I've been thinking about edges today — how they define differences and beginnings and decisions and boundaries. How the term edgy feels comfortable in my skin. How edginess often helps me to push on but at the same time reels me in with fear.
Standing above this pool of wetland gives me the feeling that I could dive into a separate reality. The edges here are about perception versus reality.
I'm one of those people who, when confronted with the edge of a cliff, cling to the nearest tree. I am not one to join others at the edge peering into the unknown. No, not me. Edges are too scary. I know that I will be tumbled into the abyss by the slightest breeze.
But art is all about the edges. And sometimes I am, in fact, tumbling.
The edges of this hole in a sycamore tree beckon curious creatures. There is darkness within.
It's not so much that I don't want to navigate that journey. I think it has something to do with trusting myself to navigate well. Inner dialog is easily obscured by outer pretense. Bare naked exposure can make my skin crawl and my thoughts scrambled. Am I really showing my truth? Or is this an exercise in mending?
Edges of thoughts can be raw, jagged and tongue-tied. Beast (detail) Paula Kovarik.
Sitting down with needle ready can make the silence roar. The edge is near. Sometimes I have to tie it down in neat and syncopated rhythm. It's a mending or bringing together that makes sense to my sense of order and calm.
Suture stitches mimic mending, holding together differing sides.
Other times I let the static in and the edges can feel like the needles. Hairs on end.
