Warts and all

This past week I was pleased to have taken a great class at the Centro del Bel Libro in Ascona Switzerland with the ebullient Suzanne Schmollgruber. The subject: part 2 of books using the techniques of Hedi Kyle. I had at least six models on the go at once, and managed to finish at least three of them. Yes, I was the least swift, able and prepared member of the group, if you must know. My cross-stitch spine book followed me home trailing three threads to which three needles must soon be re-attached. Suffice it say that using a single needle gives me the colly wobbles (sp?). Also on the worktable, in the back right corner, is a half-eaten concertina/flag that some roof-dwelling rodent decided to make off with one night when we left the studio window open. At least he/she appreciated my concept, though abandoned it on the window ledge outside. Maybe it was the brown orange combination that would have clashed with the nest?

Not much better at home, sadly, but more layers of accretions. Due to Seth Apter's highlighting of the seamy underside of creative pursuits and the slobs who pursue them on his Altered Page blog, I felt the need to share my shame with that of many others. Behold my flat file work-surface:

And the formerly clear dining table piled with things. Make no mistake: I have no idea where anything is, but I love rediscovering the delights the boxes, piles and containers can reveal when pried open or upended on the floor by the cat:

What do you think? Are scraps, rags, mess, and mounds necessary or just the outward display of mental murkiness? I'd dearly like to think the muck breeds creation or at least puttering in the vicinity of a state of concentration and play.

Hard to believe we manage to produce in these spots, isn't it? Here's what I've been doing in mine in recent years: on my flickr photostream.