Sewing stitches that become lines
Mandy Cano Villalobos talks about the gift of aloneness without loneliness—and a noticeable absence of shouts for her to wipe butts other than her own—she received during the two weeks of dedicated time for her craft on her Hambidge Artist Residency.
I crave quiet.
On a usual day I sneak moments of sewing while chicken nugget dinners burn in the oven, children scream for butt wipes, and a forgotten load of laundry mildews in the washer. I have multiple projects stashed throughout the house so I can grab them should a five minute interval of studio time present itself.
I give you this glimpse into my life so you’ll understand my experience at The Hambidge Center. Located in Rabun Gap, GA, Hambidge’s Creative Residency Program hosts artists, musicians, and writers for various periods of time. It allows them the seclusion to focus on their respective practices. Each resident is assigned a remote cabin off a gravel path. Save dinner with other attendees, a resident can opt for complete isolation.
Which I did.
In the absence of parental demands I reverted back to my single ways. On the drive through the rural South I stopped at every flea market, antique shack and thrift store in sight. I drank Ale8 (Kentucky’s beverage of choice, a ginger and citrus pop) and listened to Patsy Cline. I turned off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows. I even stopped the car to take pictures.
Once I settled into my perfectly sparse cabin, I got down to business. I’m not one of those soul-searching artists who go for hikes in the woods to imbibe inspiration. (Too many bad tick experiences growing up). This was my shot at two unadulterated weeks of intensive studio time. Anyway, before I left Grand Rapids, I stocked up on all the inspiration I needed. I went to the library and checked out any audio book that looked slightly interesting. I amassed PBS documentaries and dug out all my old cds. No internet access? No cell phone service? No problem!
Each morning I woke with the sunlight, diffused by the trees that blockaded my cabin. Following my morning ritual (coffee, peanut butter toast, and reading), I christened each day with some classic Bob Dylan. Unanticipated nostalgia barraged my first morning. I just don’t have time to listen to music anymore, particularly the music that marks college roommates, past boyfriends and late nights at Waffle House. And yet, in a random Georgia cabin, my mind sauntered back to people I hadn’t seen since I rolled out of Lexington, Kentucky in a rusty, epileptic Toyota Corolla 20 years ago.
Vague memories of campfires and painting all-nighters trickled between “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” and Margaret Atwood’s “The Penelopiad.” Like a disembodied metronome, my fingers synced to the rhythmic inflections of audiobook narrators. “The Lazarus Project,” “House of Names,” and “The Problem with Pain” purred from my CD player day after day. I pierced rows of brown thread through worn paper sheets. My mind rambled through Greek myths, undergrad road trips, and existential talks, bereft of any actual experiential knowledge, with fellow art majors.
Most days I forced myself to finish one project before I began another. My body would stiffen as stitches became lines became patterns. Colin Firth’s voice described one lover’s hatred for another in Audible’s rendition of “The End of an Affair,” and somehow these words melded with the lines of thread that punctured my paper. Time, the constant theme that undergirds my studio practice, dissipated into an ambiguous theory that lacked any palpable claim on my actions. Thoughts of laundry, schedules, and bills dissipated. I was able to be present with my work and myself. Sadly, I realized I had not been present to anyone or anything in a very long time.
I easily grew accustomed to the insignificance of hours and minutes. The power of the clock was replaced by my physical gumption to keep working. I didn’t have to be anywhere, take anyone to school, answer emails, wash sippy cups, fold clothes, or supervise homework.
Best of all, the only butt I wiped was my own.
I would sew and sew and paint and draw and remember things I had forgotten. I’d take a break at dusk to eat dinner with the other introverted residents, and then return to my cabin for biographic documentaries and more painting until my eyes refused to stay focused.
Sewing dominates my work. The process chronicles the passing of time, and the in-and-out motion sets a cadence of meditation. Each stitch records the meandering of my memories, the stories I hear, the prose of an author, the lyrics of a young Bob Dylan. I had set out for Hambidge aflame with type-A, goal oriented moxie, but soul-searching somehow interceded. Maybe it was the old CDs, Atwood’s re-telling of those Greek legends, or two weeks free from Instagram. Maybe it was the aloneness without the loneliness.
Maybe it was all those Ale8s.
Many thanks to all of the wonderful people who contributed to my Indiegogo campaign to help fund my residency at Hambidge. Without their support, it would not have been possible. Thank you!
