Why do I make?
It takes up my time, obsesses me, frustrates me at times, pulls at my heartstrings. I restart the same piece, over and over again, until it is just so. I will agonize over a gift, deciding the perfect creation for the recipient, even though it would be so much easier just to walk into a store and buy…
So why do I do it? Why do I subject myself to Craft, the fickle lover, who teases and entices, never to set you free? Just when you feel you are satisfied, the next project, the next idearears its head and you say “Well, here we go again…”
At least for me, part of it is a drive that I cannot ignore. But I think it’s more than that, something that bonds together all of us that make. There is a value, a love in something made with your hands that is never found in something purchased. When blood, sweat, and tears (literal or figurative) go into an object, it is treasured – less likely to be discarded, neglected, upgraded. Often it gives new life to old materials, remnants, pieces. To make also connects us to those who came before, those who did not have a choice but to build, sew, churn by hand. There are so many things that are better about today, but there are also beautiful things from the past we can bring forward, a mix of the old and the new, the progress of the future with the cherished of the past. Maybe I’m just trying to keep some of that alive.