She is quilted. We wrestled under the needle for most of an afternoon, while I listened to Gabriel's Oboe to restore me. Part of the struggle was that I wanted to use golden thread, which is finicky in the best of times. First, I naively put the spool on top, which resulted in four broken threads before the first square was covered. I wound a bobbin with the gold and put black in the top, turning the quilt over, which almost worked. Then I fiddled with the top tension, and bobbin tension, until I was tense as well. Gradually, the balance between the two threads looked more like a partnership than a sumo match. 

 

Quilting is almost the last step. Next comes the binding, but I will give myself a reprieve, eating fresh peaches, and enjoying the sight of her tossed across the couch. 

 

I am not an artist. Klimt was the master, creating this exquisite painting, that someone kindly printed on fabric, so that I can play with it. It is enough for me to combine fabrics in patterns that give them the chance to sing. Quilting is my jam, and keeps me occupied. No need to also be a designer. 

 

The painting is about love. I have given love, and received it, but never considered myself the one who births it. 

 

I paid a price for the chance to shop and sew these fabrics. A fair bit, it turns out. Sadly, none of that reward went to Klimt himself. But maybe his joy comes from a different kind of currency now.