Spindleworks is a visual place: every cranny bursts with projects, paint splatters, embroidery floss in colors Crayola hasn’t named. The people of Spindleworks are visual also–artists and mentors alike are observers, rememberers, noticers of subtleties that explode into works of art.
But Spindleworks is also a place of sound.
Wednesday morning begins with dance class at 9:30. “It’s Raining Men,” and there are stomping feet, clapping hands, a melange of laughters. There is also a quiet shriek, occasional meows, and the cry of the Eye of the Tiger. Coaxing calls bring cautious feet up to speed, different voices sing along with an unpredictable variety of lyrics. There is no self-consciousness during dance class, artists and mentors alike yelling in the Whatnot Gallery–it’s raining men, Hallelujah!
The Quiet Room is deceptively named. Whenever Kelly W. is in, the Quiet Room is more aptly called The Beatles Room. With her encyclopedic knowledge of Beatles lyrics and inter-band dramas, Kelly sings along, chuckling as she cuts out Beatles figures. Across the hall, in the writing room, Emilie offers her own commentary on the Beatles songs, along with definitions of new words. Even when the Quiet Room is empty of music and singing, computer keyboard clicks and scissor-sounds fill the space.
The weaving room has its own unique melody: the looms clash and groan softly, artists pull the beater bar forward with a satisfying thump. Lloyd laughs and Lorelai makes her own noises. Sewing machines whirr. In a stir of clicks and taps, fibers are woven into cloth and sewn into pieces invented just this day.
Spindleworks is a veritable sensory feast, full of mouthwatering visions and delectable sounds. Every room in the blue house on Lincoln Street holds something different, mixing into the one-of-a-kind place I have come to love.