Until the tuning fork sounds

I am often described as a perfectionist. And until recently, I was content to accept this description.

On the surface, it's an easy conclusion to arrive at. I revise endlessly. I move things around. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to find the right wording for a sentence or the right combination of colours in a quilt. I have been known to stand in front of an open pantry, rejecting perfectly acceptable dinner ideas because none of them feel quite right on a wintry Tuesday evening.

From the outside, it could look like fussiness. Or indecision. Or an inability to let things go. For years, I accepted it as perfectionism. Lately, though, I've begun to wonder if that's only part of the story.

One of the things I've noticed about myself is that I don't create very well from nothing. The idea of a blank page has never filled me with possibility. Mostly, it fills me with the desire to make another cup of tea and wander off to reorganise a cupboard. I don't sit down with a fully formed idea and simply execute it. Instead, I begin with fragments. A sensation. A mood. The vaguest outline of a feeling I can't yet articulate, but oh, I can feel it.

I gather. I make lists. I send myself rambling voice notes while driving to school pick-up. I tidy the studio, as if the idea can only arrive into a place of order. I pull fabrics from the shelves and lay them amongst the palette of my client’s old clothes. I sketch twenty slightly varying designs to find the right one. It's an absurd way to move through the world, and not one I would recommend if efficiency is your highest value.

While I am describing all this, I realise it must sound like the strangest thing, to have a clear sense of something without being able to see it. Thankfully, this is a road well travelled. I know how to start, how to continue, when I'm getting warmer and when I've wandered off course. I keep revising and iterating until there is a nudge, a shift. Sometimes the shift is obvious. Sometimes it's so subtle it’s impossible to explain to someone else.

I spend a lot of time in the murky territory of knowing that something hasn't arrived yet. Close, perhaps. Getting warmer. But not quite there. And then, eventually – inevitably – there is the glorious moment of recognition.

The tuning fork sounds.

Click. Of course. There you are!

…

The curious thing about perfectionism is that by its very nature it never arrives. It keeps moving the goalposts. There are always other improvements to be made, other adjustments, other reasons not to let the work go.

This process feels different.

I am wondering if what I once interpreted as perfectionism could in fact, be described as attunement. This experience doesn't feel like a relentless pursuit of impossible flawlessness, but rather a sensitivity to resonance. A willingness to keep adjusting, rearranging and refining until something settles into itself with a kind of unmistakable rightness. I know when a piece of writing isn't there yet. But I also know when it is. I know when the colours in a quilt are merely pleasant and when they suddenly begin speaking to one another. I know when the tuning fork sounds.

…

I suspect this is another reason why I love making memory quilts.

People rarely arrive in the studio carrying certainty. They arrive with bags of clothing they can't quite bring themselves to part with. Children’s clothes softened by years of washing and wear. A husband's work shirts. A bridesmaid’s dress. The floral blouse they can still picture their grandmother wearing. Often, they're carrying grief, tenderness, indecision, relief. Sometimes all at once. They don't necessarily know what the quilt should become. And the truth is, neither do I. Not immediately. But I do know how to begin.

I know how to lay everything out. I know how to notice. I know how to pay attention to what happens when certain pieces sit beside one another. I know how to trust the slow accumulation of small decisions. I know how to stay with the uncertainty long enough for something coherent to emerge. A colour steps forward. A layout settles into itself. A fabric I hadn't noticed suddenly becomes the fulcrum holding everything together.

And most importantly, I trust the tuning fork.

Perhaps that's the distinction I'm trying to articulate. I don't think my work is about imposing order onto raw material. It's about paying attention. Listening closely and trusting that the thing I'm sensing always makes itself known.

Because when it does, I recognise it.

Oh.

It was you all along.