Today I unwrap the silk from the poles that I had shibori dyed several days ago. This Kentucky humidity means it takes forever for them to dry. At least in the winter I can set them by the wood stove. In summer, all I can do is wait, and work to fill other stations of perpetual works in progress and gather with artist friends to discuss sources of inspiration, work load and destinations.
“Where are you headed?” Artemisia asked.
That was the purpose of the gathering. The women had become fractured. All four were going in separate directions. Gardenia had begun to question the extent to which she was leaving home. Nettles was concerned about spending more time in the garden. Herbs were drying and she had begun to get pictures of presents in her mind that she could make with them. Lily’s silk painting was stuck and Rose was feeling like she wasn’t really expressing herself fully. That’s why she called the gathering.
“Let’s talk about us,” she said in the postcard she had mailed each Garden Girl. “What if we were real artists? What would life be like then?”
excerpt from my memoir, The Garden Girls Letters and Journal