Flea markets are therapeutic. My eyes do the initial sifting as I make my way down the aisles and through the booths. When I am drawn to an object—a hand-painted tray, a copper planter, a Limoges teacup—I approach for a closer look. Where was it made? What is its story? Can I make space for this object in my little house?
The visual and tactile experience of an overflowing flea market allows me to move beyond my internal, distracting chatter. Yesterday, in the company of a friend, this dainty needlepoint purse found me. The handwork is intricate—much care and concentration went into this old-fashioned piece. I wonder who made it and who carried it…
Embroidery has long been a form of feminine expression. My self-taught needlework is precise but sporadic. Usually, I choose to embroider through language. Both written and spoken, words form my stitches. Clean, fumbling, or elegant they lend texture to my creative work. Pauses are perhaps more important than words. Spaces of silence, they allow my chains of words to function as thoughts. At the flea market, I sometimes find myself existing in the spaces between the stitches of everyday life. The precious pause leads me to small treasures, sharpens my curiosity about their pasts, and inspires me to imagine new places and purposes for them.