A while back I decided to see if I could recreate the energy from a piece I was particularly pleased with. If you’ve been following the blog, I’ve documented it as I’ve worked.
I wouldn’t call it a success. I went through three separate fish, not happy with any of them. I embroidered the best of them and still felt bland.
So I passed on the bass and did a catfish, which I’m not displeased with. The bass went back into the pile.
I can plan all I want. There’s a serendipity to art that is inescapable. While I was scraping out the studio, I found a piece of fabric I’d totally forgotten about.
All of a sudden, my wallflower fish had gone dramatic. I built him a whirlpool/vortex.
My fish fooled me again. I spent some time embroidering some nice metallic minnows that shyly blended right into the background.
They are pretty, but they have no punch.
So I’m trying these brighter gold minnows. I’m still not sure. They’re embroidered from poly, and they might stand out too much. I may need to do some from metallic gold.
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.
Late last year I did a fish quilt that I thought was really successful. As an experiment, I took some of the same elements to see if I could make something that matched it in energy and beauty. Not copying. Just trying for the same feel. It failed. It laughed in my face.
This is not a new thing. I have piles like an archaeologist’s dig of pieces that didn’t work, tucked into the corner or another. And I raid those piles regularly, looking for the next thing.
Here is my failed experiment. I found it tucked in one of those piles. Could it work a different way?
first fish for fish rising
I blame the fish. He’s a nice fish. A little clueless. But not compelling.
New catfish
So we/re trying again. Same background. New fish. Something with more drama going on.
At that point, I abandoned the idea of using the same components. This quilt needs its its own water and world. I put in sun motes across the surface. I decided against small embroidered fish because I already had some wonderful ones rubbed into the fabric in gold.
Fish Rising, with a different fish
Once I added the new fish, I felt more assured. Full disclosure, I cut off the white tail ends since they made it look like Pac-Man. Much improved.
We’re not done yet. Lots of layers of stitching and sheers left to go. But it doesn’t feel like a loser anymore. My experiment was very useful. You really can’t step into the same piece of art twice.
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
One of the things I miss from my childhood was the women’s sewing circles. It was old-fashioned even when I was a girl.It died out as women took jobs outside their homes. We have a version of it at yarn shops and at quilt guilds, where we get together and show each other how we work.
But my neighbor, Mary Annis, did it with her children. It wasn’t formal. She gathered her 3 girls together and included me when they sewed doll cloths, crocheted, knitted, or made art projects. Later on, when I learned to sew, it was at her feet. She was my first mentor.
I met Mary when I was eight. She saved a quilt out of the trash for me, taught me to be late, messy and not to answer the phone, explored knitting, crochet, quilting, quilling and tatting, and gave me room to breathe. I can’t imagine who I would have been without her.
Even in the days of YouTube, we still need to learn from people. We don’t just learn a skill. We also learned about how and why. It was an introduction to being a creative adult, a crafter, and a maker. It was, for me, life-changing.
Art has its own form of mentorship. We teach art in colleges. We have art classes. We can learn all the techniques and tools. What the classes don’t teach with the hows is why.
Studio hygiene. is about making creative space inside and outside your head. The outside is about work, protecting your body, and making work physically easier. The inside is about making a space where creative work is possible. That is part of the how. That space shuts down judgment, rude comments, negativity, and fear. It opens the doors to new worlds, knowing that perfection is neither possible nor necessary, nor even helpful. All we need is a safe place to try things.
Which leads me to another mentor from my past. As a brand new teacher, I taught art and music at a Catholic school. It was a flawed place. The books were ancient, the equipment was nonexistent. The headset was mid-70s Catholic repressive.
Except in one room. Midge Gamble was in her sixties. She taught 3rd grade at this very 3rd-rate school. She had precisely the same books and equipment. She refused to let in was the 3rd-rate attitude. Where the other classes were angry, hostile, her classroom atmosphere didn’t allow that kind of repression or the anger that fuels it. She helped me understand that the teacher makes the classroom
We learn from models. We learn from what we see. At some point, we show others.
Next week, I have the privilege of teaching in the MAP Program at the Peoria Art Guild. They’re a group of high school kids full of potential, passion, and ability. The program gives them experiences with all kinds of artists. It’s a great experience for these very talented kids.
So I come back to Mary. They had a memorial for her at the home where she lived. One of the ladies turned to me and said, “She tried to teach me to knit.” I said, “She tried to teach me, too.” Whether we could learn or not, Mary had shared it with open hands.
Learn one, do one, teach one. It’s how we build community and civilization. I hope you had wonderful mentors. And I hope you get to share with others who are passionate to learn.
Check here for more information about the Peoria Art Guild’s MAP program. It’s a free program they offer every year to serious high school artists. And a wonderful community.
IF you’d like to read more about Mary, her daughter Betsy did a wonderful blog of this amazing woman’s life. You’ll find it at Marygram.blogspot.com
I’ve been noodling around the idea of a series planned as a surround. I’ve done many series over the years, but this is different.
I suppose you could plan a series. But I’ve never seen it happen. You do one quilt with a subject that is either so fun or compulsive that you do another five more. That’s an organic process that I enjoy. But it doesn’t lend itself to consistency.
Spoonbill Series
These birds just happened. I love the shape of them, the bills and that crazy pink coloration. So I’ve made a number of roseated spoonbills.
We’re talking something different here. A surround has to be planned so that each piece flows into the other one. I can do that somewhat with the drawings. They need to flow across the different quilts into eachother. I can do that somewhat with background images. Rocks and seashells can make a pathway. I can also do that with small fish. I’m thinking of clownfish and something small and gold in color. That is the plan.
The coloration should be easy. The hand-dye needs to be all of the same intensity, and we’ll keep the octopuses bright. They should fitin with each other well.
The first octopus is embroidered and ready to place in background elements.
The second octopus is almost embroidered. I need to outline the suckers.
He’s already had a large change. Originally, I had one sucker tentacle closer to the head. It worked in the drawing but not in execution. So I cut it out, and moved it. I think it works better.
shell rubbings from another project
The next steps will be tricky. I plan to rub seashells into the fabric on the bottoms of all of these. They’ll need to fit into eachother. I’m not sure if I can display them all on one photo wall. But they need to dance across four pieces altogether. The last time I did something this large, I hung it off the back porch of my apartment building and walked down the alley to where I could see it as a whole. That was three homes ago. We’ll need to figure it out.
I’ll keep you posted as I work on this. I think it’s going to be a wild ride.
I’ve just spent two weeks making zil muflers and rubbed fabric panels for belly dancing belts. Why, you might ask. There’s only one reason. For love!
No. Don has not taken up belly dancing. And if he asks me for zill mufflers, I’ll tell him to scroung around the corners to see what he can find. No. This is for my goddaughter, Sarah.
Balcony Scene: Tom and Sarah
My godson Tom brought home Sarah his first year in college. I stood at the top of the studio steps and looked down. It was me, thirty years ago with blond hair. She looked both of us over and asked if this what Episcopal godmothers were like. No. This is just what happened. Tom is my heart. When she asked if she could be a godchild, I told her if she asked, she already was one. Funny, arty, up for adventures, huge heart, mind like a steel trap. I adore Sarah.
For some while, Sarah has been into belly dancing, and she runs a belly dancing convention called Migrations, in Austin, TX.
It appears to be a hoot. It appears to be a young person’s quilt convention without sewing machines.
What business do I have with belly dancing? There’s more connection than you think. Fabric. Check. Shiny, Check, Outrageous. Check. I may fit in better than anyone thinks. Besides, if Sarah asks me, I’m in.
Along with helping run this, she’s been given a booth in the convention mall. She asked me personally for some embroidery work for costumes and has offered to sell some rubbed panels
I’m embroidering several of them, just for her. We’ll see how they fit in.
So, as quilters, what do you think about this kind of thing? They’re a product of the rubbing plates I’ve just learned to make. I’m excited about them, but I’m not sure how they might fit in. It may be that we need long, skinny quilts.
Quiling has a wide skill base that includes many processes, many techniques and unheard of uses. Surface design is always one of them. And, for me, a siren song.
I didn’t have any shows this year. Which is ok. Every artist has ideas they aren’t quite sure how to approach. Instead, I spent a lot of time trying out ideas I wanted t do my quilts. That takes time and effort. It messes with production significantly. So I’m glad to have spent my studio time this last year in this way.
I learned how to make waterfalls.
There and Bacl Agaom
I learned how to make a reflection of my subject in water.
In the shell
I worked on seashells and tenacles.
B;lue Herons
I experimented with extreme borders.
I learned to make my own rubbing plates from stencils.
Three Cranes
I learned to incorporate those plates into my work.
I worked in desert landscapes.
I finally worked out the cat head fountain.
It’s been a good year for learning. If you’ve followed my blog, you know, because each week I show you what I’m working out, working on, and working through.
Here’s to 2025:
Major quilts
Small work
Unfinished work
I couldn’t do this without your support. Not necessarily monetarily, but spiritually, personally, and energetically. No art is in a vacuum. I suspect that I would do art if it were just me arranging deck chairs on the Titanic, but your company on this journey has made it much more worthwhile.
Last week I showed you my experiment recreating the elements of a piece I thought was particularly effective. At that point, it was speculative. You can read that at Again? Really. Yes. Really I’ve spent a week on it and here are my results.
I divided the parts into elements. Here are the elements I was working with.
The focal image
Hand dyed background
Oil paint stitck layer
Sheers layer’
Small elements
Background stipple.
What do these elements do?
The Focal Image is the answer to who. Ir creates the subject and focus of the piece.
The dyed background is the answer to where and when. It creates the light in the piece. It also defines the environment.
An oil paint rubbed layer is the texture of a piece. I don’t use it everywhere, but it gives a somewhat translucent surface without sharp edges. You can see the background, but it has shifted in color and appearance.
Sheers make another translucent shift across the surface. It transforms the background color and creates movement. Sheers have defined edges, but don’t have a visible thread edge.
Small elements can be used to establish a visual path. Flowers, rocks, leaves, bugs, birds and frogs can all point a direction through the piece.
Stippling changes the coloration of the surface. It creates dimension and defines light and dark.
I think I’ve failed on this piece. It’s not bad. It just isn’t as good. Why?
I’m reasonably sure of my background and my oil paint rubbing layer. The sheers can be dinked with.
I didn’t get to the small elements because I’m just not content with my drawing. These fish will add movement, but I don’t think they’ll help enough.
Oooops. Sometimes I don’t know until I get the piece embroidered. I drew other fish for this. This was the best of them, but it’s just not dramatic enough. I need a drama queen fish.
Here are the two drawings I rejected. I’ll save them for another piece another day.
I could push through. All the elements are there. But the experiment failed. I took similar elements, and they did not create the same energy.
I could blame it on the weaker drawing. That would be fair. But I suspect that the energy of the piece itself is different, and probably can’t be reproduced.
Will I throw it out? Heaven’s no! I can always use an extra fish. This one just doesn’t belong here.
So, as a rest, I’m back to octopuses. The fish piece is on the wall, aging like fine wine. It will find its time.
Fallow time seems to be an important part of the process as well. Repeating the same elements doesn’t always create the same energy. The parts just aren’t the sum of the whole.
