![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQMCmeW19M3dOpmnrEGhUZybynpuvHP2KDDS3dYx9avpjY_ANL6GDKYrXyGCWIlTqZBMfuWYAXB1tK5QNcBsqIJ59RXq6D8rt4phBqvcqLlehPugkiQnyZ3dqui_5xocWpB_V_hbmwmty/w400-h393/C76C4962-9A1F-4D3F-BE50-1F5A28B38A3C.jpeg) |
The artist in an unguarded moment |
Wabi = rustic simplicity
Sabi = transient beauty, taking pleasure in the imperfect authenticity of age
A serendipitous stumble into wabi-sabi occurred about a month ago when I got home from emergency eye surgery, idly looked down, discovered that the shirt I was wearing had dozens of holes in it, and started laughing. That’s what happens when you can’t see your shirt.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-N3qG-xpOz2hIVI3Q-BSKmzEvN6Rjz_aQ6qzlxdmA7TSJ18HgybJJyh0N-4kv9_XdxCFIxfXw_z8wqqcwJ-suLhLnpcnNLTI1Xj__4N8ncJ23q7bO2wKJHiu0M3jxvJMed-gUtlsSSbA/w259-h400/8268EC08-4B43-46B3-ABEC-F1C83ECC8746.jpeg) |
The shirt |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUvy4Rz4-NlfcnbBv9jk37KiziHikKE2tOESUc4rcT8DNfhtG5yn3UgH8-I4HoWD3chWzsxAqwk8VVsyFtj1NdZiyj5WT0Kfk129GQ12bgWf5R6E7F0Ng3HHUx3H7tEj1ico6DlxqTvlA/w400-h300/FE392810-ED97-4902-B7ED-E4AFA8C27261.jpeg) |
The holes |
This simple sleeveless top was originally stitched with a length of hand-dyed West African fabric gifted to me by a friend in London. Never one to give up on rotting garments, I considered my next steps. I decided to cannibalize the lower sleeves of a red cotton Indian shirt (gifted by the same friend) and cut them up into little squares. I decided on a relatively crude overhand stitch around the edges to secure the tiny patches to the shirt. I meditated on wabi-sabi, a mindset that originated with the Japanese and involves a different way of looking and perceiving. It involves acceptance of the natural cycle of growth and decay, life and death, and the imperfections that come with it. And then I started stitching..,
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStbFR8MkxEm7QJgHLXFs4XmRvbBPEwLXe_onbR9J6pFM_XPvaCpGUWexLCyDHKz4vwjm4zAc9R0GO8JbyubPIeWJIdPn1YtHytY7ct2lOlnblsIhH6nqRzjiSai4sDYunLX9c4AF-pjzK/w400-h300/F5D08487-06AE-4049-AF3C-30122D9E4801.jpeg) |
Little squares, overhand stitched around the edges |
...and stitching and stitching and stitching. Every time I thought I was done I held the garment up to the light and discovered more holes.
One evening, as the elections were looming over us and tensions were high, I glanced over at the shirt hanging on a door and awaiting more patches And realized I had created an American flag - a fractured American flag. I also, with philosophical wabi-sabi serenity, realized I was never going to outpace all of those tiny holes. The shirt was done. Time to don it and enjoy the slow decay.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwi53ZiE5GJoKgjrW_8I_FHw8IU7gp705P1lQJO6wykAzGMjh-R4TUnqe9bgy_lcKrjxHBgkRFLtzuY3jhV0f8u1timtO0u84_lyaZo66wSDXJuvAIRAgqHNzr1PzrEBsB5rCOyNmR1IQn/w310-h400/4EE4E330-FA47-4193-99DA-3FA4B8E8FD05.jpeg) |
Wabi-sabi shirt for a fractured America... |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkETu4NyAI3Q-brCaG4FCrsHrIcH-idXZsBp_6-xTpCWLphRTImCObNiiCT7Re_OUneU7aPnpUUJd7BDqtYLe9ya9R_W9StB68T65vCLGDJbnB6xNUv6zMsrV0SOUrgrXvrVPnvOK1tLWO/w400-h300/AA63B687-4695-4627-BC6C-EE386A1C61C8.jpeg) |
...with lingering little holes to let new light in |
As I was trying to take a photo of me wearing the shirt as the final graphic for this post, I kept tossing out photos that showed the sagging skin on my arms, the wrinkled neck, the age spots. And then I realized wabi-sabi aesthetics apply to all things, including the beauty of an aging body. I donned my power cuffs embellished with embroidered drawings my grand nieces made of scary monsters, struck a few power Wakanda poses, and am ready for whatever crap the universe throws at us next.
Artist credit: the hanging wood sculpture behind me is by Creative Growth artist John Martin