One of my earliest memories is drinking the last few sips of my grandmother’s cup of tea. She always left a few sips at the bottom of her cup and after it had cooled she let me drink it. Black tea, milk and sugar. Which is still how I like it today.
It made me ffeel so grown up to be drinking from the beautiful English teacup with the roses and the violets painted on the outside and listening to the adults in conversation as they sat around the table drinking tea. She always held the cup for me as I sipped the tea, because I”m sure she didn’t trust my young hands not to let it slip and fall.
Even still, I felt part of the grown up conversation although I didn’t understand any of it, and it also left a wonderful memory that has now resurfaced 50 years later.
I’m not sure if she’d really like the color of this fabric teacup, but sometimes that’s how the conversation goes. Sometimes it’s just dark and mysterious. I know she’d understand that.
The teacup was made from an injured print – a PhotoArt image I printed onto fabric and which didn’t quite turn out so well. I keep all these injured prints in a drawer and use them for creative projects such as this.
It’s looks a little like broken china and I like that.