Yesterday ideas were flowing from my brain like laser beams. I would work a bit and then congratulate myself on my 'newly invented' combinations. Notes and scribbles filled a page. "Wow! I'm brilliant," I assured myself.
And then reality hit. Every time I 'invent' something new it is only a matter of time before I find it somewhere else, usually worked by someone in the 16th century or there abouts and sometimes by more recent stitchers from the first half of the 20th or 21st centuries.
All I have to do is use the word 'brilliant' and a book falls off a shelf opening to the page where my new discoveries are already documented. It is spooky. Maybe the ghosts of stitchers past haunt me. Whatever the case they are merciless. Why can't they leave me alone to enjoy my daydreams?
Dimensional Embroidery and my Azorean heritage