Months ago, when I first started really working on Imprimatur, I made a sample so I could have a visualization of what I was working toward. It was a really quick-and-dirty sample, printed on regular white copy paper, with a piece of leather flex simply folded around it. It was held together with a rubber band, and I’d scribbled notes to myself all over it. I was pretty attached to it.
So imagine how distressed I was when I thought I’d lost it.
I spent a couple months wondering where it could be, and eventually decided it was a casualty of The Move. I figured since The Pink House didn’t eat my cat, I should let it eat my sample of Imprimatur. Still, I was upset.
Last night, driving home from Megan’s house with Donna, we were talking art and stuff in the car. My hand was resting on the buckle of my seatbelt, and I moved my fingers to stretch them. Suddenly I felt something strange, flat, with a corner. I pulled it out – my sample of Imprimatur. How odd.
I don’t know when it lodged itself between my seat and the console. It doesn’t really matter. What I do know is that it was somehow a little sign, a push to get me moving forward again. It must be.
I emailed my mother about borrowing her sewing machine to play seamstress on the pages of Imprimatur; she emailed back and explained that she doesn’t use her machine currently, and that I could take it home with me. Combined with the gorgeous weather (mid-70s and sunny), I’m feeling the right kind of itch to clean out that workshop and start putting things together for real. I think I won’t stop feeling blocked and stifled until I start working again.