eine Saite: a string
Ich bin eine Saite
über rauschende breite
Resonanzen gespannt.
I am a string
stretched over rumbling
broad resonances.
- R. M. Rilke
Tracy Hudson: fiber work, textile research, collected textiles and spindles, visual art, poetry
I've been studying, gathering, and creating various kinds of textiles since about 1990. A wandering life has taken me amidst several textile traditions, and I observe closely and try to learn. My own work combines traditional textile forms, improvisational experimentation, contemplation of humanity and our role on earth (reciprocity, seeking, listening, learning,) and a love of materials & the knowledge of hands.
This site is a continuous work in progress, with pages growing and expanding, active blogs in several categories, and an array of images being updated constantly. Read and explore slowly, and enjoy.
In addition to the designated blog, there is a page called 'threads' in the textiles section, with reflections on various textile-related themes and questions. The 'reflections' page in research is also a blog. Each of the categories of 'works' has a blog and a gallery of finished pieces. Poetry is a new and growing category featuring my own recent writings. Please respect copyright and cite or link me if you share my words and images.
The excerpt is from the Rilke poem On the Border of Night, shown below with my translation. I take it to mean that if we choose to create the right tone, our work may resonate throughout even the heavens.
Am Rande der Nacht
Meine Stube und diese Weite,
wach über nachtendem Land,—
ist Eines. Ich bin eine Saite,
über rauschende breite
Resonanzen gespannt.
Die Dinge sind Geigenleiber,
von murrendem Dunkel voll;
drin träumt das Weinen der Weiber,
drin rührt sich im Schlafe der Groll
ganzer Geschlechte . . .
Ich soll
silbern erzittern: dann wird
alles unter mir leben,
und was in den Dingen irrt,
wird nach dem Lichte streben,
das von meinem tanzenden Tone,
um welchen der Himmel wellt,
durch schmale, schmachtende Spalten
in die alten
Abgründe ohne
Ende fällt . . .
On the Border of Night
My room and this wideness
awake over darkening land
are one. I am a string,
stretched over rumbling
broad resonances.
Things are violin bodies,
full of murmuring darkness;
therein dreams the weeping of women
therein stirs in sleep the ire
of entire generations . . .
I must
silverly shiver; then will
all live under me,
and the errant in things
will strive toward the light
that from my dancing tone,
round which the heavens undulate,
through narrow, languishing fissures
in the ancient
abysses without
end falls. . .