I am so enamored of wool! The fact that sheep, maligned for their
intellects, get to stumble around in it astounds me. I am awed by the
global industry of people who shear, wash, card, spin, dye and package the
stuff just so I can play in it. There is something primal and sensuous in
the feel and the smell of it, the lanolin left on my hands, the visions
that come in my dreams.

These pieces are hand knit (excepting a re-purposed wool blazer on the
black box) and then felted in the washing machine—sort of like weaving your
own canvas and tossing it into the fabric equivalent of a raku fire, never
entirely certain what will result. Then I dive into my stash of buttons,
ribbons, beads, jewelry and sticks and dress them up as they dictate.

You will notice the handiwork of a woman who flunked home economics half a
century ago—irregular stitching, mismatched edges, et al. It’s gone from
being a source of mild embarrassment to one of celebration as I’ve come to
understand that I’d rather create things joyfully than perfectly.

MBrodie