anika mari

A few weeks ago I packed my huge suitcase full of some clothes and my computer equipment and headed to a house off of Fremont Street on the the east side of Portland. I had to be there at 8am, so I was at the bus stop a little after 7am. I was rewarded with an amazingly clear sunrise.

I arrived at the house right on time, ready to start my 12 day stint as the dog sitter of Oslo, a cute Boston Terrier who suffers from separation anxiety, and also happened to be recovering from knee surgery. Because of this combination of truths, I would be spending most of my time at the house with the dog, keeping him calm and not letting him jump on anything. I was allowed to leave for short periods of time to go to the grocery store and such, but only if absolutely necessary.

Most of my outside time was spent with Oslo on our 3, 10 minute daily walks. He lives in a charming neighborhood that was vibrant with the changing autumn leaves during my stay. On one walk I picked up a few particularly striking, colorful maple leaves that I found scattered on the ground.

I had this funny idea in my head: wouldn’t it be satisfying to sew these leaves together somehow?

I put that funny little idea aside for a day, but on one of my brief outings to a store, I happened to come across and purchase a mini-sewing kit. That evening I sat there with my thread and my needle and my tiny pair of scissors and my pile of maple leaves and didn’t really know what to do. Since the leaves were already becoming brittle, I figured they’d be completely dried out by the next day. In the interest of doing something, I completed the most literal interpretation of my idea and simply sewed them together.

I did four little bunches of maple leaves like the one above. You can see the rest here.

The next day on my walk, I collected some other leaves of various shapes, sizes and colors.

It was sunny in late October in Portland, so I sat on the back porch in the sun with Oslo next to me as I sewed a leaf.

sewn leaf, front

sewn leaf, back

I really liked the heart shape of the leaf and didn’t want to obscure it in any way, so I decided to embellish the form of the leaf with soft pink thread. I sewed up the central vein of the leaf and then around the edges.

On another walk, I collected a few delicate roundish leaves. They were small and felt rather fragile, so I wasn’t sure if they’d hold up on their own to being sewn. Instead, I sewed them onto onto other leaves.

appliqued leaves, front

appliqued leaves, back

The small leaf did pretty well on the previous example, but when i sewed one to a maple leaf, it tore, as you can see on the left side of the small leaf in the following image. I don’t mind though. To me it represents the nature of the leaf and is how it responded to a foreign process. It speaks to the fragility of the material. It also teaches me to be really really gentle when I sew leaves.

appliqued maple leaf

Some leaves were definitely easier to sew than others. I found some varieties to be brittle even when they were still fresh and felt supple in my hands; they would tear with even the slightest bit of tension. A larger leaf from the same plant as the small round leaves in the previous photos seemed like a good candidate for sewing. It was soft and flexible and fairly thick. Once I started sewing, I realized that it was a difficult leaf. I ripped right through the edge a couple of times, even when I thought I was being careful.

green leaf, red thread

Again, I don’t mind the imperfection. In fact here, I almost prefer it. It’s the imperfections that often make a piece unique. I love the process of making art, and ripping or breaking things is sometimes an important part of the process. It’s how I learn to perfect and adjust my technique.

Unfortunately I didn’t have a camera with me while I was with Oslo, so I didn’t get the chance to photograph the sewn leaves when they were first completed. As they dried, their shapes changed quite a bit as they shrank and curled. The red thread in the previous photo was completely taught when first sewn, and as the leaf shrank, the thread loosened and took on a new form of its own, encircling the the edge of the leaf, but not restricting it.

Surprisingly, all the leaves held onto their vibrant colors.

When I got back to my apartment, I decided to finally photograph the dried leaves. I improvised a mini photo studio, taking advantage of the diffused natural light of the overcast sky.

mini photo studio

When I first started taking the photographs, I focused my efforts on the fronts of the leaves. As I flipped them over to document the undersides, I realized that the backs were sometimes just as interesting, if not more so than the fronts.

back of leaves, gray green

back of leaves, red and yellow

I’ve sewn a few more leaves since taking these photos, and the process and style is evolving. I tried keeping leaves in bags in the fridge, but they tend to start to decompose after a few days, so I will continue to explore this method until the trees outside are bare.

There are a bunch more photos of all the leaves I sewed while I was hanging out with Olso here.