Mindy Carlson

Hard to believe it is January 1, 2013.  A lot happened in 2012.  I met several new friends including one person who I feel is a kindred spirit and helps to bring out my artistic side.  A fleet of costumes were made, lots of travel happened – including to the beach which is where I took the above photo -, Star Wars Legos took over the house, and I moved from mostly quilt production to mostly handbags.  I also moved my sewing equipment from drifting around the house and taking over the dining room table to a space downstairs that had been occupied by our treadmill.  Now I feel like I have a real studio! (Well, starting to feel…. I need a few shelves and some better organization of fabrics. Just another project for 2013.)

I also have a raft of projects, sewing-wise and house-wise, lined up for 2013.  I have been taking my time sketching and putting my ideas on paper and patterning and I’m pretty excited about the new stuff I’m coming up with.  Here’s a sample of a design I found and tweaked for a client.

Usually at the end of the year I find myself drawn to poetry. Poetry helps me to find some time for introspection necessary for transitioning. Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets and I found this gem that sort of speaks to how I feel when I’m sketching designs.

I Ask You, by Billy Collins

What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside–
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.

But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.

No, it’s all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles–
each a different height–
are singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt–
frog at the edge of a pond–
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.