|That knife from Lee Valley was a Godsend!|
I was super conscious of lifting the last of the paper surface off the defiant dress surface. I was peeling it off where I’d be cutting material out. No more of that. And then I experienced the last of the sawing, sanding, carving and breathing dust — even though I had a mask on. It’s over.
And no more making paste for this dress or painting with paper bits. It’s done and way ahead of schedule. Wow. And now … I’m onto the fortune cookie dress. I’ve maybe a hundred and fifty paper fortune cookies to make and the same number of ornate fortunes papers for inside them.
Plus, I am going to weave a basket of the paper I use for the dress base and backing for the fortunes. As usual, I am excited about starting another dress — number eleven.
(“Eleven.” Three of the hardest words for me to say are “eleven,” “Wednesday,” and “thank.”)
And it’s pretty clear what dress number twelve has to be: A wedding dress. How can a show of dresses not have one? And I am going to do a thirteenth. There has to be a story/dress about menopause. And that’s it. No more!
My mother’s entrée into firmament of thespians français in Montréal was as “menopause” in a play in which actors portrayed the various stages of a woman’s life. As my mother delivered her soliloquy of angst in flowing white robes, blood dripped down on her from the grid.
I like the idea of thirteen. In the script talks about thirteen being a female dozen. It’s also the unlucky number but the show is going to be both Charlotte’s and my pinnacle of good luck … somewhere, somehow.
Most of my dresses are plans B because my plans A didn’t work. The Arts Club is my second time at bat trying to earn a professional workshop experience — plan B; Boca being my failed plan A. So maybe …