Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Buzzing over black combs.

My second reclaimed chair, standing in a corner between wardrobe and wall, proudly holding all the weight of the world tucked inside a handbag. Decision to make it black was easy though my love-hate with this color revealed itself in the process when I got scared that it will look like a big black dot in my colorful place, added some flare in the form of neon (ultra) orange and sprinkled grey dots around. If I were you I would have an urge to ask what is it with me and polka dots? In previous life I was Yayoi Kusama. No, that's not right, she's still alive. Besides this explanation I have nothing.

The concept itself of the second renovation was even easier than the first one with pantyhose. And more clear. I didn't need to sketch several times for different ideas or play around with pieces of pleather (fake leather), which I got reusing an old yet still new father's jacket. He bought it a long time ago in a market, it was baggy, fake and even a hanger looked bad in it. My mother considered it being a bad decision in taste and didn't let it see the light of day, so it was swallowed by the attic's wardrobe for lunch. And we all know where lunch go after eating it. Unless they cross reusing/recycling enthusiast's path like me. When choosing the direction for renovation my main wish was that both chairs would look differently (even opposite), probably because I never understood the idea behind dressing twins with the same clothes. No, seriously what is that about? You want other people to guess who is who and acknowledge the fact that some time ago they both were two eggs or one split in two halves and now they're forever cursed to be seen not as individuals but as a one unit? Though more hilarious thing is when twins are not even close to looking alike and still dress or are dressed evenly.

What did I actually do? The work that any bee would be proud of! First I drew one hexagon. After first 49 followed until I stopped counting the flood (the final number may have reached 100 easily). Drawing a hexagon could have been one of the very few moments in one's life where you think for yourself that geometry thought at school will help you. It wasn't, because either I sucked at geometry or it's all my teacher's fault, I had no clue how to draw a perfect hexagon, so instead of wasting time and energy and saving it for mundane tasks ahead climbed down of my 'Oh, I am so super clever and smart' high horse and searched 'Hexagon Wiki'. Why hexagon? Because it's a bad taste to answer your own question with a question instead of choosing 'why not' for an answer I'll say that hexagon looked like a nice little form, I like honeycombs and imagined maybe one day it will attract real bees (...just right there my imagination process lost you).

Thinking 100 hexagons were hard? Wait for the orange edges. 4-5 times more than hexagons. Drawing, cutting, drawing again and cutting. Hm, only now I see where I could have saved time - instead of right size pieces I should have drawn long strips and only after that cut it in smaller ones. Deep sigh. Mundane tasks. 

The third step - sewing it all together wasn't easier in any way. Not once and not ten times I sew a hem, it was skew, got to rip everything out and sew one more time because if you will make a mistake at one place it will ruin other honeycombs and the length of hexagons' sides. The work of bees looked so simple and easy on TV. My making processes never are just a simple walk in the park. But truth to be told the actual making sounds most of the time even easier than it really was. I think that my problem with projects is that I end up with too complicated, with a lot of little steps, corrections and new ideas along the way, works. I can try to blame it all on the complexity, that it manages magically find me. But it's opposite, it's nobody else but me who finds or makes difficult works. Obviously I just love to search for a problem where there can be none and always find one. But one thing I understand now that's what defines and completes me. Doing mundane tasks? No, stepping on the same rake over and over again and doing a lot of mundane tasks. Like with the black chair. Other person would just take a big piece of (p)leather, refurnish the chair, repaint legs - and done. Me? No, I need a cover looking like it is prepared to perform as bees' hive. On the bright side it could have been worse, I could have made combs a little smaller. But even if I sound that I'm unhappy with my tendencies to be carried away with particularity, lots of work, but it is a part of me as a creator of things even if it's not easy to embrace it more instead of sighing and feeling flabbergasted and comparing myself with others.

No wonder that most of the time I'm afraid to count real hours how long it took me from start to finish, but as you can see I've finished. And I don't care that you have to take pleasure in the journey not only in the end point (destination), but what an unbelievable feeling to finish something what you've started and have a proud moment that what is in front of you at this moment couldn't be more better. I'm not doubting that here I become very subjective about my own work, I think I like one or the other thing which I do even more just because it had so much sweat of mine and that despite all obstacles and hesitation, despite the anti pep talk in my head I managed to follow it through. Hip Hip, for awesome Me!

That what there was about the actual making process. But what about the color black. I mentioned that there is some love-hate flying around this color from my part. And in the first paragraph I wanted to write series of questions, but then changed my mind and made some cutting and pasting at the end. Because nobody fishes for attention without a rod or a net and these questions felt a bit like fishing with bare hands:
'Do you like color black? The pitch dark nights? Ravens? Black holes? Depression? Ninjas? 85 % dark chocolate? Black car in the middle of a hot and sunny day? Double espresso? Mournings? Flies? Dark circles under your eyes after several sleepless nights? Black lingerie? A dark mark on your cheek? Black eyeliner?...Me too...'. 

It was followed by more text: 
'...Honestly, I've always been in weird relationship with this color. It blends you into the background hand in hand competing with grey. Even after 5 years I still remember unexpected pleasure I found in writing emails to a total stranger and one particular line in his letter '...they were so grey that nobody could see them in front of a grey wall or on the pavement tiles'. Although this line wasn't literally about the color and more a metaphor for human beings who are that boring and indistinguishable (and more importantly afraid to stand out) from the grey mass, that their monotonous surroundings are more noticeable than themselves. Grey ninjas. I always loved this line in it's literal or illiterate meaning. Black never have been my favorite and even by default as a woman I probably should have a notion enforced by huge number of magazines that this is the most amazing color of all, and I have to like it just only it visually slims you down, and is cool, and someone somewhere said 'black is new black' having in mind finesse, sophistication and high class. But truthfully black always felt a bit like nothingness, sometimes not even a color. Or maybe dead color. It stood as lines separating other colors and stealing the light from them...'. 
It was a good day for fishing.  

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