"Sunny Day" Quilted Messenger Bag

By Kelsey (Viollca) Byram

 Setting up shop on Etsy as ShatteredSkyQuilts too!

Yes, I've been busy.  Also on Shattered Sky:

"My Meditation" Art Quilt, by Kelsey (Viollca) Byram

The lesson of lilies and lilacs

     As a child, I squatted in the grass in amazement as evening primroses opened before my wide eyes, revealing their beauty only once the harsh sun had set. I played kickball and tag on the rolling expanses of lawn, imagined stories of pirates and adventurers with toys boats on the pond, and built empires in the sandbox. I hid in the open arms of the maple tree and sneaked raspberries before my mom could pick them.
     As I grew older, the garden worked itself into all aspects of my life. It taught me hard work and joy.  When I wanted to be a writer, I wrote prose and poetry about the miniature world full of tulips, evergreens, bees, and wind chimes. When I wanted to be a photographer, I took countless pictures of the carved stone and wood figures, the roses, the thorns, the silhouettes of the trees, the pond, in every stage of life - in beauty and in starkness. When I wanted to paint, I painted the luscious red lilies and the enchanting ochre sunflowers half melting into the shadows, half dappled by the sunlight. When I wanted to perform, I contact juggled and spun poi and danced on the grass, among birds singing and daffodils busily blooming.
     The garden nourished my body as well as my soul. What little bit of sun touched my skin, did it in the garden. I made jam from the fruits of the garden. I ate cherries and mulberries from the boughs of the trees. I partied there, posed for prom pictures there, relaxed and rejuvenated all in the comfort and mystery of the garden. More sacred than a stone and mortar chapel, closer to the divine in its daily living and breathing and growing than silent statues, the garden is a touchstone in my spiritual journey.  This is a journey that may have no destination, but the garden teaches me that it is still worthwhile to grow and bloom and revel in the sunlight day after day, and that perhaps it is exactly that day to day act of living that is the purpose.

While reading a text on Hinduism and Buddhism (it contains selections from the Vedas and Upanishads, but there is more as well), I came across a section "On Truth in the Religions; Insanity: My Religion Alone is True."  This selection from the text says in perfect words the belief that my work is based on.

"The entire world is being driven insane by this single phrase: "My religion alone is true."  O Mother, you have shown me that no clock is entirely accurate.  Only the transcendent sun of knowledge remains on time.  Who can make a system from Divine Mystery?  But if any sincere practitioner, within whatever culture or religion, prays and meditates with great devotion and commitment to Truth alone, Your Grace will flood his mind and heart, O Mother.  His particular sacred tradition will be opened and illuminated.  He will reach the one goal of spiritual evolution."

I will have to have this quote there with me at the Thesis Exhibition on May 4th.  The myths that are being told as part of the show are based on this idea.  They are from no religion, and every religion.  Duality...now there is something interesting.

The Story Begins

    I am the vessel that carries the Otherworld into this world.  My creations were conceived in another time, another place, but born in this world as prophets.  Each piece carries the essence of an aspect of spirituality, without also carrying the established meaning of any specific religion.  The warm glow of fire in darkness, chanting and music, ritualistic motions, processions and journeys, script and symbols - detached from proselytizing, these things carry individual meaning to us all.
    My materials are intimately connected to the world that they are a part of.  Leather, stone, wood, bone, and linen are children of the earth, and are reminders of the grass beneath your feet, the bark under your hands.  Silk, glass, mirrors, and shimmer are children of the sky, and are reminders of the wind in your hair, the feeling of raindrops on your skin. 
    A costume is not complete until it is worn, a mask is not complete without the face concealed behind it.  Empty of the bearer, the costume is still and silent like a relic in a museum.  Someone once wore it, someone once knew its meaning, but its life is lived, its history condensed to a few short phrases tacked on the wall beside it.  Time does not leave anything untouched, and its passage is recorded in accumulation and decay.  Time binds us all together.