It was tough to find something I had made that wasn't two-dimensional arty stuff or dinner related. Then I spied this old basket tucked in the bookcase.
I remember making it. A lady I worked with conned me into taking a basketmaking workshop her friend was hosting. I really didn't want to learn how to make baskets, but I went, had fun, and bought some split oak to make more at home. I don't know what became of the others, I remember one was an egg basket. Haven't seen it in decades.
I was trying to remember when I made this basket, then I turned it over. I had signed and dated it (1984) along with the location and the note, "My First Basket!" (Had to laugh at that. How very typically anal-retentive of me.)
I hang on to this basket because it keeps me in touch with the survival skills of my ancestors. I figure if I survive the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust, basketmaking might be a handy skill to have.
"I believe that what truly matters in the making of art is not what the final piece looks like or sounds like, not what it is worth or not worth but what newness gets added to the universe in the process of the piece itself becoming."
Journaling:
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