eine Saite

Knitters will be familiar with the phrase “at the same time,” which indicates that while you are knitting a section according to the pattern, you also have to keep in mind an incremental increase or decrease every few rows. (In my case, this phrase almost always indicates that I’m going to lose track at some point. Holding multiple sets of instructions with staggered moments of crucial attention is not my forte, especially since I like to knit while reading or watching a program.)

In the context of this post, the phrase has a more sinister and dangerous meaning, because it refers to the multiple contradictions we are required to hold, or at least parry and dodge, or simply observe in disbelief, if we are trying to pay attention at all to our world.

Detail of the skirt panel of a tatreez dress I bought in Aswan, Egypt in 1994

I came across this video on YouTube, with the description posted below: Tatreez exhibits at the Victoria & Albert

“This video is made to coincide with the exhibition 'Thread Memory: Embroidery from Palestine' at V&A Dundee which runs until Spring 2026, and the 'Tatreez: Palestinian Embroidery' display at V&A South Kensington until May 2026, curated by Jameel Curator Rachel Dedman. The exhibition and display are free to visit.”

The curator’s video tour of the textiles does not mention the Nakba, or contextualize the garments in historical and political timelines, merely admiring and narrating their material characteristics and mentioning their origins in location (gratifyingly repeating ‘Palestine’ many times.) At first I suspected that it was a timely gesture toward uplifting the beauty of a ‘lost culture’, with objects decontextualized in a manner similar to that described by Wafa Ghnaim in her essay for the Met last year. However, the exhibit itself does not avoid or gloss over historical and factual information, as is evident from its iteration in Saudi Arabia, and also from the resources page of the current exhibit in Dundee.

It is the V&A’s first collaboration with the Palestinian Museum, and there seems to be a sincere effort at respectful education and honest highlighting of Palestinian culture and history. Notably, comments on the video are disabled, which is atypical for V&A’s YouTube channel, and The Guardian decided to print a letter to the editor calling for increased ‘plurality’ in the exhibit’s representation of Palestinian culture, complaining that Christian and Jewish Palestinians were not included (not linking to that one). That’s a small "at the same time”: the fact that highlighting of Palestine predictably elicits a complaint that Jewish voices are being ignored.

Shoulder detail from the tatreez dress I bought in Aswan.

At the same time on a larger scale, dozens of people are being arrested for showing support for Palestine Action in the UK. The organization has been proscribed as a terrorist group because some people vandalized military equipment with paint. Read that sentence again. This designation causes the UK government to feel justified in devoting resources and police effort to arresting large numbers of demonstrators of all ages, even if they only sit with a sign saying “I support Palestine Action.” I’m having a hard time holding the museum exhibition and the police action in London simultaneously in my mind as the stance of a coherent state, and it’s only the very tip of the mass of crystallized contradictions, most of which have much more dire consequences than museum exhibitions or protest arrests.

Some days later: I wanted to say more, the so-called ‘news’ keeps barreling ahead, with no palpable change in trajectory, and we continue to be required to hold multiple contradictions in mind, just in order to live. The confusion of all this is helpfully addressed, to some extent, in this William Shoki article on attention as freedom, and the corrosion of cognitive ability by the digital information realm. He begins by talking about how the genocide in Gaza carries on and yet becomes less real to the global public, then analyzes this process incisively, saying:

“This is not simply a media problem. It is a crisis of subjectivity. A slow unravelling of our ability to perceive clearly, feel coherently, or act collectively in a world saturated by images, algorithms, and engineered doubt. This disorientation is not incidental to moments like this, but is their background condition. What we are seeing is not only a political struggle over Gaza and how it is understood, but a deeper transformation in how reality itself is mediated and experienced.”

It’s a long article, and I recommend reading the whole thing, with many thanks to Josiane who sent it to me. As someone who is committed to studying how the mind works, I take this analysis very seriously, and seek to protect my own and others’ independence of thought and freedom of learning. Rebecca Solnit’s latest newsletter addresses this as well, noting the human meeting ground that books provide, a humanity that cannot be replaced by technological stunts. My favorite part of this newsletter might be the images of books. They give a comfort and reassurance, as my own bookshelves do, that there is a record of deep human experience and thought which is accessible and present, wise people who can be listened to at any moment.

A small selection from the nearest shelves.

I’m also reading the poetry of Fady Joudah and Andrea Gibson, a recent and scintillating Rumi translation by Haleh Liza Gafori, and expanding my Rilke world with the Mark S. Burrows translation of the Sonnets to Orpheus. Without losing sight of what is happening, without pausing my ability to feel and continue to speak about Palestine, I find ways to tend my mind and heart that will not disable or dissipate, but strengthen the base of care.

Stitching a sketchbook from repurposed papers - a small and practical pleasure

On the ground, in the face of the deliberate starvation of those in Gaza, World Central Kitchen is doing their utmost to provide meals, and so is Gaza Soup Kitchen.

At first, I was captured by the idea of reusing paper from old notebooks and elsewhere in my studio, recycle bin, ancient book pages, bags, receipts, collage stock, etc, to make long scrolls that fold into concertina/accordion books. The inspiration and guidance comes from India Flint’s beautiful online Salvage Sketchbooks workshop. Ever since I saw the foraging list, I’ve been digging up papers here and there, remembering bits I’ve been saving, (like the sweetly erratic first-grade writings of my partner’s students on the classic school paper,) and ravaging old notebooks (like the journal that became a nest in the last post.)

Painting with lichen on a stick and watercolor. Also shown is walnut ink (brown) and black sumi ink. India Flint makes use of all kinds of natural tools, which has encouraged me to try found feathers as quills - some of the scribbling at lower right is early feather use.

I got so caught up in the joining and decorating of papers, some of them have very little room left to write or paint in - but they make entertaining story books as they are, feeding my morning reflections and chatting with other drawings and paintings and sets of words.

The top is the Hamlet pages (see below), bottom left is the inside cover of the Hamlet book. Bottom right is my first handmade bound book, just a few signatures stitched up with no cover - also part of this current exploration.

It was exciting to have a couple of very old books ready to dissect and reconfigure: a 1912 edition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet that my grandfather and his brother both used in high school, and an equally old and brilliantly battered and ink stained Seat Work & Industrial Occupations, a book full of ideas for classroom creation which I scored from the free bin at the used bookstore in town. The old paper, especially in the Hamlet, is very delicate, so it’s just as well I painted all over these pages and saved other methods for newer papers. The fragility gives me a good excuse to use collage, and encourages a lack of attachment to any end result - although I’m taking lots and lots of pictures.

The pages were removed, and the covers are used to hold the accordion books, made from the removed pages and other papers. In the case of Hamlet, one accordion book is glued to the cover, but others are just packed in and tied up. The pages turn perpendicular to the spine of the book, as you can see in the photo above.

I love the view of the ends, with all the variety of pages showing their enticing edges.

Hamlet pages on top, with reinforcing collage in progress. Lower papers are being handstitched in preparation for dyeing. Unused pages from notebooks, bits of a book on insurance which I love painting over, and a printed image of Rilke’s handwriting from the Schweizerische Nationalbibliothek website of collected letters. Coffee filters are coming in handy as collage material (hello, Sarah!!)

Then came the simmering of books with leaves, which I had never tried before. The first one I did folded, and not much happened in terms of printing (not leaves, but cedar sprigs - I think they may also have been too dry.)

First cooked book drying. The process changed the color and texture in interesting ways, even though the printing was not great throughout.

First try at printing with Western red cedar (*Thuja plicata*). The distortions of the ink on this page, and the hint of plant print make me rub my hands with glee.

The next one was rolled with eucalyptus leaves throughout. I took advantage of a road trip to Northern California to gather Eucalyptus viminalis and California bay (Umbellularia californica), both of which smell wonderful while cooking. My studio is strewn with paper, in piles and small bits, and sewn together in lengths, and I’m definitely not tired of this yet. Thinking of putting poetry into some of these books. (And onto this website, actually. I may have to work up to it a bit more, but I’m pushing things around to make room.)

Some excellent clouds over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Unrolling of the eucalyptus book after cooking. (*Eucalyptus viminalis* from California was used)

Eucalyptus book drying, draped over a ladder.

A book in a box. This one was machine stitched

I think there’s something about how the paper transforms after getting wet, buckling and revealing its own fluidity, that makes the book feel more imbued with possibility. It’s on the edge of transformation, could so easily return to pulp, and this very tenuousness invites the writing of secrets and spells, codes and invented scripts, messages to offer the forest or the sea.

Today I unrolled the one with California Bay leaves, and it has some very subtle and exciting shapes and movements in it. This reminds me of doing stitch-resist dyeing, seeing the patterns and influence of water as it interacts with materials and their color properties. So unpredictably lovely!

Image is extra blue because it’s morning, shady light, and still wet.

The blue-green here is seeping from the ink of the printed page, which is actually only the one left of the stitching. The text printed onto the next page, along with the leaves.

Suffice to say, I now look at all papers differently, and have the capacity to make endless sketchbooks, notebooks, poetry books, treasure books, magic tomes, that I won’t feel precious about using up (although some of them feel significant to me already, as receptacles of transformative practice.) The stitching, by the way, is a great use for weaving thrums, which I’ve always vacillated about keeping. So many elements are integrated here - and the stitching and interleaving of accordion books gives material form to the kind of looping and circling and joining I’ve been doing in my journals already. There’s this big, multilayered book of life that I keep delving into, surfacing somewhere and lashing thoughts and experiences together, usually in a flurry of flipping pages. Now I’m seeing them seep into one another more like the colors of print ink or fallen leaves.