I love this part. It’s like a satisfying novel, or a not-too-difficult puzzle. A little bit of work, but mostly just watching it unfold.
The ends of the wires are still trying to pull away from the form, but if I can just control the next three inches everything will work out okay.
This is how it always starts: heavier vertical wires taped to the form. Multiple layers of tape, because the wire does not want to stay put.
Then I go around the hips and attach a lighter-weight wire to each vertical wire. This part drives me crazy. Wires everywhere, trying to poke me in the eyes, making a little shivery sound as they brush against each other.
Here’s a close-up of one of the little wires wrapped around one of the bigger ones:
Fussy and barely manageable, like a newborn baby. It takes me a while to get into a groove.
A year ago I hung this little wool and wire sculpture in a lilac bush in my front yard:
I said I would photograph it monthly for a year, and I have, and now I can stop.
Here’s what it looks like today:
eleven months | ten months | nine months
eight months | seven months | six months
five months | four months | three months
two months | one month | the beginning
It’s the next-to-last monthly picture of this thing! Today was windy again, and I had to grab it and hold it still so I could photograph it. I ended up with this close-up shot:
ten months | nine months | eight months
seven months | six months | five months
four months | three months | two months
one month | the beginning
For anyone who’s ever been told that they’re crazy:
“Something is there, at least in a mathematical sense. Something not just small, but also unimaginably heavy.”
In the afternoons, she follows her blue shadow through the glitter-bombed woods.
What is it about the shadow that tugs at her orange-tufted paws and purple tongue?
Even if she spoke English, she could not tell you.
It leads her to the gravel pit, where the dirt bikes buzz like oversized cluster flies.
What do the dirt bikes know?
Even if they spoke English, they could not tell you.
Maybe it’s something like what the eggbeater knows: the inscrutable hand urges you onward, long after you’d have stopped if it were up to you.