I have a beautiful embroidered tablecloth on top of a cabinet.
It was made by my mother (also a fabulous needlewoman, like her sister) and just by chance was the exact size to fit on this little cabinet in my dining room. My favourite shades of rust and yellow give it a warm glow and it goes perfectly with the wooden plate you see on the picture.
The plate has another story behind it as it was made long ago by my grandmother. She taught herself pyrography and created stunningly detailed images, like the landscape you see here. As a refugee from Estonia at the end of World War 2, my grandmother made these items to sell as a way of earning money to provide for her children. She had no formal training as an artist, yet continued to develop her skills in leatherwork, painting and ceramics well into her old age.
Seeing my mother’s creative side as a painter, stitcher and knitter as well as my aunt (also talented in all aspects of textile work, as seen in my previous blog) and my grandmother, I am firmly convinced that the creative urge is hidden somewhere deep in our genes.
When I look around me I see colours and shapes spring out at me all the time and I need to somehow put them into action. At the moment I’m doing this with wool, either by felting a picture or bringing together colour combinations with spinning and weaving. The finished result somehow makes me happy, the colours give me feeling of contentment, warmth, comfort. The simple pleasure of creating something is a very special reward.