Yes, I call myself a quilter. I have the patience and talent for it. A gift from my ancestors, Aunt Helen, Aunt Olga and Grandma Esther. Of course, I'm sure I've benefited from my mom; the well known artist, fine arts professor, gallery owner and curator. As a matter of fact, most people assume my talent is from her. I never call my quilting art, I guess it's because I've been around artists all my life and never considered anything I've created art on any level.
I appreciate quilting, all fiber arts for that matter, I just don't consider my quilts art. I love making quilts people love and enjoy, be it on their bed or on their wall.
However, this week my quilt guild Uhuru Quilters is hosting a workshop and I can't make heads or tails of the preparation instructions. I've whined about this to anyone who'll listen, of course not to members of my guild (except one, who probably knows by now I'm an idiot) and I'm totally frustrated with myself, a common state of mind for me. Anyway, since the meeting is about twelve hours away I've decided to go downstairs, hack up this fabric, throw it in a bag and act like I have some idea what's happening tomorrow at our workshop. Don't worry; I'll detail the whole hellish experience tomorrow.