MY HEAD NEEDS TO BE PATCHED
Patchwork quilts, or my memory of them, is very strange. It goes back to early childhood as I seem to remember a crochet woolen large square in my great Aunt’s house in Melbourne? Or is this a figment of my imagination? Black curling locks around bright colours and lots of squares. All my life I have thought of patchwork being in woolen crochet squares. Light years ago, close friends took me to the heart of New Jersey - a tiny village which was also supposedly the «heart of patchwork» tradition. Of course they were beautiful. Different pieces of cotton joined together with extraordinary stitch work. I must have expressed a desire to see such an American centre as after all, this was an important country for the development of needlework. I bought nothing and I can still see the disappointment on the friend’s face. I was not appreciative. For me these were definitely not patchwork quilts. On Sunday I went over to th Mona Bismark centre (American art centre where I saw Mary Cassat