Eating Marmalade with a Spoon by Helen Quinn
"In the mid 1990’s a friend called me at my apartment in Brooklyn. She said that a sculptor needed someone to sew for her on the weekends. I took down the lady’s number and called her. Her name was Louise Bourgeois and she had a French accent. She asked me to come on Saturday and to bring my sewing machine. For two years I went every Saturday morning pulling my sewing machine on a cart, bumping it up and down the stairs of the subway.
This artist book tells the story of how Louise and I spent our Saturdays together. It seemed at the time that we had nothing in common but we slowly connected. Now I look back and see an independent woman, an immigrant, and an artist with a voracious appetite for making. She was also a mother who raised her kids and did not gain recognition until her 60’s. This is a tribute to women artists, to those who assist them, and to eccentric makers everywhere."
"In the mid 1990’s a friend called me at my apartment in Brooklyn. She said that a sculptor needed someone to sew for her on the weekends. I took down the lady’s number and called her. Her name was Louise Bourgeois and she had a French accent. She asked me to come on Saturday and to bring my sewing machine. For two years I went every Saturday morning pulling my sewing machine on a cart, bumping it up and down the stairs of the subway.
This artist book tells the story of how Louise and I spent our Saturdays together. It seemed at the time that we had nothing in common but we slowly connected. Now I look back and see an independent woman, an immigrant, and an artist with a voracious appetite for making. She was also a mother who raised her kids and did not gain recognition until her 60’s. This is a tribute to women artists, to those who assist them, and to eccentric makers everywhere."
"In the mid 1990’s a friend called me at my apartment in Brooklyn. She said that a sculptor needed someone to sew for her on the weekends. I took down the lady’s number and called her. Her name was Louise Bourgeois and she had a French accent. She asked me to come on Saturday and to bring my sewing machine. For two years I went every Saturday morning pulling my sewing machine on a cart, bumping it up and down the stairs of the subway.
This artist book tells the story of how Louise and I spent our Saturdays together. It seemed at the time that we had nothing in common but we slowly connected. Now I look back and see an independent woman, an immigrant, and an artist with a voracious appetite for making. She was also a mother who raised her kids and did not gain recognition until her 60’s. This is a tribute to women artists, to those who assist them, and to eccentric makers everywhere."
"In the mid 1990’s a friend called me at my apartment in Brooklyn. She said that a sculptor needed someone to sew for her on the weekends. I took down the lady’s number and called her. Her name was Louise Bourgeois and she had a French accent. She asked me to come on Saturday and to bring my sewing machine. For two years I went every Saturday morning pulling my sewing machine on a cart, bumping it up and down the stairs of the subway.
This artist book tells the story of how Louise and I spent our Saturdays together. It seemed at the time that we had nothing in common but we slowly connected. Now I look back and see an independent woman, an immigrant, and an artist with a voracious appetite for making. She was also a mother who raised her kids and did not gain recognition until her 60’s. This is a tribute to women artists, to those who assist them, and to eccentric makers everywhere."