Sound of the Scissors

I’m not sure how young I was when I first accompanied my mother to the fabric store, but young enough to have to be led by the hand through the aisles of color and texture. Each aisle its own rainbow: rich, dark velvets; textured brocades; vibrant polyester prints - it was after all, the early 70’s. My tiny eyes drank in the colors and patterns, and my delicate, little hands grazed across the army of bolts and rolls. My mother allowed this, more concerned with my fussy baby sister, who sat in the front of the cart disinterested in the magic around her. I, however, was entranced.

My mother selected several bolts, hoisting the rolls of fabric into the cart with a thud. The distinctive retaliation of the metal cart vibrating through the aisle. She took my hand once again and we wove our way to the spinning racks of buttons. These glistening, tiny treasures sewn to strips of white cardboard danced in synchronous harmony at the slightest touch of the rack. I stood next to my mother, mesmerized by the variety of shapes and sizes spinning past me as she turned the squeaky metal frames, looking for just the right set of buttons for her project. Success! She plunked the cards into the cart.

Our next stop was the thread aisle. It took my breath away. Tiny reels of color nested in large beige bins. As my mother pried a spool from the grips of its containment, another spool magically appeared in its place. I reached tentatively towards the threads, letting my fingers slide down the column of spools. They rolled in place! I reached out both hands to engage in my newfound joy only to have my mother intercede. She had found thread to match her fabric and we must now continue on.

We stopped at a large island of wide counters. A smiling woman stood patiently on the other side as my mother hoisted a bolt of fabric onto the counter. I sat on the floor, a bit tired and a bit disappointed that we were no longer exploring the wondrous aisles of colors and patterns. Thwuck, thwuck, thwuck. The sound echoed against the counter as the clerk flipped the bolt to unwind yards of fabric. I stood, annoyed as the loud banging shattered my enchantment with this place.

Then it stopped, replaced by a symphony of sound. It’s hard to describe, even now, but it is distinct. It begins with a slide of metal against wood, immediately transitioning into a whooshing chorus punctuated with a staccato snip before beginning again. I peeked cautiously over the counter, my hands gripping the edge as I balanced on the toes of my pink mary janes. Scissors! This music was the sound of large, heavy scissors slicing through layers of fabric. Magic restored.

And so began my love affair. I already loved to draw and color, but this! This was a door opening to so much more. Crayons and finger-paints gave way to fabrics and fibers. I learned to cut apart and put back together with needle and thread.

My mother and grandmother taught me to sew and knit. They approached these crafts with a more utilitarian sensibility. Sure, they enjoyed making each piece their own, adding special touches reflected in their choices of color or embellishment, but in the end it was just a dress or a sweater or a blanket. Special because it was handmade, but is wasn’t art and it wasn’t passion for them. They enjoyed creating, but the end product was their goal. Their passions lay elsewhere.

Not so for me. Creating is my passion. I cannot go a day without expressing myself through some means of art or craft. It might be picking up a pencil mindlessly to doodle along the edge of a piece of paper, or threading an embroidery needle to stitch flowers on a piece of fabric. There is a constant dance between my imagination and my hands. A tango pushing and pulling: can I make what I imagine? and what can I imagine from the materials before me? I cut apart and I put together. A finished object is not the goal - it is a bonus; the life force is in the creating.

There is magic in the colors and textures I use to create. A visual cacophony that expresses my connection to the world in fabric, yarn, paper, and threads. A feast for the eyes of those who see my work, but the work itself is silent. Full of wonder? Perhaps. Inspiring? One can hope. But no audible sound. This is why I must create rather than merely consume art.

It is the sound of the scissors that touches my soul.