Why I Work With Color

I have always been drawn to color.

Not in a loud or dramatic way, but in the quiet way some people are drawn toward certain landscapes or pieces of music. Even as a child, I remember standing in art stores completely fascinated by rows of colored pencils, watercolor pans, markers, and paints stretched across the shelves. I was never particularly organized, but something about seeing all those colors together completely fascinated me. The subtle shifts between shades. The way one blue could lean toward storm clouds while another felt like summer glass or deep water.

More than anything, I loved what happened when colors met each other.

A single color always felt interesting on its own, but blending them together felt endless. One shade could soften another. Unexpected combinations created entirely new moods. Tiny adjustments changed the feeling completely. Even then, color never felt flat to me. It felt layered. Alive somehow.

I think that fascination quietly followed me into fiber work.

Working with wool allows me to experience color in a way that feels almost physical. Dye settles differently across fibers. Shades soften when blended together into rolags or batts. Natural dyes shift unpredictably depending on the materials, the water, the weather, or even the mood of the day. Acid dyes create clarity and brightness in places where natural dyes sometimes whisper instead. I love both for different reasons.

Sometimes a colorway begins with a landscape. Sometimes it begins with memory. And sometimes it starts with nothing more than wanting to see how one color behaves beside another.

I think that is part of why I enjoy blending fiber so much. It reminds me of standing in those art store aisles as a child, completely overwhelmed by possibility. Every texture and shade feels capable of becoming part of something larger when placed beside the right companion.

Even now, there are moments when I pause in the middle of blending wool or arranging dyed skeins simply to admire the colors sitting together. Not because they are perfect, but because they feel alive in the same way those rows of paints and pencils once did.

I do not think I ever really outgrew that feeling.

I just traded colored pencils for wool.