hidden landscapes: a dog, a quilt, a dining room table

A few weeks ago, I went to Bend, Oregon for a work retreat. I stayed with my friends LK and L. They gave me L’s home office as my bedroom and their dining room table as my work space. Their chihuahua Benny, however, was not on board with this. When I arrived Friday afternoon, he spent ten minutes using his various toys to demonstrate the many ways he planned to kill me.

LK and L ushered us out of the house quickly to go get lunch. Afterward, LK offered to take me to a gallery. I followed her to a nondescript second-floor walkway and casually walked in the door.

Hard to explain what happened next because it felt so natural, but at the same time, I felt transported to an entirely different space. We stood in a small gallery lined with paintings and quilts of luscious color and landscapes. It felt calm, welcoming, and peaceful, but I also felt so drawn to each artwork that I spun in a circle about six times before deciding to start in one corner and work my way through more methodically.

A small opening between two of the gallery walls revealed a large studio space extending all the way back to windows overlooking the mountain. The studio held what I would describe as perfect balance: a giant work table, a couple of easels, shelves, lots of materials out and in process, all clearly being used, but organized thoughtfully.

The artists, Lisa and Lori Lubbesmeyer, are identical twins and have worked together for decades. Every artwork is a collaboration between the two of them.

The sister-artists use fabric and thread more like an oil painter than a quilter–layering and blending (yes, blending, I don’t know how). When the first artist feels done with her part of the piece, she gives it to the other sister to continue. However, they do NOT talk at ALL about the work. They might talk about other things, but they NEVER speak about the artwork. So, the second sister to work on a piece, adds and changes whatever she feels is best, returns it to the first sister, and back and forth, back and forth, until they know it’s finished.

Here’s an example from their brochure–you can see the stitches, but if you imagine seeing it hanging on a wall, wouldn’t you think it was a painting?

I told them my favorite piece was “Flowers and Chair” one of only two non-landscape pieces. A domestic scene showcases a chair, a small round table, a slant of light through a tall window, a rug reaching out to the viewer, and a vase of fabulous poppies with blue centers, all stitched out of fabric.

They told me it started as a landscape. That first layer must have taken hours and hours to complete. When the second sister received this initial landscape, she decided to cover it, entirely, with a whole different design.

“Was that difficult for you?” I asked the sister who’d started the piece as a landscape. I’m guessing the answer was yes, but after a brief ripple in the otherwise calm, focused space, their answer stated in unison was: this is why we don’t talk.

I’m left to assume that when the first sister received her now non-landscape back, she breathed through whatever reaction she might have had and let the dramatic change inspire her next moves. You can see how just about any talking during the process might ruin the outcome, if not the relationship. Instead, silence makes the art, and I’m guessing the sisterhood, deeply strong and stable. A ballast through all kinds of weather.

The sisters showed me this piece, “Woman Sitting in Red Chair”:

and told me it not only started out as a landscape, but was oriented the other way. So, behind this pensive woman is an upside down landscape.

I continue to ponder this: the landscapes we cannot see inside others. The ones we can’t see within ourselves. How those hidden landscapes resonate or radiate through us, stitched over with many layers on top, but still impacting us. How sometimes we talk ourselves into a landscape that doesn’t fit. Better to be silent and make the hard choice of covering up something beautiful but not quite right in a quest to find what resonates.

Which brings me back to Benny, the murderous chihuahua and whatever hidden landscape from his past that compels him to see me as a serious threat.

On Saturday morning, my friends left for a work project counting butterflies in the area. That left me in their home to work all day … with Benny. I made a cup of coffee and just as I sat down to plan out my day, a blur of white flew up from my left and landed in a soft heap on my lap. While trying not to spill my coffee, I braced myself for the barking and the hungry focus on my jugular vein. Instead, Benny padded around a bit then settled with nose on paws, his back aimed where my hand would naturally land to pet.

There we sat, like two old-time friends, reminiscing fondly about the time one of us wanted to kill the other.

From there, my day continued to be bliss. I worked without interruption or pause* from 8:15am to 5:45pm. I wrote. I did some editing. I drew. I studied. I listened to two podcasts about creativity. I did a short yoga video. I wrote again. I completed two drawings.

Near the end of the day, I felt–what’s a word that describes feeling both inspired and grounded at the same time? It’s how I felt in the Lubbesmeyer gallery too. Sometimes inspiration can spiral and overwhelm me, lift my feet off the ground and leave me glad for something like laundry to do because drawing feels like too much. Instead, I felt calm and inspired at the same time. I need a word for that feeling.

When L and LK returned that evening, Benny and I both lept for joy–he with his pack reunited, me with my friends home to eat dinner together, talk story, and, as it turned out–play charades. You’ve never seen a better impression of “Big Bird” or “charming” than we did that night.

Thank you, as always, for following along. If summer is your season, I wish you many more popsicles, days by the water, roller coaster rides, s’mores, and night-time stars. Enjoy it for me. Tell me all about it. Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to fall, shorter days, and productive routine. See you in September!

*I only now see my pun. Pause/paws. Ha!