I have been folding books for a couple of weeks. I am using old airport novels that I am never going to read again and that I can't sell back to Powell's. This is the only sculpture I have done since a required 3-D class in college, which I hated. I love the 2 dimensional surface.
This is the oddest thing. I had a strange dream that I was sitting in a room, surrounded by books, and I was methodically folding the pages. Over and over. Book after book. I was alone the whole time and there was no sound. When I woke up, I knew that had to fold books.
I have no idea why I am doing it yet. It is one of those threads that I have to follow to the end.
I think that this folding is related to the embroidered doodles. I can't say exactly how, but I think they are connected in some fashion.
Some very deep part of the reason I make art at all is because of my fascination with Patience, Persistence and Repetition.
Persistence and Repetition is the reason that my doodles have become such a focus of mine. I draw the same patterns and shapes over and over for no reason I understand, I do it when I am not thinking about it, and they are same shapes and patterns people have been making since the beginning of time. I find it fascinating and mysterious.
Patience is a new addition. I sew quilts entirely by hand, even though I have a perfectly good sewing machine. I wonder why I do that too. Embroidery is the same. Careful stitches adding up one after the other.
Who knows where this will lead? A new direction? A new facet to my art making? Or a dead end?
In any case, the folded books remind me of shells. I like the aged color of the cheap paper and the patterns made by the type.