Elise Matthesen

Well, OK, just one particular thing. But it still makes me laugh as if it's the first time. Long ago he poked his head into my workshop while I was sorting in some new beads, and said cheerfully, "Counting flax seeds, sweetie?"

(Half a century ago, there were stories about supernatural creatures that could be distracted if one strewed seeds in front of them, because they'd start counting the seeds and not be able to stop until they'd done all of them.)

Edited to add: Whether or not the supernatural creatures had ADHD with hyperfocus the way I do is an open question, I guess.

Years ago, Juan came into my workshop once and found me sorting beads. "Counting flax seeds, sweetie?" he said, cracking me up completely. There are stories about how you can distract various magical or supernatural creatures by strewing before them a handful of small things which they then have a compulsion to count, thus giving you the chance to escape.

I like sorting beads. It's soothing and it's pleasurable and it gives me ideas, when I see one bead roll against another and notice a fortuitous juxtaposition. That's why I've always loved grab bags of mixed beads. Over the years, I got pretty good at sorting beads for particular purposes: these two beads are an earring pair, those seven are for a bracelet; oh, look, these eight would be great in a necklace with the right interlocking sets of colors and shapes to dance with them; hey, these weird ones are so cool that I must save them for something I don't yet understand; these are perfectly nice but boring, and will make good supporting cast for something wilder, and so on.

After the stroke, sorting beads was a lot different, because it was as if the stroke had wiped all my sorting habits. Everything was reset to zero. Each bead I looked at was its own self.

Sorting beads, at first, took five times longer than it had before, or more. And that scared me. How could I work, if I couldn't even sort beads? (I was sorting for Beads of the Month, too, which meant I did have a particular deadline.)

A number of years back, when I started making simple pendants as well as complex ones, I was trying to show people what I saw in individual beads. After the stroke, it was as if the universe was trying to show me how much there was in each individual bead. No, in every individual bead.

Oh, dear. How could I work? I would tip forward into each bead, looking at it, drinking it in, and I'd fall in and drown. That's what I was afraid of, anyway.


Art After the Stroke, Part One: Seeing Every Thing
Art After the Stroke, Part Two: Counting Flax Seeds
Art After the Stroke, Part Three: Frozen in the Fields of Plenty
Art After the Stroke, Part Four: And By My Eyes Be I Open
... and more to come.