The passage of time weighs heavily upon me. I think about it often.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to be a young woman in the 1920's dancing the Charleston, schucking off constricting undergarments for short fringed dresses or billowy tunics. I wonder if I would have enjoyed carousing in Paris in the era of Ernest Hemmingway and Gertrude Stein. Or what the pain and pleasure of a 1950's housewife would feel like, making home for family and husband on a suburban cul-de-sac. Would I have been like the Kate Winslet character in Revolutionary Road, devastated at the imprisonment of infinite domesticity or would I have created a world of intrigue for myself amidst the seeming consistency of it all. Or to inhabit the brain of Marie Curie, conducting obscure research on radioactivity, a loving and intellectually rigorous partnership, 2 Pulitzers. These are some of the infinite imaginings that peak my curiosity, trying on different identities in different times.
I consider the passage of time upon my body and on those around me; watching my grandfather steadily shift from a man who could do back handsprings on a summer day well into his late-50's to a man, at 90, who is determined to navigate the halls of his home without the assistance of walker. I study the faces of women around me for the marks of their lives etched finely, creased steadily deeper. I wonder at the unmoving lineless face of a woman in her 70's, elegant and graceful like a tableau in Madame Tussauds. Such preservation is not for me, but I sometimes struggle with the superficiality of aging. I love deeply and dearly the lines of women I have known for many years, watching their faces gain wisdom and beauty as they shift, become more deeply themselves, youth a distant dream. The strong confidence exuded by a proud head of white hair. But there is still a coming to terms with the limits of self-care and self-preservation, an acceptance of the beauty of time trundling slowly by. I recently had a conversation with a Canadian Naturalist about the social pressures of aging. He turned sixty-four this year and received a notice from the government letting him know his pension payments would begin shortly. This has turned his sense of purpose on its head as he still feels the drive to persist, to work, yet is being told that he is no longer essential, vital, no longer needed. This plus the steady breakdown of the body and a longing to regain some of those years of directionless we all have in early adulthood, time we used imperfectly perhaps, add up to a struggle against time. Oh that we used our time always with direction and purpose, ambling toward a distant light. Sometimes I I wish I could fast forward the middle years of forty to 60, not because I don't want those years, but so I could be settled more deeply into myself. If I could preserve my functionality, guarantee the plasticity of my brain, I would like to live a la Tuck Ever Lasting, on the verge of sixty to be fully lined, to live in a rural cottage surrounded by flaking paint and a creeky old pup, a big studio, bountiful gardens, family and friends coming and going as they will. That might be the sweet spot, the shroud of youth dropped away, the wisdom of years in my bones, skill at my finger tips. Would you come join me in the studio for an afternoon? That would be fun, a chat, shared food and some quiet time to make things together.
For now I'll have to settle for working with things that have seen the passage of time, that bare the marks of an era, have endured the rotation of seasons turning round the sun. And so my doll project commences, a space to bring alive characters dancing in my head, to take fabric from other peoples past and reimagine it into lives not yet lived. I have loved the dolls of Manon Gignoux since I first laid eyes on them nine years ago. They are odd, quirky, hailing ancient art forms, an archeological dig of sorts, something you might find in an Egyptian pyrimad. They speak of an ancient need for play things, how characters can be so simple and yet create the opportunity to imagine a world around them.
My dolls are each created from remnants that I have gathered over the years and stashed in the attic. Many of their garments were once my grandmother's, other bits have been thrifted and accepted as donations, and then there are a smattering of new infusions, mainly Liberty of London fabric, as its patterns speak of times past. I'm hoping to do a series of fifty, each one deeply herself, yet completely unknown in some way. As I unfold each fabric, find a conversation between the different bits and slowly stitch each creature into being they whisper to me of their love and longing, of their whimsy and dreams, of deep passions welling up and burbling over, eager to be in the world. I hope to hear these whispers, to listen closely and share each imagined life, to find lightness along the tunnel of time where it doesn't always live.