This is Labor Day weekend.

I was way beyond childhood when I first realized that Labor Day had anything to do with organized labor and its place in American history. For me it was the day that marked the end of summer. One thing ended. Another thing began.

The community pool we belonged to opened on Memorial Day and closed on Labor Day. The next day the water was drained out of the pool and we would ride our bikes around the chain link fence, looking in.

But not for long, because it was time for school to begin.

Those predictable cycles of events defined my young world. And, for each of us, they are the “stuff” – the soil – the source of our understandings. And our artmaking.

Recurring events. Seasons that make you feel nostalgic or wistful. Generational stories that repeat themselves. Images or smells or sounds or music that tell us we are back in a place we have been before. All of these weave together to create our inner emotional lives.

What deep soil for creativity to grow.

Sometimes the patterns aren’t healthy. The way to grow is to get out and begin again on a new path.

Sometimes the patterns are deep and meaningful and woven into the best parts of who you understand yourself to be. Cherish the gift.

Because it’s Labor Day, which makes me oddly nostalgic; and because the kindergarten class where I volunteer is learning about putting seeds in the soil so things will grow, I am inspired to share these works.

I have thought a lot about patterns in families, in particular, and how they define us. Here’s an example of those thoughts finding their way into my artmaking.

In my self-published book, It Was There I Believed, I put together visual artwork with original poetry. These two works are placed side-by-side in the book:

Easter Cut and Paste

Frozen in a scrapbook.
I am pasted in place
a child in her new spring coat.
Mary Jane shoes. White socks
and a hat — of all things!
Clutching a (new) patent leather purse.
The black and white photography disguises
the bright green behind me.
The meaning (apparently) of Easter.

Unearthed in another scrapbook.
Remnants of memory.
There she was — my mother.
A child in her new spring coat
with all the rest — the shoes
the purse — the hat!
Staring not resurrected into the camera.

With sharp scissors I snip her
from the page.
Inserted in my scrapbook, next to me,
a double.
I move her shape
place it over mine.

I disappear.

. . . . . . . .

(You can learn more about the book, It Was There I Believed, on my website HERE. You can learn more about the artwork “Shallow Soil” on my website HERE)

. . . . . . . .

For all the artmakers: Happy creating
For all the art lovers: Happy appreciating

Thank you for reading. I always enjoy questions and comments.
--Bobbi

bobbi@bobbibaughstudio.com

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