Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

Images without my camera. From my memory chest.

 

One day I went down to The Maharaja Palace in Mysore. I had seen it from outside during one of my first days, now it was time to walk through the rooms, feel the atmosphere of old times. When I came there I was not allowed to bring my camera, my third eye. "How can I then remember?" I said to myself. Of course I could remember, of course I could "shoot photos". Vinay waited outside, looking after my camera, while I walked through the palace with open eyes, open mind, a moleskin and a pen:

I am inside the Maharaja Palace, while Vinay is waiting outside with my camera. As a matter of fact I find it quite okay that I am not allowed to bring my camera, then I use my eyes better. I am inside the octogon, marble floors in tourquise, orange, blue, green, brown and maroon, an eightpointed star in the middle, peacocks and mandalas. Fantastic pillars painted in tourquise, an amazing candelabre, glass mosaics up in the dome, with among other things eight dominating peacocks in blue, tourquise, green, brown and yellow.

Fantastic to walk barefeet on the marble mosaic floor. Historical murials along the walls.

Massive, dark wooden doors, 16 rose panels in each door, I can't stop my fingers to cherish the wood and the fantastic carvings along the frames. The tourquise pillars give an illusion of somewhere under the sea. Is this Atlantis?

I am in the room of the throne, the roof is made of the most fantastic wooden panels. Between the two throne chairs there is a painting of a maharaja riding a camel. The frame is made by ivories, huge! There must be four of them put together. The painting is standing on a teak chest decorated with carved elephants.

Up and down marbled stairs, windows made of coloured stained glass, remarcable plasters decorate the roof. I am on the first floor, marble floor, flagstones, tourquise is again the dominant colour, paintings in the arcs of women with eight arms, with four arms, maharajas, the most remarcable, intricat wooden panels and frames.Open arcs out to the courtyard. Tribunes. Seven candelabres hanging down from the roof. This must be the most fantastic I have ever seen. Room after room. Now I am in a kind of ballroom where the tourquise pillars have got golden painings. Quite another effect. More candelabres, even more beautiful. Peacock after peacock on the roof. A gallery in gold up under the roof. The windows along the gallery is painted in purple and tourquise, with golden frames with birds, feathers and flowers. Golden angels, or are they birds with human faces?

Again and again people come to look over my shoulder, wondering what this strange white lady is doing with a notebook and a pen. A guard is coming and my heart makes an extra jump, "Am I not allowed to write in here?" "Where are you from?" he asks, and wants to show me around. "Look at these ivory door knobs, ivory is the most expensive wood there is! Have you seen this massive silver door?" After a while he asks about the money in Norway and then he wants me to give him some. I just smile and shake my head: "Sorry, I don't have any Norwegian money here, but thanks for the guiding."

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The writing is translated from my travel notebook where I write in Norwegian. Oh my gosh, it is so difficult to translate. When I write in English, when I speak in English I also think in English. Translation from Norwegian words is quite another thing. I even had to use my dictionary!

Winter is here.

 

"Oh mamma, it was so beautiful when I walked home from school today. All the trees were decorated in white snow." Marta was red cheeked when she came downtown to meet me after work for our weekly mother/daughter day.

 

Terje was out running last night. When he came home he was all smiling. "Tomorrow I will cross country ski! YES!"

 

It is late Wednesday night when I write this (I usually write my blogs at night to be posted the next morning). It is dark outside, but still easy to see the snowfilled trees. Terje is out skiing, and I know he is thrilled. Marta and I bought new winterboots for her in town, and I must realise that King Winter is here once more.

The photos are from December two years ago. It is not easy to get outdoor photos now. It is dark when I leave for work in the morning, dark when I am back home.

Coffee time.

 

After dinner: a cup of coffee, a book........and I am in heaven.

Photo: from Mexico in August.

The Glassblower of Murano

 

I was in Oslo yesterday, and at the airport I bought The Glassblower of Murano. So far I have borrowed the copy of a friend. Now I have my own and can reread it, make dogears, underline, write in the book.....just as much as I want to. And I know I will want to do it alot. Some books are for the shelves, others are for living. This one is for living.

Who can say that they have their own glassblower of Murano? I can :-) Yesterday he emailed me a new YouTube video, Birth of Santa Klaus. Enjoy!

Here is more about The Glassblower of Murano. Don't you agree with me that the publisher should change the front picture of the book?

Here is Mauros webpage.

I am wearing my red glass heart today. Now I must run to work. See you later.

With stiff fingers

 

My fingers felt stiff, out of practice. I tried to smooth them, doing some mending. Fitting the elastic straps on Marta's dancing shoes, fasten a tail on her favorite cow pillow, fixing a t-shirt. Then I made myself a mug of tea, and I was back. Back on the quilting lane. Only a tiny path so far, but it might widen out to an avenue. I struggled with the first stiches. The needle felt strange and didn't cooperate. We will have to learn to work together. We will be a team again.

The fabric, the texture of the small pieces sewn together, felt good in my hands.

Not a stich yet, but.....

 

I have a room in the basement where I have my sewing machine, my fabrics and all my quilting stuff. I could have moved it all up in my studio to get more light and more space, but up here it will compete with too many other things - laptop, stationary, travelbooks, papercrafts, altered book stuff and alot more, so for the time being the basement studio will have to do.

I went down there yesterday, opening baskets and closets, every step taking me further down memory lane. The quilt I made for Torgeir's confirmation, the first quilt I ever made, a round robin I did with a group of friends, another one made just between me and Annet in The Netherlands, a doll quilt, fabric sent me by Kathy in IL or by Elizabeth in SD, buttons saved from grandmother Olga's collection, miniature scissors bought on the street in Asmara,Eritrea, timbles collected from travels around the world.

 

The day passed quickly, and when night came and Terje and I sat down after cleaning the diningroom and the kitchen, sharing memories from a night with 10 around the pizza table, I hadn't sewn a stich.

There is no rush with my quilting. I have enough quilts anyway for a lifetime. I can sew today or I can keep on putting best fot forward further down memory lane. The quilt I have been handquilting over the past 10 years or so, is at the cottage and we have no plans of going there untill winter break in February. There are dozens of other tops waiting to be handquilted, more waiting to be pieced together. I have all the time I want. The goal is never the finished product. The goal is the prosess. The fulfillment of creating. The joy of playing with textures, fibres and colours. Everyday pleasures. Artists are blessed. Creating gives our living a purpose.

 

Photos: my studio desk this morning, The Blue Room up on the first floor, where I have gathered a few of my quilting supplies. It is time to start making the first stich.

When Creativity Flows

 

Saturday, Sunday. Days off. A long week has been walked through. Christmas is only a few weeks away. The creativity which has been hibernating somewhere inside me is awakening. Ideas flow. Fingers and hands start to do their special creative tango. It is time to make. Time to make art. Time to turn on the music and dance my needles and pin dance.     

I used to be a quilter. Fabric, timbles, spools, needles filled every space in our house, and as soon as I had a spare minute I could piece just another blog. Sharing my love with pinpals around the world, I finished quilt after quilt. New ideas around every corner, always a new pattern on the go.

 

Somewhere along the road life filled up with other things. I filled baskets with fabric and stored them away, some quilts were used for tablecloths and wallhangings, more quilts were folded and almost forgotten. At the cabin I still have my sewing basket at hand and piece a block or two from time to time, or do some tiny little quilting stiches, but mostly needles were used for knitting, pins became pens, perfect tools for writing.

 

Life goes on, times changes, but creativity never dies. Somewhere deep inside me the quilter has kept herself alive through all these years, and this week-end she is knocking on the door of my heart. Hello, here I am, I might have become almost invisible, but I am too strong to disappear. I'll never leave you and now I know it is time for me to come alive once more.

 

I look through piles of quilts and know that I can still do this. My creativity is awake. It is again time to play with fabrics.

 

Happy Creative Week-end.

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Blog of the week: Sandra Evertson

 

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My India inspired cooking keeps on. Yesterday I made fried okra. Just take a look.

From my memory chest

 

The first thing which met me this morning when I turned on my computer, was an email from Carolyn, my dear Indian friend. Still with the exotic taste of ginger in my mouth from my morning tea, my mind wandered down to quite another place on earth, the subcontinent where I left a big part of my heart. (Luckily my heart seems to grow the more pieces of it I leave around)

 

Memories from three weeks in India, where I at once was adopted as part of the family, follows me during my days. I don't know about the future, I don't know if I will ever go back, but Carolyn and Hossy, their household, their house, their city, South India, will forever be a part of me.

   

On my last day in Mysore I invited Carolyn and Hossy out for lunch. We went to Royal Orchid Metropolitan, an old, charming hotel downtown where the breath from the time of The Maharaja's still sits in the walls and in the atmosphere. Known for its tandori food, the tastes tickled my tastebuds in a new way. The soup was too hot and Hossy promptly ordered some other soup for me, but the rest was okay, though at the buffet I searched for the least spicy dishes, and the chefs found me a bit weak I am afraid :-)

 

Hot or less hot, there was enough choices. I have so much to learn about the use of colours in my cooking.

 

Carolyn and Hossy, I miss you so much. Thanks for opening your home and your hearts for me, giving me memories for a lifetime. God bless you both!

Tread softly

 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with the golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

 

- W.B. Yeats

Thank you, and Christmas in November

 

A want to give a huge thank you hug to all of you who wrote me about my post yesterday, my thoughts about writing and a parallel world.

Yesterday night I sat for hours up in my studio working on the children's advents blog I am making. I have most of the actual writing done, but I have a fight with the web design and how to do it tecnically. I think I won that fight yesterday, and in the end I could almost smell Christmas, pine neddles, scented candles, apples and pomegranates.

During my struggle I went back to your comments from time to time, my circle of supporters, your encouraging words made me believe in myself and the words floated freely.

Late at night, as a special treat, I made myself a bowl of yoghurt with pomegranate seeds, and reading through the comments once again I shared my treat with you all.