Marchand de Couleurs

Every year I look forward to our Northern New England winter with its cobalt blue skies, sparkling pure white snow and air so cold, clean and crisp that just one lungfull  early in the morning makes me feel  completely – sometimes violently – immunized from all respiratory ailments. In one word, invigorating.

Well not this year so far.

This season is gray, damp, too mild to want to cosy up inside with a hot chocolate and yet cold enough to shiver when I get in my car, with no snow for skiing or snowshoeing but instead plenty of ice and slush.

Gray sky, gray snow, gray mood.

Today, in silent protest and defiance, I decided to wear my most outrageous scarf. A wild bundle of wool and colors, so fluffy and thick you want to bury your fingers in it.

I made it a few years ago but rarely wear it because it is a bit over the top  for a scarf or in other words “so me”. I really love it. Not in public unfortunately. Only in New York perhaps.

Then this weekend I made this one:

From a secondhand turtleneck sweater found at a local charity shop and yarn found under a forgotten pile of wool scraps in my studio.

My nineteen year old daughter called it a “Decapitated Octopus” when I asked her what she thought of my newest creation.

And then she put this one on. I had made it for her sometime last year.

“Okay. I know that ALL  who read my blog (fewer than a dozen to be precise) know me personally. So the following exercise is moot, but I’m liking it.

Since no one asked, I feel compelled to post some info about me. Every legitimate blog I have read on line has some blurbs about the author(s) and I love to read them. So this might make my blog look more real and official. To me.

So here are the answers to my FAQs from a recent self interview.

Who are you?

Four children between the ages of 26 and and 16 say:

“She’s our mother” ( I spare you the details like: “She’s crazy”, “forgetful” and so on.)

One guy I Love might say:

“She’s the love of my life” (For full disclosure: it’s my husband Peter), “she’s a Saint” (he’s sarcastic), “she makes a good apple pie” “her car has several dents” and more.

My parents and siblings would say:

“She’s the one who moved to the United States some 30 years ago.”

My friends (a handful) might  say:

“She’s creative, funny”, ( yes I heard them say that to me) “generous and too often she prefers that you come to her house than to go out”.( For more, see my friends). But then again they ARE my friends.

My enemies (I assume the feelings are reciprocal) : Bank tellers, super achieving competitive soccer moms, so called francophile social climbers, organized and productive people who have no sense of humor and compassion for human frailties,  will say:

“She’s forgetful, disorganized, antisocial, lazy”…and much more that I don’t want anyone to know.

Where are you from?

I grew up in France: Reims, Paris and boarding school for 8 years. I came to New York City about 30 years ago to attend School Of Visual Arts, met my husband and lived there with our four children for 15 years until we all moved to Northern New England 15 years ago.

What do you do do?

I remember that as a little girl I used to say: “When I grow up I want to be a Mommy”. So luckily I became one. That’s what I do.

I also sew, knit and work with textile and colors.

These for example:

Hat and Scarf Made With Old Sweaters

Fabric Necklace

Fabric And Old Sweaters Bracelets

 Why this blog?

I wanted to be cool and with it…

No. I love reading blogs of all kinds and I thought that   writing a blog would be a good, fun way to express myself and use my creative energy.

And the name?

To avoid procrastinating too much, and knowing it could take me months to decide on a name I chose two words picked randomly from the pages of a magazine: Squat and Clamor. I checked their “background” on Google and nothing came up. So it was easy.

How do you see yourself in 30 years? 

As an old lady who doesn’t take herself seriously.

And this morning I saw a postcard with the quote : “I’m still hot-it just comes in flashes”. I liked it. It could be “About Me” somehow.

                        Longwood Gardens, Pennsylvania.

My husband and I took a 3600 mile road trip from New Hampshire to Alabama this summer.

So of course I had planned to take pictures. To bring back home and show to friends and family. As illustrations to go along with the answers to the “Tell me about your trip” question.                                         Blue Ridge Parkway, Virginia.

However I quickly realized that, for me, taking pictures was an ineffective way to gather memories.

My favorite thing to do when I travel is to look. I do not like to read guides, maps, search for road signs or buy souvenirs while I am looking. I can’t do both at the same time and feel that I miss too much that way. Instead I like to have my eyes wide open and try to see as much as I can, from small ephemeral details to large landscapes and big sky.

And I cannot look and take a picture at the same time. The way a photo reporter can.

Looking leads me to hearing, smelling, feeling and sometimes tasting. It is completely a multi-sensory activity, fulfilling and satisfying all at once.

Road Stand. North Carolina

Sometimes the act of taking a picture would give me a sense of removing myself from what I was witnessing.

Nashville Sounds, Nashville, Tennessee,

A small scene or interaction, an interesting looking person, a wild animal. My camera was interfering. Not to mention finding, fumbling with and adjusting the thing itself! Too often the frustration of not being able to fully capture the beauty of a sunset or the scope of a luxuriant forest could ruin the moment and the pleasure of seeing.

Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee.

And pretty much every time, I knew that I could find a perfecly fine photo of what I saw somewhere on line or in a book. So why bother?

Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina.

But out of a futile sense of duty I still snapped a few, only a handful worth keeping.

And I admit that looking at them now does bring back memories…Only this handful is enough to evoke hundreds more.

So no matter how few or bad or un-interesting they may be, I put some in this post just because I had been planning to do so when we hit the road last July…As for the memories, I’ll just recount them when the time comes. They will still be vivid, not faded…

Today started full of power and want. My steps were light, hopeful and confident that today would be the day. The day to live so fully that I would fall asleep at night like a happy child who swore she would stay awake.

The day when I would write, draw, make and finish.

A perfect day, so sunny and warm. I went outside, sat, lay down and started looking, listening and then dreaming. I couldn’t decide anymore. The present moment was too beautiful to go ahead and miss it. It lasted so long that the future of the day was gone by mid afternoon.

I looked for a poem, hoping it would jumpstart my creativity and I found this one by Richard Wilbur:

PARABLE
“I read how Quixote in his random ride
Came to a crossing once, and lest he lose
The purity of chance, would not decide

Whiter to fare, but wished his horse to choose.
For glory lay wherever he might turn.
His head was light with pride, his horse’s shoes

Were heavy, and he headed for the barn.”

And so it has been a perfect day…and tomorrow is another one.

Tonight I will watch the fireworks and write again, maybe draw and finish, falling asleep like a happy child.