The Cut and Paste Girl

As a little girl I spent countless hours at the table with a bottle of glue, a pair of scissors, and whatever kind of scrap paper I could get my tiny hands on. I have no memory of this but apparently it happened so often my mother branded me ‘The Cut and Paste Girl’. Allegedly, I would (or could) never answer the question, “What are you making?”

If I were then as I am today, it probably didn’t matter what I was making as much as being swept up and away in it in the making, itself. I also suspect that the deep satisfaction I feel now when I look at the messy aftermath of a project is due to those early ‘cut and paste’ days. As much as the finished product, the mess is evidence of time well spent.

Growing up, I never bothered to develop any ‘tidier’ crafting skills such as drawing or painting. I never felt a desire to. Whenever I've attempted to sketch out a design, my lines go wobbly and I can never seem to draw anything symmetrically. It’s as of my fingers don’t trust the pencil. Place a pair of scissors in my hand, however, and I can cut out any shape imaginable with precision. The difference is, I’ve been using scissors for so long, I just don’t ever think about them. At some point they became more like an extension of my own arm, like Edward Scissorhands or Wolverine. They cut what I see.

Over the years, paper and glue evolved into cloth and thread and the mountainous piles of sticky scraps my mother would scoop into the waste bin each night became things that were more worth keeping. However, following patterns was boring. Cut here; sew there… Following someone else’s instructions felt about as creative as mowing the lawn. Where was the fun? I wanted crafting to feel more like art, where rules are merely suggestions and anything goes. So, I started experimenting.

It was expensive.

When I walked into a fabric store the combined odors of the fibers, the dyes, and the formaldehyde would go straight to my head and I immediately felt a little giddy. That was (and is) the smell of potential. I would prowl the aisles, my eyes drinking in the color pallets and the contrasting patterns, and running my fingers along the seemingly endless rows of bolts to feel what I saw. Eventually I would find it: That one particular piece that would stop me in my tracks and become the catalyst for a new idea. In other words: my latest excuse to make something. Anything.

It’s important to note that trips to the fabric store were a regular part of my early childhood, too. Our family trade is puppetry. My father would build the puppets and sets and my mother would expertly sew all the costumes and curtains. And although I spent my teen years making eccentric clothing for myself (things I never did find the courage to wear) after graduating, I joined the family business.

However, as artistic as my job was, it was still a job. New shows had to keep coming, time was money, and there was simply never enough of either to create anything the way I really wanted to. The pressure was always on to get the next thing done. There simply wasn’t enough time to be swept away in anything. After a few years on the job, I wasn’t creating anymore. I was working.

It wasn’t until my thirties when my daughter was born that I found myself at home with time on my hands. In the absence of work, an old familiar itch began to grow: the desire to make something. I leapt on the feeling. I decided to start a new project. I gave myself three rules; I had to really enjoy doing it, I would take my time, and whatever I decided to do would be just for me. Not for work. For me. I landed on a children’s picture book.

Several years before, I’d written a cracked version of a folktale for a puppet show. The production had been rushed and I’d always felt embarrassed about the quality of the puppets I’d made and the simplicity –or lack there of- of any scenery. This time I was determined to do all of it right. No detail would be spared. I would combine all my crafting skills to create three-dimensional scenes and photograph each one for the illustrations. I began with the characters.

I built tiny posable felt and wool animals with even tinier mouths that could open and close and eyebrows that could be repositioned. I spent a ridiculous amount of time cutting out itty-bitty chicken feathers from felt with the smallest, sharpest pair of Friskars I could find. The characters took weeks but I didn’t care. Taking the time felt good. I savored it.

Eventually I moved on to the backdrops and each one became a project in and of itself. Years before, I had tried my hand at traditional quilting but it was short lived. Although I stand in awe of the well-made quilt, the monotony involved in its execution killed me. Once a quilt is planned out, the creative part is over and then its just stitch, stitch, stitch until the end of time. However, I have seen quilts so remarkable they can hold their own on a gallery wall. I wanted to make my backdrops wall-worthy, too, and as I definitely wanted to use fabric, I compromised and began to cut.

I cut out the shapes of tree limbs and winding streams, lampposts and rooftops… whatever shape came into my head. One by one, they came together to create the scenes; An old country store with a rolling field of changing shades of green behind it, an enchanting wood that bordered a meadow of wild flowers, that famous shot of the back of the apartment house from ‘Rear Window’… Each applique quilt became its own little world to be discovered as I went along.

Sometimes a fabric would fail me. A sheer would start to fray or a knit would unravel. Of course, these things would only happen after I’d committed them to the piece. You know, after they were inextricably connected to everything else by an iron-on adhesive and a thousand stitches. These were the moments when, pressured by production deadlines and meager budgets, I would’ve broken into a cold sweat and probably cried a little bit, too. However, this project wasn’t for work. It was for me. I’d started to trust in my abilities. I’d also started to trust in the process. Obstacles began to feel more like opportunities. Opportunities to dig through my bins of scrap fabrics and ribbons, rethink, reimagine, and make something better than I’d originally planned. When I look at those pieces now, it’s the solutions I came up with that I’m most proud of.

When I finally finished the last illustration, I found I wanted to keep going. There were more scenes I could make. ...Perhaps my tiny animals could go sledding in a wintery wonderland or fish at the edge of a shimmering pond... I wasn’t sure but I decided it was probably a very good reason to go to the fabric store.

I’m in my forties now and (just as I had when I was little) I sit and create at the table for hours, making impressive piles of mess that I will later scoop into the waste bin with unapologetic satisfaction. It doesn’t matter what I’m making, how long it will take to finish, or if anyone else will ever see it. I create for the same reason I always have: to be swept up and away in the joy of it.