Oh, yeah, baby...I'm walking on the wild side, living in the fast lane....that's me. MM--mm. I've been wearing my nightgown since 8 o'clock, letting my kids watch tv, and...uh...embroidering grapes. That's right....clubs have got nothin' on me, man. I'm cutting edge.
Yeah, and my husband and I used to go to Sportmart on Friday nights....try on the rollerblades with the plastic thingy still attaching the pair. That was painting the town, I'm tellin' ya'. Closing down dance halls and rough bars? Noooo, too tame for us. Passing footballs down the aisles without getting thrown out of Sportmart? That' s living large for you.
About those grapes:
That sideways squiggle was begging to be machine embroidered. How could I not oblige? In the comments, Debra suggested tackling this with hand embroidery. That would be an issue for my attention span, which is abbreviated at best. I'm really digging the way built up stitches form a raised surface, even though there's not much done yet. A little hand stitching (certainly nothing approaching gratuitous use *snort*) might be the finishing touch.
Next, Funky C brings you a list of aimless thoughts brought to light during the embroidery process:
-Is this really art? It's pretty realistic...not much hidden meaning or personal imagery in drawing green grapes that look like...uh...green grapes.
-Maybe a big, fat, vocabulicious title coupled with an eye glazingly wordy artist statement will hide the fact that these are just...green grapes.
-Do I really want to thread paint the entire, endless background the rich dark brown I'm envisioning?
-Maybe I'll just call this a 'study'. Studies don't have hidden meanings, do they?
-Do I really want to cut it out and just stick it on a background? Maybe a better way would be to print some grapes on my Epson and fuse them right in the middle of some brown fake batik. Now there's a look.
-Gee...that dark brown background thing kind of looks like some stuff out of the Andrew Wyeth book I've been reading at bed time.
-Oh, crap. Now it's not only 'not art', it's freakin' derivative. Party over. I quit. Think I'll blog instead.
And here we are. There isn't a scene in L.A. that can compete with that kind of mental trip. And I can do it all for free in my nightie.