There’s no help for it. If you are shading a pink bird, you’ll need to use pastels at some point. I’m not a fan. But you don’t get to throw out a section on the color wheel. Eventually, you’ll need all the values: tones, jewels, and pastels. Tones and jewels. Yes! Pastels. not that much.
Let me break down the color scheme for you.
There are six color zones, in the feathers of this bird, and then a zone for the neck and thighs, the feet, the head and the bill.
There are two progressive color themes going on. The pink under body and feathers, and the green overstitching. Both progress from dark to light.
Where did it go wrong? I chose the wrong yellow.
White objects are rarely pure white, unless you want a posterized deco look. They’re made up of other colors pale enough to be perceived as white. The bird itself is pink. I pulled in bits of lavender and yellow to blend it and to create a shadowed projection. I chose the wrong yellow. If you look at the top feather, you can see a strip of yellow that’s pretty loud.
You know that kind of Easterbunny pastel. Yellow, pink, blue, purple, and maybe green. It’s only appealing if you’re under the age of five. It missed here. I stitched some cream and natural white thread all over it.
Then I added the overstitching. The overstitching takes center stage, and the yellower bits back off. I think I’ve saved it. It also browns out the pinks a bit. They’re all there, but quieter for the green.
What should I have done? I should have lined up that yellow in a row with the other colors and taken a black and white picture of it. I would have known right there. But I’m happy with it now.
I’m ready for the next step, which is the background. And I think it needs yellow fish and birds.
This last year has been a disaster for my sewing machines. Most of my work depends on intense embroidery. Lately I’ve depended more and more on that stitchery for my images. I love it. But it does wear and tear on the machines. I had 6 major machine breakdowns. last year. I broke down 3 220s, my 770, my 630 and a 930. Some have fixed. Some have not.
I’m a Bernina girl from way back and have been a Bernina Ambassador for most of my career. I work with Berninas because they are tough and they stitch accurately. That doesn’t mean they don’t break down, Particularly if you’re sewing at speed demon speed for hours on end. I was told this is my fault.
I suppose it is. It’s what I do. I can either back away from this kind of stitching or find another way.
Zigzag embroidery allows for intense detail and color, I can’t step away from it. I also can’t keep breaking machines. So something has to change.
Don is my miracle in this. He’s a wizard with older small motors. He’s not specialized in sewing machines, but very mechanically savvy. He’s collecting manuals and parts machines. As always, he’s my hero.
I really can’t function though without a working machine and I prefer 2 backups. I’m not exa sane without a sewing machine.
Years ago I bought a 20 U Singer for intense embroidery. That’s not what these machines are known for. In a way, they’re the cockroach of the sewing machine world. Not in the sense that they hide under the cupboards, but because they are pretty much unkillable. You find them most often in dry cleaner shops for repairs.
It was a mixed success. This thing eats babies and cats, breaks thread constantly, and is fast—too fast—even with different slower pulleys. And it was the weight of a tiny elephant. When I left Porter, I left it in my studio, where it has sat.
Ken, the person renting my house, offered to bring it to me. That in itself is a huge glft But I’ve had my reservations about making this machine work. I first felt I was stepping backward, Is it an answer to the same problem? Is this machine tough enough?
Well, we know it’s tough. Can we make it work with embroidery thread? There’s the question. It’s also paid for.
It had its problems before. But things have changed. I now use stronger threads. I no longer work in a hoop. And we found that a servo motor would step down the speed. So it’s coming to the studio sometime this month, and we try it out. I’ve gone from feeling like I’m stepping back to seeing new possibilities.
You can’t step in the same river twice. You are different and the water is different.
I’m digging out the studio this week to make room, which is why I don’t have new work to show you. I’ll let you know what happens next.
Wish me luck. I think it’s time for another spoonbill.
I’ve always joked that it didn’t matter that I couldn’t do straight lines because I really didn’t want to. I tend to justify my limits a bit. I do know better.
I left behind piecing when I was a beginning quilter, because I was much more interested in quilting in creatures than following straight lines. I was also rotten at straight lines. We are defined not so much by what we take up as by what we discard.
So after years of beautiful curves and free motion ecstacies, I find myself if situations where I really do want to make a straight line. At least sometimes.
It all started with a ceiling tile. I have a ceiling tile that rubs out like prairie grass. I love it. It gives the movement of grass without a heavy shape. But the lines are basically straight.
I’ve stitched them with just my darning foot, to mixed results. I couldn’t follow the lines as well as I liked. They’re pretty, and I love the grass stems, but I wanted them to be less sloppy.
I was browsing through some videos where I found one of Leah Day using a ruler and a darning foot together. I’m quite a fan of hers. She has done a lot of good innovation with stippling and texture. She showed how to quilt with a darning foot and a ruler.
I know it’s a long-arm quilter thing, but I had never tried it. There was a special foot involved and some very pricey rulers, so I decided to try to do it on the cheap.
Berninas aren’t either really short or long shank machines. They’re a whole other system. But I do have an adapter for feet that works pretty well. I ended up ordering a short shank darning foot and a five inch omnigrid square.
The foot with the adapter was an epic fail. I could put the foot on the adapter, but it wouldn’t make a proper stitch without breaking needles.
I went through my old Bernina feet and found one that came with a really old machine. It was a darning foot with a raised lip. It worked. Clearly there’s a learning curve.
Would it have been easier to buy a new foot? I’m sure. But it was also pricey, Next time the ship comes in, I’ll buy one.
Will I do this more? There are times when a straight line is just what you need. Probably no way out.
So we have a win for old weird Bernina feet and ingenuity. I’m always pleased with new possibilities. It’s like someone slipped a new toy in my tool box. My reeds are everything I could ask for. They’re almost straight.
I don’t have much work to show you this week because I was preparing to teach yesterday at the Peoria Art Guild. The Peoria Art Guild is one of the most supportive art centers I’ve ever seen. Not just for these kids but for established artists like myself, and emerging artists first bringing their work to the public, and for people who just enjoy being part of an art community it’s a astonishing place. It’s become my art home. I am so grateful.
So when the Peoria Art Guild asked me to teach for their MAP program I was excited. I had no idea how great these kids are. I’ve done it for three years now.
These pieces are in process.
The Map program is a Mentor Artist Program for seniors and juniors where established artists come in and mentor them.
What are these kids like? They are amazing! Talented, unafraid and energized. I was awed today.
I love teaching. I love the connection, watching their pieces come together, watching them build skills and confidence and find their own art. That has been a privilege.
I teach because I believe that art matters. It’s not about a process or a skill, or what you make. It’s about the ability to work with your heart and your soul to express yourself. It’s emotional literacy. The one thing unique thing each of us has is our vision. When we can share that, the world is a little wider, the bridges a little stronger, the light a bit more illuminating. The darkness stands back. We make art to shift and change the world.
What do we give to other artists? Our techniques. Our inspiration. Our studio workflow. Our vision. Our joy in creation. Our appreciation of their path, as we travel our own.
Would these kids make art any way? I don’t think anything would stop them. But giving them a broad base of skills and experience with different materials means they can better find their way. The MAP program is a fabulous opportunity for them.
The Peoria Art Guild brings this to these kids each year. I saw them grow ten feet tall in one day. It;’s a magnificent experience. For myself as well as for them.
If you have a kid in the Peoria area, Senior or Junior next year, who lives for art, consider this Map program for them. It’s free. You’ll find information on the Peoria Art Guild Site.
And IF you need a breath of art yourself, the Peoria Art Guild is there for you.
What do you do when your techniques are killing your machines?
This is about component embroidery. Lately, I’ve leaned more and more on component embroidery to create large astonishing embroidered images. I love the work it creates. I am completely reliant on my machines.
I have a love/hate relationship with most of my sewing machines. I really love them when they work. I’m in abject hell when they break down.
Since I’m a Bernina girl from way back, I’m used to tough well-built machines. Yesterday, my ancient 930 had a moment. I thought it was a screwdriver fix; It was not. We’re playing mix and match between the two 930s in the studio. Neither is quite ready for prime time. It has brought to mind how intensive my work is.
That was underlined by the 3 220s I managed to break last year, and my 770 which has spent 7 months out of the last year in need of several kind of repairs. And is once again in the shop.
These are lovely machines. They’re built tough, and I’m still having them break under me like I was shooting horses I’m riding on in a battle. I’m devastated. I know better than to have only one functional machine. Because always, inevitably, something will break.
When I talked with my mechanic she said “You do know you sew more than other people..” Which means I stitch very heavily to make my images. Meaning perhaps I’m asking more out of a machine than it’s built for.
Which leads to the question, do I need a different machine? Do I need a commercial machine?
I went through this several years ago when I bought my 770 Bernina. It’s fast. It’s got that nice long arm and some lovely features. It does not put up with mad-speed sewing. I love it. I’m afraid of it too. It threw its hook at me through the door on the bobbin mechanism. I wish I were kidding. And I don’t know what to do about a machine that’s off more than it’s on.
So here’s my 2025 Challenge.
Do I change my work because my machine won’t do it? Do I find another way? Do I look for other tools? Or do I back away from a stunning technique that lets me do things past my earlier abilities?
Which leads me to humming something like a Sheryl Crow song. “Are you tough enough to be my sewing machine?”
Being an artist is only peripherally about making art. It’s mostly about developing skills, ideas and visions. The art is a byproduct. It is a picture of where your art is at a particular moment. This is why I can always let go of a piece of art if it raises my abilities as an artist. Any artist’s first creation is the skills, techniques, and vision you make art from.
I’m looking. I need a zigzag machine that is commercial grade I can control the speed on. And I need to find some money to look with. I’m always willing to give up a piece of art to further what I can do as an artist.
Those of us who live an artist’s life live with constantly unbalanced finances. Don and I are on social security. I don’t discuss my difficulties hoping for a handout. But I have used my art to fund things I couldn’t buy any other way. I’ve offered work of mine at dead rock bottom prices, when the need arises. I’ve never asked for money itself. I’ve offered the work I have to make what I need happen. I’m doing that now.
These pieces represent work I couldn’t have done ten years ago. They’re made with component quilting elements, separately embroidered and incorporated into the quilt itself. It’s changed what I can do. I need a tough enough machine to do it.
If there’s something you are in love with, this is the time. And I’m open to offers. I am a motivated seller. If you wish to see more information on my body of work, it’s also on my Portfolio Page. The price on the portfolio does not reflect the sale price, but you can click through from the portfolio page to the Etsy shop.
Also, if you have knowledge about industrial or particularly tough zigzag machines, I’d love to talk with you. I need more options, and would appreciate your expertise. And if you have questions about a particular quilt, let me know.
Usually, Saturday is the day I prep the blog. Sometimes I’m a bit ahead. This week I was not. And last night my leg went out.
So when the ice and rain hit today, Don declared a studio day off. I spent the day working on photos of the new quilts I’ve just finished. And I decided to make meringues.
I’m a good cook, even if I’m a bit heavy in the butter, cream, and beef department. I’m pretty good most of the time. But every year or so, I have a state-of-the-art disaster: the chainsaw chicken massacre, where I tried to bake stewing hens. Or the time I made black and blue cornbread. I was making blue cornbread and the thermostat on the oven broke. Or Treebark in the snow. I had a jelly roll disintegrate while I was trying to roll it. There was no hope for it. I glued it together with raspberry jam, covered it in powdered sugar and called it treebark in the snow. People still ask me for that. I don’t think it can be reproduced/
I wasn’t very mobile, but I thought I could arrange things well enough that it wouldn’t matter. I prepped the meringue, put it in a pipping bag, started to pipe little stars and watched as incredibly sticky meringue oozed out of the top of the bag on to everything on the table. My cutting board. All the spoons and forks. The spice rack. Don’s computer. I had made meringue glue. Very effective.
So here are the quilts I made earlier this week before I glued everything in my kitchen to the piping bag.
It wasn’t a complete fail. Don liked the meringues enough to lick the beaters.
You can see it’s easier if I’m just allowed to quilt.
My leg is better today and the ice is gone, so I’m off to the studio. These quilts will be up on the site shortly.
i need to start this post with a full disclosure. I am deeply dyslexic. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was teaching myself, but the b’s, p’s and t;’s periodically spin like tops for me. I’m not so hot on left and right either.
So when I wanted to add a reflected image into water on a quilt, it wasn’t an easy thing.
I start most quilts start with a good dyslexic exercise. I draw in pencil and trace a copy with a Sharpie. The drawing is ironed onto the back as a pattern and is backward. My thread colors top and bottom are the same, so I know where I’m going. This is charted water.
But a reflection isn’t exactly the same. I wanted to put a reflection of the birds in royal rails.The reflection in the water needs to be flipped vertically. But not horizontally. Add to the confusion that if you trace the shapes with Steam a Seam 2, the pieces will be cut flipped horizontally. I thought I could accommodate that by flipping it upside down. Nope. That did not work. I ended up with feet that pointed the wrong direction, Here’s the thing. By the time you take the drawing, trace out the pieces for the shadow in organza and put them on to Steam a Seam 2 to glue them, they’re backward again.
I never figured it out for this quilt. When I put in the water there wasn’t enough space for the reflection. It whipped me.
I can see it if I make a model. If I try to hold it in my head, my head explodes.
I finally made a little model. Both images are flipped horizontally. The bottom frog is flipped vertically.
I made several color layers from the drawing tracing out the frog, the turtle and the snail bits in separate color layers of red, dark green, and light green. I laid the turtle layer over the whole drawing, and placed the cut-out bits in. It was tedious, but it worked.
Now what is left is to place in water over and under the shadow image. And add waterlilies.
I feel like I have a new tool for my tool box! All kinds of reflections coming.
Every winter I take up a new project to get me through the snow. I try to learn something new. I try to accomplish something entertaining.
I’ve been wanting to make a book out of my blog posts. If you’ve been following my blog, you know that I try to bring you into the studio, messes and all. I like the transparency of walking you through my project, and experiments, sharing what I’ve learned.
I will not simply copy off the blog. I intend to weave it into a reference you can use for techniques, information, and inspiration. I’ll be covering design, color theory, techniques, tools, and materials you may never have tried before. Would you like that book?
Here’s my introduction.
Welcome to my studio! Like most artists, this is where my mind lives. This is where the work of my hands exists. This is where my heart beats. This is where my soul breathes. I’ve taught free motion stitchery for 40 years. You may think that means I’m out of date. But I’ve learned an immense amount about thread, about stitchery. about expression, and about healing hearts. Because we heal through expression. We heal by transforming our experiences into the works of our hands. I’ve know that within the context of stitchery, I teach courage and confidence. Art takes both. The good news is that they are muscles that can be built as opposed to a gift you either have or don’t have. Our courage is best when we are children and we don’t care about whether we succeed or not. We simply do things and enjoy the task. We can lose that courage, but we can gain it back by suspending judgment and just doing. Confidence comes from courage. It is the knowledge that we can only learn to do something well by doing it badly for a while. Everything worth doing is worth doing badly. We have confidence that in time we will do it well. With those two skills we can learn everything. The articles in this book are based on years of blog posts. They are not slavishly reproduced. Instead they’ve been groomed into a collection of updated skills, projects, art statements and stories, meant as a guide for your own work. I had a marvelous Bosnian neighbor called Hanifa. Hanifa baked unbelievable pies, baklava, and pastries. They were unassailable. But she was a bit worried that anyone else might use her recipes. She would tell you anything, but she wouldn’t tell you everything. One or two ingredients or processes would be missing. Many times, enough was missing that your cake wouldn’t rise. She was the best! She never wanted to be less than that. She was just a bit proprietorial. I don’t need to be the best. I only need to do my best. But I’m very good at what I do. And I will never give you a recipe for a cake that won’t rise. Because I want you to be your best as well. So welcome! I intend to show you everything.
This is where I need some help. Would any of you be willing to read and comment on this as I work on it? I also will be offering some small learning projects I need someone to help vet.
If you are able, interested, or have thoughts about this, please leave a message in the comments. As always, I want to write a book you want to have.
Anyone who has written an art statement knows that meaning is illusionary. I think it may be whether you are visually oriented or verbally oriented. Verbally-oriented people can tell you what everything means. They understand their visual architecture. I find them fascinating because I can’t do that.
I get haunted by images, by different animals. and by small worlds. I work with those images until I’ve worked it out. Sometimes I have an idea of what it means. Mostly I don’t until and only after I’m long done. Somewhere my mind must know what it’s about. But it’s not conscious. Instead, the images need to work their way out.
This year, I’ve had a compulsion for little yellow birds.
Those of you who know me well, know I had a rough time in high school and before. I was targeted by people who chased me, hurt me, and humiliated me, while other nice little apaths stood against the wall and watched snickering. I do not want to hear I should be over this. You don’t get over this. It’s happened and it’s who you are, forever. Because it happened, you live in a world where it always could happen again.
It’s not that I remain a victim. It’s that I have no patience with bullies, sociopaths, apaths, and people bored enough to do this for fun.
So most of my quilts are social commentary. They’re about living in a dangerous environment where there are predators. They’re about finding a safe way through.
Not safe, necessarily. Livable.
So in a world where we are discussing canceling peoples’ basic human rights, we’re not to complain, and where we’re supposed to trust a rapist to protect us, it seems no surprise that I’ve had little yellow birds finding their way through my quilts.
