Attempts were made to show you the terrifically painstaking baby-quilt-top-in-progress, the "petit l'orange" quilt (though if someone wants to e-mail me the French word for duckling, the working title may change)... however... it is late in the afternoon, the light is all wrong for capturing the deep orange and palest duck-egg blue of the fabrics, and the tiny smidges of butter yellow and tomato red just, well, how do you spell ppffft? Add more spitting and that's about what I said. Okay, there were more expletives, but mostly directed at myself for not thinking ahead. I have decided to make one pass around the twelve blocks daily, unless I have to rip out a seam. That's pretty much a free pass to quitsville for me, unless I want to risk having to haul the whole shebang out into the yard and set it on fire. I don't really have the temperment to be a patchworker, but the narcissist in me lives for the oohs and aahs. Isn't that why we do what we do? If no one ever got excited about your craft, would you still do it?
I'd still knit. I'm a glutton for a good many things, but a fine yarn running through my fingers and growing, stitch by stitch, into a Useful Thing is and will always be an enourmous thrill for me. The patchworking, I'm not so sure about. If no one ever took notice, my quilts would probably look like this, and this, just simple makey-dos, without fussiness. Pretty fabrics laying side by side, no Olympic piecing, no agonizing over color theory. Simple quilts and hand knitted socks could keep me occupied forever. My fear is that one day I'll look up and realize I've become a dinosaur, clutching my Rowan magazines the way some sixty and seventy sometings hoarde their 'Workbasket" mags. This is why I've decided to make a concentrated effort to expand my crafty horizons (cr*ch*t and paper-piecing are on the list) to postpone my inspiration's expiration date.
Must be off to knitting soon. Be well. C