Every once in a while I do a little photography. I intend to use these shots of my grandmother's crocheting in my iPad work, which I still am going to do, but they turned out to be photos on their own. I like the texture, light, pattern and the meaning of the handmade, connotations of warmth both personal and from the shawl. The sparkling threads of silver in the white yarn and the flowers remind me of snow and snowflakes. The top photo has my hand resting on the crocheting by my kitchen sink, light coming from the unseen window above. A hint of my grandmother's cranberry glass is in the upper left. Her name was Lillian Romano, which I add rather than letting her go unnamed as so many women who leave their crocheting behind do. I think I'm thinking of her because her birthday is April ninth. She took care of me until she died when I was six. I think those six years I spent largely in the kitchen with her made some kind of impact. I watched Days of our Lives and The Price is Right with her and she taught me to make meatballs, sometimes for Italian wedding soup. I love the sounds of cooking, water running, dishes, and people (dogs too!) in the kitchen. It's peaceful, home. The kitchen is supposed to not matter much anymore. It's a place women fought to get free from. It's a workplace where money doesn't get made. We are busy and so many families struggle to find time to eat together so it can be a place to walk through, grab something from. Still, it is where people gravitate towards at a party. I think it's where the heart is.
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