Here are some of my favorites.
Maybe I was thinking something deep about persecution based on religion, but I think I was just struck by the form of the image of the man on the box, wires attached to his outstretched arms.
It seemed archetypal to me back then, like it referenced something more than what it was.
The pictures and detail I left the same, but instead of the words you see, I substituted "Happen Is Happen" (above the blue flowers) and "Pee Is Pee" (above the beehive)
This was a sort of motto for me for a while. Sadie's dad was a cab driver in NYC for 13 years, and used to tell the story of an Indian cab driver he knew who, whatever befell him, would shrug his shoulders and say "Happen is happen."
If he got mugged? Stiffed? Splashed with filthy water? "Happen is happen."
Then, many years later, I took a rug into the dry cleaners to see if it could be saved. It had been stored in an outbuilding for years and was filthy. The Indian man behind the counter asked me when I brought it in, "Something has peed on this rug?"
"Yes," I said. "A cat." It occurred to me that I really had no idea what had peed on the rug while it was in the outbuilding. Why was I so sure it was a cat? It could have been anything. Would this make a difference? Like, with what kind of chemicals he might use to clean it?
"Actually," I said. "It might not have been a cat. It could have been a dog. Or even a raccoon. Does that make a difference?"
The man patted my hand so kindly and said "Pee is pee." I felt so relieved for some reason, like there was nothing at all to worry about.
So: Happen Is Happen. Pee Is Pee.
During the time that I was working on this one, I took my co-worker to get a colonoscopy (and it wasn't even Take Your Co-Worker to Get A Colonoscopy Day!).
I had about 3 hours to sit in a waiting room before my friend was done, so I pulled out this project and got to work.
With me in the waiting room were four elderly ladies, probably waiting on their husbands. They were in their late 70s, it seemed like, and as soon as they saw that I, a young whippersnapper, was engaged in a lost womanly art, they became very friendly and talkative.
"Oh, that's so nice, dear," said one of them. "I did not think any young people were interested in that anymore."
"Oh yes," I said. "I love to cross stitch!"
They cooed about this for a while and then another one said, "What is it?"
"The Doxology," I said.
This really got them going. Here is a young person at the gastroenterologist's office, and instead of snapchatting or planning to cohabitate with someone, she's cross-stitching the Doxology! Maybe the world will be OK after all! They all jumped up to come and look, and that's when things went awry.
I have and always have had letter-color synesthesia, a harmless condition where I "see" letters and numbers in color. Here are the results of my synesthesia test, if you don't believe me:
So, technically, I was stitching the Doxology, but instead of representing it using the letters of the prayer, I was doing the colors I see when I look at, think about, or sing it. Like this:
Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him above ye heavenly host
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
Interestingly, two days ago Merrill was screaming and Sadie turned to me and said "That is such a blue scream." Huh.
That's it! I'll post more as I finish them.