Light in the Winter

20 February 2014

Light in the Winter

Recently I’ve been loudly scolded by a dearest friend of mine, skilled and talented artist. For too long it seems that I regularly forgot to publish pictures of my art works when they’re finally completed. I disperse a little taste here, another one there, but then nothing more to show the end of the path. Well, I had to acknowledge her every reason, and to promise I would make amend as soon as possible! Of course there’re motivations that convinced me to always postpone, so much pleasing surprises in the air… but, waiting for the “fruit season” finally to peep out to me also, and for me proudly showing out the results of a well kept hidden activity, here there are two galleries of pictures, I sadly took with the worse weather conditions as for rain and poor light, dedicated to the set Light in the Winter. Don’t hold it against me, but it seems that each time the sun came out I had different needs to support! Btw, I’m glad to reveal in advance that you’ll soon have the opportunity to appreciate both garments in a very different situation from my little sweet garden, and that these as well as other original works will be available in an online atelier, actually under construction. Click over any of the photos and you’ll activate the slider, it will be more comfortable!

Light in the winter was born inside an old bottom drawer. Where a cotton nightgown slumbers in a thousand folds. Where it’s winter because apparently light doesn’t come in, and all around it’s cold, very cold. Each and every cloth is shrouded in the stiffness that oblivion, inactivity, neglect induce. A nightgown as any other, nothing special, some irregularity, some ring of paleness to prove too hard washing. A bashful act of courage from me and it’s out. Courage again and it’s cut in half, the inside of a skirt and the outside of its own blouse. On the shiny silk the golden sun of helichrysum opens loving burst of light next to the shimmering leaves of liquidambar. After a dip into the woad vat, under the flowing of the rhythmic running stitches, the blouse finds its smile again, amused by the shoulders with their flattened crimping and courious of the very little details scattered here and there, between neck and waist. Light outside is still that of winter, but it’s not so cold as before, the old nightgown, though cut in half, stretches its weft again.

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