Pattern

Okay, I’ll just admit it: I love Pinterest. I was an early convert, and I love the whole concept. Since I was very young I’ve loved doing what my mum affectionately (?) called ‘cutting and sticking’. This involved cutting out beautiful things from magazines, newspapers, labels and packaging, arranging them and then using a Pritt stick to collect it all together in a pretty notebook, or just on blank card to stick on the wall.

For anyone unfamiliar with the concept, Pinterest is like a great big scrapbook that you create by ‘pinning’ linked images onto online pin boards. It’s a wholly frivolous and delightful pastime, perfect for whiling away a few hours with a hot cup of tea.

As this blog has always been for collecting together things I love, I’ve decided Pinterest may have to creep in every so often – I’d like to inject more colour and creativity in amongst the musing and the baking. And today, it’s patterns that have been on my mind, swirling around in all of their glory. Here are some of my favourites.

~Méchant Studio Blog: Indigo Obsession

b9e01ddaacca3f222cd7e87644418dc5

By Micklyn, print available on society6

3c3633e7ba79c5442a68168d52743d3d

Pomegranate Pattern from Georgiana Paraschiv’s Flickr

132abe6085a0528fb668db8da9f91d43

If you’re a bird, I’m a bird by Johanna Burai

e345f5f097c4e18669f13f35efa81d09

Penguins? from this Flickr

7f377ea610bc57ac28d990eeabbaa383

The beautiful art deco patterning on this edition of the classic is the work of Coralie Bickford-Smith (Her website is captivating – what a talented lady!)

352116f1502920916a9ee73448c94561

Circles I by Rebecca Atwood

Listening to Breezeblocks by alt-J, Va Va Voom by Nicki Minaj, Woman (Oh Mama) by Joy Williams.

All content is © Rebecca Daley and ohtogoawandering, 2015, unless otherwise stated.

Weeding in the Dodecanese

The street is winding, and cobbled. Next to each of its doors there is an eccentrically decorated post box. Some of the boxes display huge initials, casually daubed onto the surfaces in thick white paint among flowers and swirls in chalky pastel. Others, the more disappointing, bear only a faded business card with greying letters, which spell out the names against yellowing white. Vespas lean against stone walls and dilapidated wooden gates, some covered in cobwebs and seemingly forgotten, others occasionally whizzing past at breakneck speed. Cartoons and adverts accompany delicate paper flowers and gold- rimmed iconography on walls, door frames, windowsills: Mickey Mouse and the Virgin Mary share wall space here, divided only by lines of faded masking tape.

A door opens, and an elderly lady potters onto the cobbles, walking stick in weather- beaten hand. Her face is as brown and crumpled as an endlessly re-used paper bag, but her eyes are black and beady beneath the gentle creases. Despite the heat, she is clad resolutely in thick brown stockings, and a heavy dress reaches almost to her stout black shoes. I am standing at the stone archway where this side street joins a slightly wider avenue, and she doesn’t look up at me, but instead begins a solemn procession down the passage, her head down, her back slightly stooped. Every so often, she pauses and jabs violently at something with her stick- a mound of dog dirt, a tin can, a poster screwed into a ball- before carrying on.

When she reaches the point where the passage winds away to the left, she turns back. I make a concerted effort to consult the map which had in any case brought me here accidentally, embarrassed that I have been staring at her progress so intently. She doesn’t seem to notice me, but moves a little further along the passage and looks down, at the tiny flowers which are sprouting where the cobbles meet the stone wall under her own window. She prods at the clusters of purple with her stick, surveying the situation. Tutting, she leans the stick against the sill and squats. The sudden, deft movement belies her doddering, and after a few moments of insistent tugging there is a scattering of uprooted shoots at her side. She picks them up, shaking the soil from the displaced spindles and letting it fall onto the uneven cobbles. As she stands, I hear the creak and groan of knees which have known too many inconsiderate weeds. Taking her walking stick from its resting place, she retreats once more behind the wooden slats of her front door: triumphant.

All content is © Rebecca Daley and ohtogoawandering, 2013.