A little bit waxy, a little bit sticky, totally veiny and peeling off in the most wonderful shapes, pojagi voices whispered as I peeled tomatillo skins, “get the thread!” A twisting and delicious adventure in cooking and art unfolded for days.

I love film. The limits. The waiting. The not knowing. The colors and contrasts. The grain. The “accidents.” The rush.

This little (18”x18”) diddy is my first Pojagi. It’s made with tiny scraps from my Aunt’s lifetime collection of fabrics plus a few of mine - some bits from trapeze costumes and even an old sponge used to clean up my many spills. Each scrap has a story as does every grouping stitched together in various locations along my travels.

It is currently traveling the world to be in shows alongside my Aunt and Teacher (this is the traditional format - a show is comprised of a group of students taught under a teacher), Patti King’s work. I wish I could remember her exact words, but in a recent workshop she described my work, most lovingly, as doing it all wrong.

I’m excited to keep exploring Pojagi and meeting other artists when this piece returns for a big show at the Pacific Northwest Quilt and Fiber Arts Museum on Whidbey Island this summer. Stay tuned for details!

There’s a moment I think about often. Sitting in my car in Costco’s parking lot on a grey Seattle Saturday in October a few years back. Chainlink fence and train tracks in front of me. A still sunkenness inside, my hands not wanting to leave the steering wheel and open the door. Outside, a blur of movement. Chaos. Screeching tires, wet pavement. Grinding metal, uneven cart wheels. Blinkers blinking.

Just minutes earlier, I had let go of my grandmother’s hand for the last time after she passed away. Now, here I was, sitting in my car with humanity swirling around me, going about their day as if nothing had happened. A huge gaping hole had been left in the world and people were pushing oversized shopping carts with giant stuffed bears teetering on top through a maze of traffic.

It was such an odd moment. Not exactly a sad moment. More of an “Oh, this is how it is” moment. That gaping hole, I’m sitting alone in it for a good reason. It was formed from so many years close to her and from being with her in that intimate moment when she transitioned from physical being to living in the hearts of those who were lucky enough to know her.

With that moment in mind, I made this.

I’m so thankful for quiet mornings at the beach. Thankful for cold, wet mornings that make the colors rich and vibrant. Every piece of wood and bunch of seaweed pops that from a backdrop of sand and gentle waves is a sculpture in itself, but every few feet one shouts to be adorned. The adornments are always found within reach. I barely have to look and there is no trying. Thankful for the smiles, peace, and life they bring.

Life advice: When a hole puncher spews smiley faces on the counter, take them home and make art joy on a used envelope.

Artie Shaw, Billie Holiday (1957), and a pigeon.

FAQ: What’s your medium?
Answer: Whatever is around.
Example: I was lucky enough to receive @harryanddavid pears over the holidays. Each pear was wrapped in gentle green and metallic gold papers. The person who sent said pears had a birthday coming up. Hmmm I said to myself with very little actual thought and took an envelope from the stack I saved from holiday cards, finding the one from the birthday girl herself, and green padding from the pear box to make a canvas.

Theeeeeeeen, I had a cup of tea and wistfully thought about the birthday girl, leaving the tea bag on the tea papers for a couple days to leave a nice stain. Once that was dry, a plain ol ballpoint pen revealed the character hidden in the stain. With a dash of glue stick on the back, that went in the middle of the canvas. I don’t know why, that’s just where it seemed to want to rest.

Layers of tea-as-paint and bits of pear papers fell joyfully in place from there. I found some gold thread sitting next to my sewing needle stash and that seemed appropriate. I let the stitches fall wherever felt right. A few more layers and voilà, birthday art completed with

whatever was around.

Sometimes, I don’t know how to put a response into words or describe how I feel about things in-the-moment. On a certain crisp Fall morning, I sat with words exchanged a few days before. As I hot glued down needles, a beautiful and fragile web formed. I gently dropped in pieces of handmade papers my aunt had given me and blew tiny feathers in, watching to see how they moved through the scene. I laughed at myself when I tried to predict, with hands shaking from caffeine, where a drop of glue or piece of paper would land. Or how far a tiny glue string would stretch. Afterwards, I felt a great comfort and knew what to say. My reply was this process and piece.

One Fall day, a client lost their mind and had a grand idea at the same time. A month later, an almost-6-year-old drew him another.