Susan LaffertyColorful skeins of thread surround him. And neutral strings on the loom show no pattern to follow. As far as I can see.
But the old carpet maker knows.
Thread by thread. Hour by hour. Day by day.
He works the loom, creating a rich pattern. A map of threads he already had in mind when he started.
On a drive. After rain. Mist and fog still hang in the air. Limiting the view ahead.
But our eyes glance to the sides of the road. And we see. The beauty of timing.
Revealed. All along the way. Shining in the dark. Through woods, green and deep.
Dogwood in bloom.
“Hmm,” my college art teacher says. Then again, “Hmmmm.”
She’s looking over my shoulder. At the simple drawing. Graphite lines. Bare bones to plan and guide the assigned painting.
“Bigger. Go big!” She says. With increasing volume. Her arms flying out for emphasis. “Stretch it out. Go biiiig.”
The startling command contrasts with my small, neat pencil sketch. So confined and contained.
