Long fences, sage brush, sandy soil, rocky hills, gullies, cattle scattered.

We knew we were in the west

close to grandmother’s house  

when the dirt turned red, 

high contrast to white cotton

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a pile of memories, 

the heat of childhood visits 

where there was no pain or struggle 

only picnics and watermelon, 

walks in the red river, 

swimming, 

standing beneath the falls. 


When driving north it was the Salt Lake white that stood out 

forcing us to stop and just look. 

A lake in the distance, glazed and still. 

Messages written in sand by the side of the road, 

rocks used to make each letter. 

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My Mother's Gesture

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Portrait of My Mother

In this photo at the farmhouse in Whiteflat, Texas, we are in my grandmother, Stella Tilson’s, kitchen.

I am not, nor are any of the grandchildren in the picture. All the adults are squeezed around

two tables that are pushed together. Everyone is drressed up for Sunday dinner in the same way

they would be if it was a picture in an elegant dining room. Only this is a very small kitchen. Stella

is proud of the dinner she has prepared. My mother, her very dark luxurious hair, and, as evidenced

from other pictures, is wearing dark lipstick. I cannot see her face. however. It is turned away from

the camera. Her posture suggests that she is reaching towards something or someone. Because I

remember this house, I know that she is sitting near the doorway to the next room where there is

a smaller table set up and all of the grandchildren are seated around it. The pose of her reaching is a

nurturing gesture. There is tenderness in the way she holds her arms. This is a portrait of my mother.

This is what she did, solely, and to the best of her ability.

What I Remember

Grandmother’s house, Whiteflat, Texas

Grandmother’s house, Whiteflat, Texas

The old photo in an oval frame with convex glass

of the Tilson farm in Virginia 

hung above the coat rack on the side wall 

next to the front door with its full length of retangualr glass panes 

in the house my mother moved to 

when she returned to Motley County, Texas

where she was born in 1927. 


In the late 1880s her grandfather 

had left that farm for Fort Worth

to become a cowboy, 

then headed further into the wild west 

a barren land of rattlesnakes, 

endless sky and a flat, rocky, cactus filled terrain. 



As kids in the ‘50s, Daddy driving west from Illinois for summer visits 

we fantasized as soon as the terrain changed. 

The entire journey entered slow motion. 

We were no longer in a station wagon. 

We were in a covered wagon. 

We knew we were. 

We could feel it. 

We were on horseback. 

Our eyes squinted, searching for our destination, 

wanting to hurry  and yet, 

wanting to savor the heat, 

each town exactly 30 miles apart. 

the distance the stage coach could ride in a day 

evidence, we were indeed part of history. 


The further west we drove, 

the closer we got to Grandmother's house, 

the farther apart the gas stations were

with their very dirty bathrooms. 

Sometimes we drove on past. 

Pulled over on the side of the road 

and carefully stepped out 

watching for rattlesnakes 

before we squatted down.

West Texas Road Trip, 1949

West Texas Road Trip, 1949


We had heard the story many times 

our mother, three years old,

stepping out of the house

her daddy yelling, 

“Grace Laverne, you stop right now.” 

He grabbed a gun

shot a rattlesnake 

right in front of her. 


The rattles remained on top the buffet

to be revered every summer we went to visit

the house that was nothing like 

the old Virginia farm house. 

Not two story and stately. 

a small, four room house,

added onto several times. 

First, the indoor bathroom

then, a large, bunkhouse type bedroom 

filled with bunkbeds and twin beds we could lay on 

next to the open, screened windows 

and listen to summer sounds 

during the day, 

cicadas and cows mooing 

during the night, 

the sounds of wild animals 

far off in the distance. 

Visiting the old homeplace

Visiting the old homeplace

Fragile

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There is a fragile tone to everything I do, 

a sense of walking carefully, 

paying attention to choosing the right word, 

the right tone of voice. 

Maybe it’s because 

I’ve been so crude lately, testy. 

I don’t mean to. 

Sometimes, I can’t hold back. 


So I am being fragile, treading softly. 

a form of self-protection 

that keeps me from attaching too much

expectations of others. 


Writing is my salvation.

In the writing workshop I was careful 

not to take up too much time.

I shared two poems in twelve minutes. 


Twelve minutes goes fast. 

In the, “dear heroine,” poem

I wanted to know if dead 

was too strong of a word. 


Should I use death? 

Since dead was the last word, 

it needed to carry a heavy hit.

Everyone agreed. Dead was heavier. 


As the workshop continued,

the poem seemed intense, too dramatic. 

I had shifted since I wrote it, 

and was feeling the need to rewrite. 


This is not therapy. 

I am capturing a moment. 

I don’t need to make everything better. 

I can write a new fragile  poem.

Repurposed Tablecloth

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Last night we watched “Out of Africa.” I’ve seen it before but could barely remember the story. I did remember the scenery, and that a woman has an affair with Robert Redford. 

Where did he get that smile? Larry has that smile and my sons have that smile. Such a smile can be seductive and soothing and can turn stern in a moment when challenged. 

In the movie there were frequent scenes sitting around a table covered with a white cloth. Karen says, “Aren’t you glad I brought my crystal and china.” A simple statement, yet so true. 

The tablecloth becomes a symbol of elegance. 

The spreading of the cloth. 

The creation of sacred space. 

Sharing of memories. 

The calming, sipping of wine, water, or tea. 

My mother always used a tablecloth for special dinners. She bought linen when we lived in Japan. She made some with tiny cross stitch. This was a teaching passed down without knowing a teaching passing was occurring.

When I went to Ireland, I couldn’t wait to buy a lace tablecloth, only to find out when I returned home and looked closely that it was made in China.

There was something unsettling

buying another culture’s culture

from another culture. 

As I search for my culture’s tablecloth, I find it is a blend of many. I find old lace tablecloths at the Salvation Army and hand dye them in the colors of my favorite palette. They become special and carefree. 

I place them on the picnic table in the park, subtly transforming the scene. In “Out of Africa'' they set a beautiful table next to the tents on their safari.

It’s not pretentious.

It’s a slowing down,

identifying the canvas,

placing the color and texture. 

Perhaps that’s what my repurposed polyester should become. Tablecloths. A transferring of trash into the elegance of a dinner table.

To slow down the anticipation,

concern,

worries.

Intensify the gathering together. 

Become the teaching with the story written down. 

Karen was a good storyteller. That’s how she captured Robert. That’s how he came to fall in love with her. He was a man of the moment and when she wanted more,

he withdrew,

only to discover

he loved her moments,

and stories and wanted more. 

Sustainable Fashion

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Something has to change if we are to continue to enjoy the beauty of the life we have known. The clothes we wear, the houses we live in, the food we eat, something. We can start with what clothes our body day by asking who made it, what materials were used, is it old or new? When we repurpose the past, gathered with memories, it contains predictions of what is most desired. Each time an item crosses our path we must ask, where have you been, how can I enjoy you again?

Fashion is a means of self-expression. Sustainable fashion can turn a rip into a personal piece of art that becomes uniquely yours. Because we value sustainability, repurposing is an antidote to fast fashion. It is a different way of relating to our clothes and allows us to think more about what makes clothing meaningful. 

Fashion is not something others create that we aspire to duplicate for ourselves. Fashion is what we embrace. It is the first statement we make to the world each day when we choose what to wear.

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Remembering Highlin'

Highlin’ watches me through the front door as I garden.

Highlin’ watches me through the front door as I garden.

Letting go of my dear sweet dog

after 14 years of friendship

there is a sadness,

and a new life ahead of me. 

No waking in the middle of the night to let him out no listening to him snoring, keeping me awake 

and yet I look for Highlin’ when I come home 

look for him to greet me at the door, slowly 

as his slow walk holds him back.   

I look for his water dish to see if it needs filling

it is not there as he is not here.  

I look for him poking his head in the bathroom 

as I slide into my hot bath each night.    

I look for his pushing the bedroom door open checking to see that I am there 

even though he’s not quite ready to come to bed.  

These are frozen actions 

that leave my body as life left his 

a careful taking day by day moment by moment watching his effort getting up and down 

as I experience my own aging body 

getting up and down. 

Memories live in photographs

his dog collar and tags 

on the fence in the backyard.  

I shift to a different life 

after experiencing the silence 

of the many  unspoken conversations 

Highlin’ generated.  

This evening, I dive into discussions with Larry 

and wait for a Highlin’ to remind me 

don’t worry 

just be still 

stare out the window 

and wait by the water dish. 

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Comfort in the time of sadness

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For three years I’ve walked past her porch

we wave

yesterday 

I took her brownies 

gave her a hug 

she 80 something 

was now the mother of a murdered son

as I walked home

my knees weakened 

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In my circle of friends, we were talking about times of sadness. The power of a wave, a plate of brownies, a casserole. . . .how we make art when we are in despair, our knees are weak. Fortunately, my art pairs well with pacing. I piece fabric and colors.

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On how we are the same and different pursuing our true purpose:

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My dear,

I have known you for many years. You are a goddess, childlike, a spiritual seeker. You flow, move easily, impart wisdom with heightened sexual awareness, owning and embracing your body. 

You were an artist before I knew anything about the world of art. Your sculptured clitoris revealed everything I needed to know. Your intelligent mind captivated and captivates, with kind, considerate, caring attentiveness. 

Your brushstrokes intense and vibrant become soothing, softening, tranquility sets in. Your words illicit. You have lived in the world of poetry before I knew such a world existed. Taking risks in relationships, pursuing pleasure and desire. 

You are a goddess, temporarily caught in the maya of mass despair, your pursuit of textures smeared into knowing spread across your canvas, waiting. 

Rainbows and Birdsong

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Rainbows signify my son, Donnie‘s, presence. There was a rainbow outside the Unitarian church when his memorial was over and the next day there was one at the corner while I was taking Highlin’ for a walk.

A birdsong signifies my mother’s presence. She made a point to crack the kitchen window over the sink so she could listen. When we sat on the front porch, she would pause and locate the bird whose song caught her attention. These must’ve been her meditative acts way before my be here now moment awareness arrived. Moments I’m seeking more and more these days sheltering in place. Mostly to keep my mind off politics and the future of the virus. Stay safe.

Stay healthy. We do the best we can. Thinking back I cannot remember Mom ever in a political debate. I can’t remember her ever saying very much, except comforting one-liners when we were expressing our worries. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

I can remember what she did. In addition to wonderful cooking and keeping a clean, cozy house, she sewed. Her sewing machine was in the living room. It faced the TV. She sat behind it and sewed. There was a floor lamp. Dad sat in his recliner on the other side of the room facing the TV.

This is what they did every evening. I’m sure Mom would have been just as happy in her sewing room. This is what they did together. Dad wanted her close. At some point she took a break and made popcorn. It’s what they did together.

Begin Where You Are

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Exploring Boundaries 

Boundaries were not something I grew up with.

I was the first of seven.

A good girl. My mother and father never talked to me in that “setting boundaries” tone.

There were rules, curfews, expectations, and I followed them.

My father was a sergeant in the Air Force.

Not as low as an airman.

But definitely not as high as an officer.

We lived in the sergeant’s section on bases.

There were fences around each housing section.

I had friends in each section.

Those were boundaries my father was not intimidated by and encouraged us to cross.

My mother’s mother, Stella, did set boundaries.

She made it absolutely clear in her arrogant self-righteous tone of voice

we were not to run with Mexicans and riffraff.

She made a distinction between white trash,

people without manners, and us. 

Even though Stella was the wife of a poor Texas cotton farmer,

struggling to raise her seven children in a house just this side of a shack,

she still clung to her plantation roots.

She made sure we dressed up to go to town.

And our posture was erect.

And while her intentions may have been proactive—

to raise her family to be proud regardless of their financial status,

underneath it all there was a defensiveness answering the question

who do you think you are? 

I never heard the question spoken out loud,

but I definitely felt it from the town’s people.

Arttistbook Newsletter

Reliquary

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Reliquary, art contains the past

In my present I layer my past. 

Seeking a reason in everything. 

Heightening awareness. 

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Reliquary has become my favorite word. I like the way it rolls off the tongue. It is almost a poem in and of itself. I learned about this word when Linda Bryant presented her poem “Reliquary” for discussion on Laverne’s Writing Workshop. Her poem is about the past; her mother’s ashes, the present; making peace, and the layering of these experience; making art. I am drawn to this new found word and the discussions it stimulates.

I asked Linda if she minded if I named my upcoming exhibit and salon Reliquary. And the chapbook I intended to publish featuring writers who have discussed their work on the radio. The exhibit contains the past found in repurposed dresses and skirts from Goodwill. Layered with wool and silk, then transformed into shawls or art for the wall. I exhibit my work is with Brandon Long. Using a similar color palette and wide range of found materials, we each create a container for the past. Together, these assemblages of fiber and metal are a stark contrast in textures and forms. The soft and supple next to the sharp and rigid is an intense juxtaposition of contrast and values. They find stimulating harmony when placed near each other. Stimulating conversations begin and I love it.

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When I was growing up such conversation often occurred around the dinner table. I was the oldest of seven and the most likely to enter into debate. My dad was the instigator. He instilled values and he challenged them. We debated long and hard. When I felt I had made my point, he would change his point of view. 

Mon’s meals were simple. Meat loaf, potatoes, iceberg lettuce salad, french dressing, canned peas, canned peaches. Four cookies for dessert, sometimes a bowl of ice cream. Yes, Mom measured  everything and there was no going back for seconds. She didn’t take part in the debates. It was me and my dad, an Air Force sergeant and the son of Polish immigrants. 

“Garbage men deserved to get paid well,” he said. He was in support of Solidarity in Poland and yet, he made it clear I was not to be dancing with any black boys.  

“Daddy,” I explained, “this goes against all your values of fairness and equality.” He was adamant.

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My desire for intellectual conversation may have been the demise of my first marriage to a good man. At parties he and I attended, I found myself in the kitchen with three or four others in deep discussion. 

“Laverne,” one of them said, “you are so intense.” Isn’t this what everyone wants to talk about?

When I went to barber school and we sat in our chairs, bored. We were waiting for bums to come in for cheap haircuts so we could practice. John, sitting next to me asked, “Have you read Body Language? There was no reason for me to find him attractive. I had already passed judgement. Not my type. He was short, Mexican, and had long hair.  Stimulating conversations began.

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In my present I layer my past. Reliquary seeps in my stories and art. Tarnished and old, they keep resurfacing. I seek a reason in everything.  Heightening awareness, I may be direct with words or become subtle in fabric.

If you ask me a shawl’s story, I’ll tell you.














Technique

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You have to have vision. You have to have technique. 

My vision is always the same. 

defined by nature

only the elements change

the flow of hair emerges from the landscape

color emanates from the rainbow 

Back in the day, 1975, when I was designing haircuts,

my vision was on balance. When cutting hair, after a conversation, I made  decisions about overall length and shape. I followed the technique and the haircut always turned out balanced, fitting the shape of the head and grew out well.

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Today, when dying fabric, I focus on color. Technique is formulating color, following directions for mixing, making my own rules and sticking to them. 

Always use three colors. 

Drizzle carefully 

Read the flow of the dye

like a kayaker reads the flow of a river

The fabric comes alive. 

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For art to wear, it’s movement I want.

When designing, technique is simple, designs are tribal.

Tearing fabric , seldom cutting, letting the cloth become the clothing. 

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My writing technique is the timed writing, creating the flow, receiving and digging up words, transcribing with line breaks at the breath.

When defining a body of work, my technique is asking three questions 

what is this about?  

why did I write it?

who wants to read it?

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Words define the story. 

A collection becomes a body of work.