One thing this brief stint of blogging has taught me: I cannot take a flippin picture. Obviously I took this little beauty at night, but there is a reason. I was cramming for the final. The lovely ladies over at Crafty Daisies taught an embroidery class for beginners (embroidery 101, if you will) in a series of posts on their blog. I tried embroidery once before and loved it, so I was thrilled about the class. And I read every post, but somehow never got around to the actual stitching part. So in true procrastinator fashion, I did it all the night before. All I can say is thank god for the stem stitch. I thought because I was doing all the homework at once I would actually combine all the homework into one big project. Turns out this was a better idea in my head. I took all the elements of the homework designs and made a strange birthday party in the garden where the little snail spoils everything. Or at least that’s what it became.
I learned quite a bit. Like, embroidery is drawing with texture. Which is really a bizarre thing to do and something I’m excited to experiment with. And separating embroidery thread is a pain in the ass. Is there a trick? Am I missing something? And the biggest lesson, embroidery takes a lot longer than you think it will, so start early.
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hickety pickety my black hen
she lays eggs for gentlemen
gentlemen come everyday
to see what my black hen doth lay.
This is the first of a series I hope to do. Obviously it’s based on the nursery rhyme “Hickety Pickety.” Though I recently discovered that there are two more lines: Sometimes nine, Sometimes ten; Hickety Pickety my black hen. So I guess some eggs are in order. I’ve always liked nursery rhymes, but now that I say it, it sounds strange. My mother would read to me all the time when I was little–from the big, black and white checked Mother Goose book. And because my sisters are much older they had babies when I was the perfect babysitting age and so I read to my nieces and nephews from the same book. And then came high school and college and cigarettes and boys and I forgot completely. But having kids made me remember how lovely those short, little verses can be. They aren’t as intricately constructed as Lewis Carroll’s books and poems, though he did have his way with some (queen of hearts, tweedledum & dee), but the language is still silly and bizarre. And they haven’t been boobified by disney like the fairy tales and really they couldn’t be–some are strangely violent. They are an odd mix of drinking songs and counting rhymes passed down orally. Which I think is fantastic.Jack Sprat and his wife are in the works, but as of this moment are headless.
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