Apart from a tree and some stockings at Christmas, I’ve never really been one to decorate seasonally. My friends change out all their sofa cushions four times a year, and on March first, they take down the winter wreath and put up a spring one, and according to the calendar they put out their bunny figurines or their pumpkins, but I can’t do all that. I admire it, but I’m too lazy. If the house looks reasonably presentable and all the mac and cheese bowls have made it back to the kitchen, it’s enough for me. I’m just happy when there isn’t any dog hair on the rug. If things look good in April, won’t they still look good in September?
Which is why it didn’t occur to me until now that all these soft and muted fabrics, these russets and sage greens and dusty purples that I put together last fall for a quilt that I never got around to until now, might look kind of abject in the sizzling glare of July. Kind of bland. They are. They are completely wasted in this strong summer light.
I made a whole pretty pile of half-square triangles, loving them the whole time, their softness and tranquil beauty, earthy and low in contrast; then I spread them out, and went bleah. I kept wondering whether I should add some citrine or turquoise, and wanting stronger value contrasts. Then I realized it’s because it’s July, and I picked out all these fabrics last fall. This is meant to be an autumn quilt. This is a quilt I will want to make then. Right now, I want quilts like this:
There, that’s better. Timing is everything.
When winter comes, I’ll make this one:
But not until then.