Rough Around the Edges

When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the process of papermaking. I used to tear apart colored papers, soak them down to make pulp, and press them back together to create something new. I attempted to make paper from an array of found objects, some of them organic, some of them not, seeing which ones would dissolve if you left them in water long enough. I was not old enough to use a stove, so I couldn’t boil anything which made the entire process much more tedious but enjoyable all the same. I recruited my best friend in this obsession one summer, and we passed our vacation waiting patiently for our found objects to dissolve in lake water. I can’t say the end ever justified the means, all those handmade ‘papers’ found their way to a landfill, but it was thrilling for me to be apart of making something new out of something old.

The allure of papermaking followed me into the early years of my marriage, where I was old enough to use a stove—though I must admit I did not use it well. Even more magical—I discovered what a blender added to the whole pursuit. I spent the first several years of our relationship apologizing to my husband for breaking our blenders. “It’s not my fault they make them so cheap,” I would say. They would sometimes begin to smoke when he tried to make his protein shakes, he would grumble and raise one eyebrow, and I would start to smile…

I’ve lost count of the messes I’ve made in my quest to make paper, the number of suitable objects I’ve destroyed, and the collection of blenders I’ve burned out. I grew tired of the shame of the whole ordeal and settled on leaving papermaking to the professionals.

I’m still captivated by paper—though it is now a quieter, more restrained, and mature admiration. There is little in the art world more beautiful to me than the natural deckled edge. It is a rarely obtained but consistently sought-after goal of mine to create work which fits precisely within the natural confines of the paper. Try as I might to preserve the edges, they seldom all find their way into the finished work. It is with growing sadness that I continue to discard the natural undulations of the edge; everything in me says they should be preserved. In recent months I find myself wanting to pay homage to the paper holding my work. I’m ready for my viewers to know the final image is hand-drawn, with pencils and on paper, and not on canvas.

I have in my studio the biggest sheet of paper I have worked on to date. It is rather intimidating, a blank and pristine surface of pure white. It took a team to adhere it to a stabilizing back sheet and several hours of ingenuity to get the whole work mounted on the wall. It would have saved us all some heartache if I had taken a razor blade to the mounted edge and smoothly cut a line around the substrate. But instinct wouldn’t allow it. If I could not preserve the natural edge, maybe I could allude to it in other ways.

I spent the last three hours in the studio, tearing the sides of my blank paper, and I understand that most people would find this utterly absurd. But as I mark out the new boundaries of the work, score them with a needle, saturate the surface, crease the paper, and rip the fibers apart—I feel it’s more than worth the time invested. I’m connected to the paper without even making a mark. True, the ripped edge is not as beautiful as the natural deckle, but they are a breathtaking close second.

I am anxious to make a mark on this paper—to let it tell a story, but not yet—there is still much work to do. As I spend time with my paper, the studio is quiet except for the consistent hum of the heater. My mind wanders back to my papermaking childhood, and I know this surface in its white emptiness already has a history. I think about its fibers—grown, softened, separated, molded, pressed down, and dried and how all of them marry together to make something new.

We often speak of human beings as objects being created in molds. Sayings like, “They broke the mold with that one!” are rather commonplace. We act as if we were created for one very specific purpose right from the start, and undeniably some of us are. But as I work to create a new edge, I can’t help but think that some of us are skillfully reformed rather than being perfect from the beginning.

I'm trying to remain optimistic—hopeful I'm being resized for a purpose—recreated for something new. Perhaps, in the end, I'll understand. Maybe then we will all be thankful I'm still a little rough around the edges.

Today I feel like this paper—blank, with edges and boundaries ever-changing.

Marked.

Scored.

Saturated.

Creased.

And torn apart.