As an extrovert, it feels very unsettling to keep myself away from people. My personal well-being is deeply tied to the social connections I make on a daily basis, not only with family and friends, but also acquaintances and strangers I encounter throughout my day.
As a maker, I know that the best source for dealing with this uncomfortable stifling of my personality, is to make. I have always been drawn to blue and white. Porcelain is my preferred medium and she plays well with blue. Earlier this year, I became familiar with the craft of visible mending and inspired by sashiko stitching. These tools and this method of working lend itself to stolen moments, time that can be quickly grabbed.
With no plan, no pattern, and no specific goals, I decided to begin stitching on this old jacket with blue sashiko thread. It was the perfect way to keep my hands busy. It was the perfect way to keep my face out of my phone. It was the perfect way to distract my mind from life, both inside my bubble, and outside my newly closed door.
This is the story of creating the world I need, within a world that feels full of uncertainty. This is the story of figuring out how to live as an extrovert in isolation.
If I am a maker who is not making, and a socializer who is not socializing, who am I? I am not only a wife and mother, but suddenly a teacher, therapist, chef, baker, yoga instructor, preschool director, and hand-washing drill sergeant. Am I still a sculptor if I am not sculpting? A daughter if I cannot see my parents? A sister, a friend, a good neighbor?
How do I find my calm when everything seems to be shifting? Wellness to me is keeping my hands busy. Keeping my mind focused on something so that it can remain unfocused on the world around me. So, I stitch away my worries.
During the day, I steal moments amidst the chaos of caring for our three young boys. Our environment is highly emotionally charged right now. There are moments of immense joy and affection mixed in with times of feeling as if a boiling kettle is screaming to let out its steam. These moments of stitching ground me.
When the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, I can work away at what is troubling me. Was it a good day? My son seems stressed. What if my parents get sick? Will I be able to help care for them? How many people are sick now? What about those who have lost jobs and businesses? In and out, in and out, the gentle prick of the needle is cathartic. My worries melt with this methodical practice.
I know the day will come when I will look back at this time and long to be quarantined in my home with my young boys. This makes the time bittersweet. I want to soak it in, and yet I desperately want to stretch my wings, to move in spaces beyond our cozy bubble. My life is currently scheduled in a way that feels restrictive. Scheduled school lessons, scheduled screen time, naps and active time. Unexpectedly the planning of meals, grocery trips, and alone time requires the attention to detail and coordination of a symphony.
In a way, I am creating what I want in my environment, perhaps what I need. The ability to move freely throughout something without treading carefully on feelings, schedules and needs. A space where I can move where my whim takes me. The feeling of this perpetual quarantine is unsettling. And yet, the possibility of this project to go on forever is comforting. I could keep stitching until all the empty space is filled. I could then stitch upon my stitches. There is a conflict in this desire to have something that progresses but never ends in a time that feels uncomfortably unending.
Yet each day moves to the next. My four year old often questions, “is this day tomorrow?” It is at once always tomorrow, and yet never tomorrow. So, we continue on. Our days will follow these strange set of rules. We will navigate through the choices we will soon face like when is it safe to gather, give hugs, and share stories face to face. Still I will stitch. I will stitch through each of these deliberations and awkward social interactions until the questions have answers.
When we decide it is time to move along, I wonder how we will have changed. What will we each choose to leave behind from this time, and what will we want to carry with us as we embark back out into the world outside our homes.
Back to a time where time is no longer endless.
About Erica Nickol
Erica Nickol is a sculptor who finds her inspiration in precariousness, fragility, and tension. She is interested in the capacity that visual representations of these forces have to physically resonate with us. After obtaining a Bachelor’s degree in Architecture from the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana, in 2005, Nickol completed a Master of Fine Arts in Ceramics from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia in 2011. Her work has been included in exhibitions in New York City, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Virginia, Kentucky and Arkansas. Nickol lives and works in Cincinnati and enjoys spending time with her husband and young sons.