It's a running joke amongst, well, me mostly, that I'm 58 and suddenly understand why people buy baskets.
And now look — I've somehow accidentally made some.
I set out to paint some pieces of canvas, then sew them into bags. Seemed simple enough.
But when the first one came together and turned into this little vessel that stood up on its own it became ... an object. A structure. It just stood there, taking up space in a way that it was quite confident about. I didn't want to mess with that. Now adding straps felt like a tiny invasion of its sovereignty. So I set it aside and made another, then another, and, well, none of them wanted a strap. They all wanted to exist as they were. So I listened to them. Because ultimately, that's my job.
OKAY in my defense it's not that I didn't get them logically. Basket. Hold. Things.
Yes I know. But somehow the emotional bond of 'object of beauty that also helps you organize things' was hitherto short-circuited. Boxes, I got. Baskets, I didn't. Ugh, why am I admitting this? I mean, I'm the progeny of a machinist and a home-economics teacher. I should have been born with this understanding. But if there's one thing I now know about understandings: they can exist in your head, but until you get them into your body, your carcass, until they transmit into your corporeal self — well, that's a different sort of knowing altogether isn't it? I'm fine with not getting that until now. Because getting it now is enough. Baskets. Hell yeah.