More on the Power of Limits

Anyone familiar with traditional quilting knows it originated, at least in part, from the need to use worn out clothing and scrap fabric. Sewing bits together was a functional act of making driven by the goal to produce a bed cover that would keep someone warm on a cold winter night. Who knows when the tedium of hand stitching ignited the veritable inner light bulb – the maker’s realization that the scraps could actually be sewn together to produce a pleasing pattern? A single thought possessed the power to turn an endlessly tedious chore into an exciting task charged with potential.

Welcome to another conversation about the power of limits. This week I’ve been with my sister, logging a week of chemotherapy. Sitting and thinking, or trying not to think, is part of the game. I brought along twelve pieces of a current series, each of which required hand stitching in order to be complete.

I thought I brought all the thread I needed, but in one of those last minute packing flails of omission, I never packed four of the perle cotton colors I intended to bring along. Drat. A small town. Twenty four inches of snow. What to do?

The second morning I walked to a spiffy store called Dig. In addition to the fresh home furnishings, indy craft books, and objects Dig features, there was a rack of sewing thread. Not the richly saturated perle cotton colors I prefer, but a solid selection of cotton sewing threads. I switched mental gears and selected the colors I needed, and then a few more.

As is often the case, the lighter weight thread was a better match to my art work than the perle cotton I’d brought, which was all wrong in terms of scale. Making blows my mind on a regular basis. The thing I think will be the perfect resolution is too big (and overwhelms) too small (and disappears) the wrong color (I didn’t take the colors around it seriously enough) or just plain wrong. (Get out the critique sheet and figure out what went screwy.)

But the thin, sewing thread was just right. And there were enough color choices in the stash I’d purchased to make every combination of background and thread perfect. No settling. This Goldilocks was a happy camper.

Once the immediate design decisions are made, there is plenty of sweet time to think. I thought of an exercise, which is a variation on others I’ve taught in the past:

Pick a color, or a stitch, or a thread. Or a pencil. The first part of this has to be tailored to whatever it is you do and hopefully love.

Painter? Pick painting. Poet. Pick haiku. Stitcher? Pick the Wrapped Back Stitch.

What can you do with what you’ve chosen? How will limiting what you use to one primary action or format actually free you?

This sort of experiment is perfect once a day for a few minutes. You may sit and stare at the color, or the pencil or the needle at first, but try to get past the fear and begin. When your hand is moving your brain can engage. It’s a bit like learning to drive a car with a standard transmission. You can sit and stare at the clutch for an hour, but the car won’t move until you put it in gear and hit the gas.

Practice turning off the Judgment Function in your mind. Tell yourself you are just seeing what will happen. You are curious where this could go. If it really doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, lighten up. Make it a meditation. Draw or stitch straight lines for the whole session. Cut the paper you painted up into strips or squares. Keep your hands moving. Really stuck? Switch to a material you’d never think of taking seriously. Glue black bean designs on 5” squares of cardboard. Really.

Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. Observe the ideas that flow once self-conscious awareness disappears into the activity at hand. Write those ideas down before you forget what they were. Present time thinking is fodder for future projects. Sit in the moment of making and relish the simplicity of working within limitations. Anticipate where it will lead.

And then get up and do some laundry. Or the dishes.

Personal Time Saps/Addiction

True confession time. I have been in the throes of an addiction that almost got the best of me.

I’ve been playing Poppit on line.

It all started in February in Las Vegas. I’d never been. Never really had an interest in Vegas to tell the truth. But my oldest, dearest friends convinced me to join them, which is how I found myself sitting at a slot machine at nine o-clock in the morning, with a glass of champagne in one hand and a controller in the other – madly trying to pop clusters of multi-colored balloons. Two days and 40.00 later I’d shot my gambling wad such as it was, and I was hooked. Thank God we were booked on a noon flight home.

Then a couple of months ago I started surfing the net, researching my interest in visual poetry. Don’t ask me how the little devil on my shoulder materialized, but when it whispered “Google Poppit…” I didn’t even think twice. Done. I was introduced to Club Pogo on-line game land.

It started innocently enough. I played for free and the games were interspersed with tedious commercials for Levitra and an assortment of other products I don’t want or need. (and BTW has anyone else noticed that Levitra sounds an awful lot like levitate? Is that deliberate?) I fooled around playing Poppit, but it wasn’t happening and the ads were boring so I never lasted long.

But then the real trouble began. I discovered an on-line tutorial of Poppit tips. I started winning. I wasn’t scoring big, but my Type A personality kicked in, and I started obsessing about getting better. There was a logic to the game that appealed to me and I found myself playing for an hour at a time – as a reward for finishing this or that boring admin task. And I played in airports, waiting for flights to Ohio, where I’ve been helping my mother move into a new house. I was stressed and tired and in retrospect – vulnerable. Poppit was the path of least resistance. And anyway, wasn’t I warding off Alzheimer’s by keeping my brain active?

Vanishing were the hours spent thinking and writing about the creative process. Studio time? I only had a few minutes here and there because of the hectic schedule. It was so much easier to play another round of Poppit instead. After all, maybe I could beat my highest score. Once I got it figured out I’d probably quit playing anyway.

I kept playing until one night last week, when I wakened at four a.m. because colored balloons were popping in my dreams. It was worse than an ear worm – a song you can’t get out of your head. I felt crazy. I had to do something.

I decided to quit cold turkey. I still wanted to figure out the strategies that have given long term players an edge - some of them have racked up millions of points! I happen to know how long ButterflyWingLV has been playing in order to amass more than 17 million points. Since 2001. I know what her win and loss record is because there are actually stats on line, and one of the most seductive aspects of Poppit is the ability to look up high scorers and compare yourself to other players.

But amassing 17 million points since 2001 – how many studio hours does that translate into? I don’t even want to know. It’s not for me to judge. All I know is that I want my unassigned time to go toward something that matters, and Poppit isn’t it. Winning? A kick. Strategy? Satisfying, I guess. But meaning? Priceless.

My whole Poppit experience is just another reminder that we have choices and can exercise free will for the use of at least some of our unassigned time. And that D word – discipline – is what it comes down to. I started writing Studio on my To Do list, and then I blocked out time on my weekly calendar – as a reminder of what really counts. Marriage counselors advise couples to set aside time for togetherness – whatever form togetherness takes, and artists must set aside time for making. Because without intention, insidious, unimportant trivia sneaks in and eats up time.

So think about your own day to day. Got a Poppit equivalent? Consider popping it. The artist in you will cheer. No one has enough time. Choose to make the most of yours.