art as life

Why My Art Isn’t My Hobby

| ellenanneeddy

This has been a week of downtime. Don and I have both had the flu, and we took off studio time. I’ve progressed on 3 octopus quilts, taking them from the pin-up into sewn-down reality. But those two states don’t look very different. So I don’t have much show and tell this week.

Years ago, a mentor of mine told me that when you are young, you pick up everything like you’re in a candy shop. What defines us in the end is not what we take up, but what we put down.

Don wearing my crocheted wing. Don is a good sport.

I have a rotating hobby selection. I tat. I crochet. I play ukulele. I garden. I tweak recipes. I’m rarely on one thing or another for very long. I do cycle back to hobbies when I need something fresh.

crocheted Cthulu head mask

All of these things are artistic. They’re fun. They fill up time. None of them is art.

I believe in art. I believe everyone is an artist. I believe it to be inherent to being human. Art is how we make sense out of our experiences. It reaches way past media. We work it out in music, in painting, in sculpture, in fiber, or in writing. We retell our stories. Within the retelling, we craft our world into something we can live with. We recraft ourselves. If one path closes, another opens to carry this on. I balance between writing and my art. In purpose, they are essentially the same.

Hobbies are about filling time. We entertain ourselves, we learn, we grow. They are a pleasure if we’ve chosen well. Distraction at worst. I am never all that good at my hobbies. I never engage enough to become good at them. But they bring me joy, entertain me, and get me through bad spots. I think everyone should have a bevy of hobbies as a coping mechanism. I keep telling Don, yarn is cheaper than therapy. Hobbies may not be necessary. But they do spread oil on the gears.

Art isn’t optional. It’s a day-to-day struggle to understand what’s going on.

I cant say I understand my art. I sometimes do in time. I know an image gets in my head and I have to work with it. Once I have, something in me settles. I’ve changed myself by engaging with the image.

But before that, I crammed in all kinds of art experiences. I did batik, clay sculpture. I sewed everything I wore except my shoes and my bras. I made stained glass. At some point, Mary Annis gave me a quilt she rescued from our trash can. I’ve quilted ever since.

That was it. What defined me after that was what I put down. Nothing mattered like quilting.

When did my quilting turn into my art? Like most things, it’s hard to see the source. I really don’t know.

At some point, I started taking my quilt to my therapy appointments.I think that probably defines it.

What do the octopuses mean? I think I’m talking about the ability to multitask, think in different ways, and move like smoke and ocum, all of which I desperately wish I could do.

Is it my work? Is it my vocation?

Everything eventually turns into work. There’s the day you have to bind something. The day 6 small quilts are due, and none of them finished. It may be fun. It may not. But you need to get it done.

Also, if you’re going to live off your art, it inevitably becomes work. There’s a lot of perspiration and much less inspiration. You are producing a product. Often, that’s smaller, less exciting pieces. They are worthy. They pay for bread and butter. It’s what you love, but it also has to get done.

Why should people buy art? Because it changes the buyer, too. It makes you laugh, or hope, or cry, or giggle. It opens your heart and your mind. It also supports artists, so they can continue to create the things that change them, change you, and change the world.

So the lines aren’t that strictly drawn. My hobbies are my entertainment. My art, I do for my soul. I love it all, but at some point, you just need to get things done. Work may be a four letter word. But it’s not the worst of them.

So don’t tell me I have a nice hobby. Welcome to my art.

Finished, Except that Nothing Really Ends

| ellenanneeddy

I have a very hard time when things finish. I’m an INFP for those who know Myers-Briggs. I’m happier with things left open, possibilities, choices, options. That moment when something is finished is joyous, but it’s also an end, a loss, as well as a win.

This could be an excuse for the large pile of unbacked and unbound quilts sitting by my machine.

.I have a friend I just heard is dying. One of those good and bad things about getting older is that we sometimes have thirty-year-old friendships. It’s like the world shuts a window that was a bright and different view.

I don’t know how to say goodbye to a friend from that long ago. He brought me wonderful art books helped me write and publish my first fiction writing, and took me to my first country dance. Wonderful gifts. I sent chocolate Haagen-Dazs, soup, and M&Ms. We bring whatever bits we have.

I hate watching things end. Even in art.

There’s an energy to art that might be its largest purpose. There is a connection between you and your art that wizzes around the room, even in the duller processes. I do believe art is alive. It has an energy of its own, and it communicates what should happen next. It is not your child. It’s a partner in co-creation. While you are making it, it’s remaking you.

There is a finish line, a moment where the last stitch is stitched. The energy stops swirling. There is an end. It’s wonderful, but something is lost.

But at that separation, something else happens. The connection between the art and the artist is cut like an umbilical cord. But art finds its own place. In someone else’s world or heart, it goes on to do other things for other folk. Art soothes people, riles them, teaches them, inspires them, but most of all, it changes them. If art is really good, it lives past you. Nothing really ends. It moves into the next space. Other challenges. Other purposes.

I’ve peppered this post with photos of the quilt I’m currently finishing. We’re stippling today. Almost done. It’s a good thing I have another quilt waiting in the wings.

A Series of Lessons

| ellenanneeddy

Over the last couple of months, I’ve been working on a series of fish in the waters. This is an important symbol for me. It explores surviving strange waters, rising out of the depths, swimming with the current, and swimming against the current. It’s about flowing water and changes. It really checks all my boxes. It also serves as a connection with my father, whose religion was bass fishing. Since going fishing made better people than going to church, I respect it deeply, even if I won’t eat fish. I live in water.

So I noodle at the fish-in-the-water image often. If you’ve been following the blog, you know I made one quilt I loved, and I wanted to see whether I could recreate the energy. Not the fish or the river, but the energy of the piece.

Epic fail. I made a very nice other piece with similar hand dye, a fish I drew 5 times before I was pleased, and similar oil paint stick rubbing for the forest in the background. I hated the first fish I embroidered. I stitched a more active catfish, that was better.

Then I took a break and went to find the studio floor. Again. Everything flutters to the floor except the things that go clunk.

There it was, the best background for the embroidered fish I rejected. The fabric made a vortex, so I did too, out of stitching a swirl of sheers.

I didn’t learn anything technical from the exercise. But I did confirm what I already knew. It does me no good to recreate something. Another piece will need different components and approaches. I didn’t need to be making arbitrary rules for myself. I needed to listen to each piece to give it what it needs. If I thought I was in control, that was delusional.

Maybe this is a right-brain, left-brain thing. I’ve been struggling to organize both in the house and the studio. That’s a very left side of the brain thing to do. It’s foreign thinking, but it’s less grim than Swedish Death Cleaning. You know what? No one ever did teach me this. Certainly not my mother.But that shouldn’t stop me. If you don’t know how, you can learn.

So cleaning does turn into art. Eventually.

As Don says, “I’m a man. I can change. If I have to. I guess.”

I can too. If I have to, I guess.

Of course, I hung the quilt up and noticed that the wonderful spiral stitching in the center is unnoticeable 3 feet away. Small flowers and thick thread to the rescue. Of course, the pond has floating flowers.

The change isn’t a technique or a new technology, really. The change is learning to listen better.

Clean Up in the Fish Isle

| ellenanneeddy

The octopuses’ garden series is working up. I finished up with the MAP kids, got enough rest to face the studio, and discovered that we had to find it to face it. Prep for a class leaves endless clutter and many nice neat piles sprawled everywhere.

It will be a while before we find the table. Then we can search for the floor.

But in that process I’ve started the next step for the octopuses.

Why do I need all those fish? The octopuses are all well and good, but they’re not going to be dynamic without something building a path. So we are making fish. The fish are what will make the octopus quilts move.

I mean a lot of fish. Ive got somewhat close to 50 fish drawn for four quilts. Will I use them all? Maybe.

This is about fabric scarcity. A year ago, we could get almost any fabric. This December, I had to beg a dye house for my order of pdf cotton. They had 50 yards in-house that they were portioning out to their clients.

I hate that. I hate depression economics and carefully crafted source shutdowns. I hate the idea of saving rubber bands and string. We’re there. All of a sudden, hand-dye is precious, and I need to be careful to use up the little bits.

Today I went through felt, hand-dye, and stabilizer scraps. It was a good thing I was cleaning up and sorting. There are some scraps I keep good account of. Anything brown, gray or stony ends up as rocks in another quilt.

But here I was scrounging for backgrounds for fish. Normally, I dye fabric especially for the larger embroideries. This last year, normal has fled out the windows.

I’m not going to talk about why. It’s incomprehensible anyway. Why was Joann’s so reckless as to go defunct? I suspect greed and stupidity dancing arm in arm off to court. Joanns is gone. Our place to run out for everything sewing is gone.

Walmart used to have a decent fabric section. Now it has an isle of highly unappealing cuts made from mostly poly blends. I’m deeply underwhelmed. I suppose you could use it for Halloween costumes.

Thank God there are quilt shops. But so much is catch as catch can on the internet. Do you need needles? Sheers? Felt? Not always at the quilt shop.

So all of a sudden, all of my hand-dye is limited. And precious. And I’m digging scraps out of piles to embroider on.

If I sound like I’m whining, I am. I hate scrapping for fabric. I’ve spent the day digging through fabric scraps, trying to make it work out. I’m not open to discussion about this. This is just how I feel.

The real question is, do I really want to do my art? No matter what?

I don’t understand making an arranged shortage of anything. I don’t get it. It’s stupid with a funny hat on it.

But I’m dammed if I won’t do what I can with what I have.

So, how do we find the fabric that is out there? I’m not sure.

This is a brave new world I don’t like very much. Women don’t count. Art doesn’t count. Sewing doesn’t count to the point where it’s not even treated as an industry anymore. Everything plastic glitters golden.

When the quilt world started, men really didn’t notice. It was something women did for each other. Men considered it pin money. Quilt shops flourished from the early 70s to the 80s before men inserted themselves into the industry in a “professional” way. Things changed. Fabric was a big business. They waded in and took over. Now they drop it like a stone.

So if it’s not an industry anymore, what do we do now? We need to figure it out. And since the male fabric industry has no interest in our needs, we need to figure it out together. We’ve always known how to find fabric for each other.

We need to support any fabric store we can. If we need them to be here for us, we have to be here for them now.

We need to find new ways to find fabric.

And I’m finding scraps to embroider fish on, because it’s what my pieces need.

Brilliant Busy Hands: The Peoria Art Guild MAP Program

| ellenanneeddy

Yesterday I had the pleasure of working with the MAP kids at the Peoria Art Guild. We worked on layered collages in fabric with everything from wild prints, hand dye, shees and an old slip someone had donated. The slip made a great fabric for bones.

We had bones and roses, space opera, a lazy jellyfish, a pond with a butterfly and koi, ducks in a pond and a frame for a tiger head that needed more research. The kids were magnificent. They dug in and created wonder.

Don did the photos for these. When I looked at them this morning, I was struck with their hands. Their hands were as individual as the works they were creating. Next week, we’ll stitch and embellish. I’ll get more formal photos. But the energy there in their hands was magical. And I love the creative energy of piles of fabrics waiting to be put into place.

As artists, we create through our hands. Our hands are our first tools, trained from birth to trace, to touch, to mold our world into beauty, order, pleasure, and good sense. It knows no age. We are born with that as we are born with hands. But hands or no, art is our birthright. If we are human, art is part of the genome. It’s what we’re born to do, Art is how we tell our stories, and how we mold our lives.

The MAP program is a free mentoring project for 17-year-olds that exposes them to all kinds of art. I’m privileged to have done this for 3 seasons. I am amazed. I am awed.

The Peoria Art Guild is by the river, free, open, and fun. You need to go there! It’s at 203 Harrison St. Peoria, IL, 61602

Thanksgiving: A Pause

| ellenanneeddy

Between the cooking of birds and a small blizzard, we’ve had a pause in the world.. Don spent yesterday napping, I believe. I don’t know because I binged watched most of the extended Hobbit with Tolkein, my cat, and started a new sweater. Not what we normally do.

This was not a year for travel. Time and space have not cooperated. But it doesn’t mean that I felt people were distant. How did I manage to make friendships that have lasted 30 years, 40 years? How did that happen?

When we all could travel easier, many of us made friendsgiving, the day after thanksgiving. Now our bodies just aren’t cooperating. But strangely I felt everyone there. Don and I are only kids. We’re both, thankfully considering our parents, orphens. But we have family, rich and strong and very much loved. Thank you all.

Speaking of parents, my father fished as a religion. It was where he found peace, rest, calm and joy. I’ve never wanted to catch a fish in my life, but he took me in his small row boat, and immersed me in that world. Part of me has never left. When I stitch fish, I’m revisiting it. I offer it to you.

I spent the week batching luna moths for my cranes. I’m not sure whether they sit on the coast or not, but they’d be in the adjascent swamp land.

I love batch embroidery. It’s coloring in the zone. I use it for most of the small to medium elements in my quilts. So much can be done with small fish, flowers, frogs, birds, lizards, and anything else you can think of. I always make too many. It’s sort of like too much bacon. How could that happen? And of course, I can always think of a use for another fish or strip of bacon. Many pieces need a left over elements, just to round it out.

Batching elements helps me build a body of things to incorporate into a quilt to make it more love, to make it move, to make it flow.

It may be too much. This is the first pin up. They always shift by the time I get the water in and make adjustments. I think it needs rocks to ground it.

But who wouldn’t follow a path of lunar moths?

Is This Off Color? Other People’s Perceptions

| ellenanneeddy

I spent last week working on three cranes. I was fairly pleased with myself, when someone asked, “Are these cranes having sex?

I hadn’t seen it. I still kind of don’t. I looked up a picture of cranes in love, and it didn’t quite look that quiet. But I have my head in my hands trying to figure out what I do next.

I was inspired by a Japanese textile design in a Dover Pictorial Archive book. I’m pretty sure they didn’t see it as cranes in love. It was my own rendering of it, changed in the way we change everything we draw ourselves.

Usually I let people tell me anything about my art. If it comes from them, it’s theirs. I don’t mess with that. I meant what I meant. I’m not responsible for their response.

But this hits me in a place that makes me feel very vulnerable. Sex is about bodies and bodies are about vulnerability. Art is about visual vulnerability. I’m not really secure about body image. I work in animal imagery since I can’t bear to work in human flesh. I have a delicate detent with my body, somewhat riddled by the failures of old age and memories of high school.

It’s a response to really old tapes. I wasn’t just fat. I was born deformed. Admittedly, it was a small genetic oops. But my mother could build a tragedy out a broken nail.

IF you are harmed enough, people can frame you as being inhuman. If you are harmed deeply enough, you may even think that’s true. If other people think it’s true, they can do anything to you because you aren’t a human being. That was my whole childhood. It seems to be going around globally right now.

I’m not taking this anywhere except in my own life. And I don’t want anyone to explain situations where it is somehow ok. Or tell me to get over it. I don’t believe we get to dehumanize people.

The bottom line is that I’m terrified of naked vulnerability. My animals are me in some way. I’ve come to see my self through Don’s eyes and his vision is kinder than my memories. I usually let that stand. I’m not sure I can be a crane in love on a quilt.

I took the time to reoutline the birds. It usually makes things clearer. Maybe this time that’s not such a good idea.

So what do I do with a quilt with cranes possibly delecto inflagrante? Do I finish it? Put a bunch of cat tails around them? Do I stuff it in a drawer until I feel more brave? I tend to not just throw work out, even if I don’t like it. I could put a lower price on it, and it either sells or it doesn’t. That assumes I can bear to finish it. There’s a dark corner in the closet, perfect for storage.

So what do you think? Would you finish it? Show it? Put a fig leaf on it? What?

There’s No Antidepressant Like Color. Except for a New Machine

| ellenanneeddy

For those of you who have been following along, you know we had a machine crisis for most of last year. It turns out that what I’m doing is really hard on machines. I’m finding my modern machines are just not up to the challenge.

Enter Ebay and Don!

Don found me a newly restored 930 Bernina, It’s a love. It’s still not a strong enough machine for the denser embroideries, but that’s ok. We have a servo motor for the old industrial Singer 20u. Don says he will be ready to start the switch on the motors perhaps next week.

1169-25 In the Shell

So in celebration for the new baby, and because I finally had the right tool, I got In the Shell finally bound.

Do you remember the feeling when you got a new box of 64 crayons? That’s a large enough number that they had some with silly names like Mac and Cheese. Open up the box. Choose your color. Instant antidepressant!

This quilt had the same effect. It got me through machine withdrawal, over the last months.

Madiera has a line of polyester embroidery thread called Neon. It isn’t all neon color. There are restrained greys and browns. But there are some kick ass oranges, yellows, greens, pinks, and reds, You get the idea.

This quilt was a mood lifter. Partially because I love the idea of a baby octopus in a shell, and partially because the colors could knock socks off.

Between the machine and those colors, I’m feeling so much better now.

Never be afraid to use the brightest, boldest colors. They’re not only lovely. They’re good fiber for your diet. And they fight depression. Eat the rainbow!

Does it Have to be Yellow?

| ellenanneeddy

I started a new quilt this week. like most quilts, it started with an incredible piece of fabric.

It’s been a while since I’ve dyed, so I’m down to the most fabulous, I’m scared to use it wrong fabric, and the stuff I really don’t care about.

This piece took time to figure out because it’s only a half yard. Sometimes that’s plenty of space. Sometimes it’s not.

but it made such a good pond. All that yummy blue purple against yellow.

I wanted herons, and I found a sketch of herons I used for my information.

Unfortunately, when I looked up the specifics, it was a whistling heron.

In case that sounds unfamiliar to you, you’re not alone. A whistling heron is from eastern Asia.

Is it different especially from other herons? Not so much. Heron head, heron wings, heron feathers. But yellow. The body is yellow.

I think you can see my problem. A yellow heron is going to show up on this like a yetti in a snow storm.

OK. How real do I have to be? What do I want to accomplish with this piece? Am I copying life precisely? Am I playing with interesting shapes or colors? How tied am I to “The Real Thing.”

Henry James wrote a story called “The Real Thing.” It was about an artist who had a reduced gentleman and lady offer themselves as models to him. That had to be a pretty harsh come down in the world for them.

They said they were the real thing, but in truth, they were only that one real thing. He found the girl who could be a gypsy, madonna, dance, lady and probably was a lady of the night, a much better model because she could be anything with his imagination.

Modern art launched right around the beginnings of photography. There’s a reason for that. Up until then, the goal was to come closer and closer to real. Suddenly, you could have a completely real image at the click of a button. An artist can’t really compete with that. So different things have to happen.

So where do we go if we’re not more and more “real?” We start exploring, shape, light, color and texture. We start to think what if. We start to let the art define itself. We find it defines us in the process. That’s a whole lot more scary than real.

But worth it.

I decided these herons could just be herons. And little blue herons are the perfect color behind all that lovely lemon yellow.

So these birds can be blue and shine in their yellow, not so realistic but perhaps symbolic, world. That there are pools of water, even in strict drought. That we find them even under extreme conditions and can thrive past the hardships. That we are not completely defined by other people’s real.

You’ll find a free copy of Henry James story, The Real Thing, here if you want to read it. It’s an interesting thing for artists to think about. Why are we painting, sewing, drawing, and create? What do we build in doing that? What reality do we create? Because as artists, that’s our job.