Ruminating

The in-laws have been visiting for a few days. It's been pleasant. They're good people.

Yesterday, although my mother-in-law has never really expressed more than cursory interest in my work, I showed her the current work in progress. This is the most difficult piece I've attempted to date in every way. It's my first color portrait, the painting of which is a story in and of itself. It's large and the stitching is really dense. Even choosing the appropriate stitches has been challenging; I've begun over and over on some areas. The piece is kicking my butt in many ways, but if I pull it off, it'll feel great. I'll have learned a great deal.

Her reaction was one of polite disinterest, followed by mentioning that she has a friend who makes quilted table runners. There was no comprehension of how much work was required, and she wasn't at all curious about the techniques employed. She didn't recognize the person portrayed (understandable, since that area is only about half stitched), although she did comment on the eyes following her. There was no comprehension that the piece falls under the category of fine art rather than that of utilitarian, decorative objects. Fine art probably isn't even a milieu she's aware of. Her frame of reference is entirely focussed on bed quilts, and a stitched portrait just doesn't have anywhere to fit in.

It was okay. I wasn't offended or anything, just amused. It was enlightening. It made me realize that this is how much of the rest of the world sees my work. At most, it's a curiosity. "Huh. That person drew a picture on cloth instead of paper, and then went and sewed all over it. That's kind of weird. I wouldn't want that on my bed." The rest of the world has no particular reason to be interested about how or why I did something, and may not have even the slightest curiosity about it.

Her reaction made me realize that we just can't be invested in how people will react to our work, whether we're accountants or tap dancers or painters. Maybe our work will reach someone else and evoke an emotional or intellectual reaction, and maybe it won't. Whatever it is we do, we should do it with joy and passion, to satisfy the need we have to do or say something. That satisfaction is reason enough to walk down our own paths.

***

My father tells me that my step-grandmother is failing. I should write her again, perhaps for the last time. I'm not sure how one says the things which somehow feel so awkward to say, which make it clear that you know the other person is dying. The "you have been an inspiration and have meant so much to me" things. We tend to tiptoe around death, put a bright face on and pretend that it isn't coming.

I am afraid to write this letter, afraid it will be mawkish and emotional and someone else will read it. The words just evaporate when I try to put them down. But I think it's the right thing to do. Can't I just do just one last kind thing for this dear old woman who is fading away? If I wait too long, it'll be too late. Why in the hell is it so hard to write one lousy stinking letter?