Granny’s button box. I’m young.. I’m on the floor and so are all the buttons. I sort them into piles — blue, red, glass, large
mother-of-pearl shimmering, small, queer and ugly. I line them up, make stacks, compile patterns, figures, possibilities. My other
granny’s linen cupboard. I let my hand follow ruffled pillow case ribbons. It’s all sorted into neat, proper piles. White and more
white.

Cut-out dolls. I sketch clothes. Boxes with sweets. Patterns and colours. Play shop. Spruce needles and cones. Flowers and mum’s old jars. Aunt Svea’s rag-rugs. Pink next to white. Pale blue.

To start thinking of the next stripe before finishing the blue one. And
then the next one… The energy and the desire. Time is insufficient… one just has to eat. Caps and mittens for the children. Stripes alongside one another. Just one more stripe…. Stay up all night to decide for oneself. Decide where to have the stripes. Make the yarn last.
Rag-rugs, embroideries, pearls, drawings, knittings and pots. The possibilities just pour forth when I open the heart…
I got stuck in the ceramic clay. My workshop. I’m grownup. I model and I throw.