So you may have noticed that we are beginning at an easy pace. This is with purpose. First, I want you to breathe, literally, to take a deep breathe and let go of stress/ expectations from work/ self judgement. Second, I want to give you time to gather the books and find a copy of the one issue of the Craft in America series. Thirdly, I want you to begin to allow time to dream in/with crafts.
This weeks assignment is to tell me a story about a piece of craft in your life. Make it come alive. Share how it was made, what it feels like, smells like, how you use it, what you know about its history, what stories you have heard. Then add a little bit of research....not much...not to take away the beauty of what you are sharing but to help those of us who have not had the opportunity to have the same work of the hands. If there is no craft you can think of then make up one....a good story is a good story!
Growing up, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother's home. I say my grandmother's because my grandfather died when I was eleven. I have very few memories of my mother's father. He was an old gray man who was either working or sitting in his recliner, often in an under shirt. Grandfather seemed to always mumble, even when he got upset and raised his voice. I can't remember him actually saying anything at all. Grandmother though said many things to me. She was constantly making sure that I was okay, asking if I was hungry or if I wanted some ice tea. Her tea was the best I’ve ever had, but that goes for just about everything she made. I used Grandma's house as a base camp. I would head out in the mornings to school, a friends, or the river and only check in when I needed sustenance or sleep. Grandma was always there to take care of me. The fact that I barely knew her is just that, a bitter fact.
ReplyDeleteWhen I became a young man, I left home and went to school. I left my family and my grandmother. I guess I gave none of them much thought, though I wished them the best and kept in contact. After a few months, circumstances changed and I came home to stay with my parents again. My grandmother was eighty then, and she came to live with us too. Her health was failing and she was experiencing the onset of Alzheimer’s. I was glad that my mother had brought grandma to live with us and not sent her to a nursing home. I don't know if it is because she couldn't afford a home or if she just wanted her mother to be with her. It could be a bit of both I suppose, but I believe that my mother wanted to care for her mother.
During her time at her house, my grandmother made quilts for me and my brother. There were times when I was a very young boy when my grandmother's living room became a quilting studio, a sea of fabric. She would use the couch and chairs with these mysterious clamps and stretch the fabric and padding for construction. Below was a cave, or tent and I was a wild Indian safely under my skins. I barely understood what my grandmother was doing. She never seemed to work on the quilts when I was there and I never saw the 'other ladies' who were fabled to come help with the craft. Like back then, I never saw my grandmother making the new quilts. My brother got a Dallas Cowboy design and my was a western horse design. These were not anything like the complicated geometric patterned quilts that I saw as a child. These designs were simple and clean. They nearly looked like commercial goods. I don't remember being asked what kind of quilt I wanted, and I guess that's because it was a present. The fact that it was a western design means a lot to me. After my grandfather died, grandmother spent hours of her lonely life watching old westerns like Gun Smoke, Bonanza and The Rifleman. I would also watch some of the shows with her. I guess they are some of my fondest non-food related memories of my grandmother. Its kinda funny, because if you would have asked me or anybody who knew me as a young man, a western design would probably have been the last thing that I would of preferred; however, even back then, I cherished the gift.
I like to think that during the hours of stitching, my grandmother thought about our time together and was comforted. I hope that she knew how much her love meant to me, even though I know I never really was able to truly tell her how important she was to me. Through the years, the quilt has kept me warm when I was alone, decorated my humble homes, and has wrapped around the fevered bodies of my children, whom grandmother never got to meet. The quilt, her creation, has brought me a lifetime of comfort.
David here. My grandmother, mother, and sisters all quilted. I made them quilting frames to assist them in their work. Quilting is an amazing craft, recycling scraps of fabric into beautiful and functional items. I learned how much labor went into the quilts. My mother at 90 still makes them, but she has relegated the actual quilting to machines because he arthritis makes that handwork painful. My sisters made quilts for quilting magazines, and pushed the envelope quite a bit. My older sister made a quilt out of my old denim pants that I had beaded and embroidered in my teens and 20's.
DeleteA beautiful story James. Until you try putting a quilt together they do seem to just appear after weeks of organized stacks of cloth suddenly there is a soft comforting shield.
DeleteI, too, have beautiful quilters in my family. On my father's side all the women quilted. I have quilts from my great-grandmother on down. I quilt some but wish I had more time. The quilts I have are sewn with fabrics of that era from clothing they no longer could use. There was no waste, all clothing was stripped of the zippers, buttons, collars and repurposed for other use. The fabric was then cut and quilted. Today, I like how people are quilting old t-shirts.
DeleteJames, great story, I see quilting is a fairly common practice. I wonder how older generations were introduced to quilting, as I too wrote about my grandmother's quilts. Debbie, I can relate to the repurposing of materials, my grandmother was born in 1925, and there is something about that generation (not sure if your family members are from that same generation) saving and reusing everything.
DeleteCorina, Yes she was. Born in 1920, She was a depression baby. she learned from her parents to save and repurpose. I feel this is lost on our current generations. I try to do my best.... my children see me save everything for the artroom for the purpose of making art. It isn't exactly the reason they saved back then but it does make them think before throwing away.
DeleteAs I stare into the patches of color carefully hand stitched together by my great-grandmother, grandmother, then later repaired by my mother, I can't help but get lost. The stark white threads holding the warmth and love together is now beginning to yellow. The once vivid reds, greens, and blues are now faded and serve as a testament of the intense level of craftsmanship their creators once held. Every small tear and rip in the patchwork shows the intense, rough, and childlike love I have for assemblage of fabric and color.
ReplyDeleteUltimately, it's not the artistic theory and methods that went into the work that makes it important or even beautiful. It's the simple act of creating for someone without the interest of money or approval that makes this object so important to me. It's a blanket, a pillow when folded, a mat to sleep on when I'm up late in studio, a hug when I'm up late working, a shoulder to cry on when I'm alone, a roof for the fort I make with nephews (sometimes it's the "carpet" in our fort too), it's a vessel of patience. It's patches of old worn fabric held together with thin yellowing thread. But, in my eyes it's a living breathing work of craft.
I'm not thankful it's the Swiss army knife of quilts, every time I fold the quilt to put it away I can't help but feel thankful it exists. Just existing is enough. Sometimes I need to be reminded this. I guess I can add existential crisis control to the list of functions.
David here. I treat artworks like your quilt. They are not about money or fame. They are about sharing the creative forces we all have inside of us with others. Until the Renaissance, art and craft were not separated. The Van Eyck brothers (Jan the painter, and Hubert, also a painter and a frame carver) were considered equals in their culture. Today Jan is credited as one of the greatest Northern Renaissance painters.
DeleteWhat if we treated everything we made and did as art? The world might be a much better place.
Andrew..this was beautiful...and as David mentioned a wonderful way to approach art/life and each other.
DeleteAndrew, reading your story reminds me of when I was a small boy. My mother used to make most of my clothing. They had a western flare, used bold stylized design and certainly looked homemade. I never really considered this a craft at all, but it certainly was. I remember the patterns, scissors, needles, thread and her electric sewing machine. I also remember that my older sister didn't like the clothes and how they made her stand out. I guess I probable took that attitude also, but not deep inside. Inside it actually felt special. At some point, maybe she got sick of it, or money got better, she stopped making our clothes. I still have several items stored away and when I look at them and touch them I think love. More than the design or quality of the clothes, it was the simple act of creating them that means so much to me and that it just exists is enough.
Deleteone of the wonders of handmade and heart felt
DeleteAndrew, great descriptions, that sure is a cherished quilt to the core.
DeleteAndrew, thanks for sharing your quilt story. Beautifully written and expressed.
DeleteI loved your story. I have always wanted a handmade quilt.
DeleteDavid Mesple’s Craft Story
ReplyDeleteI have been making "stuff" since I was 3. Eerything I make is categorized by others, not me. Art, craft, invention, gardens, clothing, instruments, it's all the same. So, it was difficult to find a piece of craft in my life to talk about, other than the stuff I make. I guess the best example of craft in my life is my home.
My home was built by hand (no power tools) starting in 1906 and completed in 1908. It was a 2-room schoolhouse in a rural area north of Denver. After WWII it became the Little Thompson Grange Hall and was used for 4-H meetings, square dances, and for farmers to be advised about best farming practices. Then in 1968 it became a Mormon Stake House (church) until the Mormon community eventually outgrew it, even after they added onto it with volunteer labor. By then it had a stage, "beautiful" burnt-orange outdoor carpet glued over the oak floors, and the wall that separated the 2 original classrooms was (foolishly) removed. No one knew what to do with the building because it wasn't a home. I bought it for next to nothing and made it so.
My home took a tremendous amount of craftsmanship to build at the beginning of the 20th century when hand-work was the norm. The foundation and basement were dug by hand and made from quarried local stone, putting the main floor approximately 4 feet above the ground. It was stick-built with 2x6 walls and 12' ceilings and originally had about 2000 square feet of floor space on the main level. The wood was old-growth Douglas Fir and you can still smell the pitch in it when you cut through it, which I did when I put in stairs to the basement that housed the coal furnace that heated the building. Lath and plaster walls with horse hair in the first coats were throughout the interior and clapboard siding was on the exterior.
Schools were a way to advertise contractors' skills to the community. Even though the building was very plain, it was a model of quality construction. All the floors are still perfectly flat. Every board was sawed by hand. Each stone was worked by a stone mason. For blackboards, real slate was quarried in large sheets and built into the walls. Heat was provided by a coal furnace in the basement and there was a coal storage room with 2 coal chutes next to the large area for the furnace. Water was provided from a hand-pump well and from a large underground cistern which collected rain water off the roof. Restrooms? Nope. But there was a rare 2-seater outhouse on the property when I acquired it.
The ingenuity of the craftspeople of the time is amazing. They did so many things that most of us today would have any idea how to do. I moved the original entrance stairs from the shaded north side of the house to the east where morning sun would melt ice and snow. Removing 11' long stone stairs was mind-boggling, and setting them in their new location was even more difficult. I hired a stone mason to cut the stairs down to 9 1/2 feet and he used the old-time method - stone chisels and a hammer. I was fascinated at the process, faster than a saw for cutting concrete. I learned how to do the same stone cutting that day, just as I had learned so many things as a boy by watching craftsmen build things. I successfully cut many dozens of stones to build the new entrance after learning the methods he used.
I marvel at what craftspeople could do then, unaided by power tools and heavy machinery. But I know I could do the same if I had to, just as many from that time could. The wall that was removed to make a 2-room schoolhouse into a one-room, 32'x50' meeting place had allowed the roof to sag 5". When I got into the attic, I was amazed that the whole roof hadn't collapsed. I put in huge wooden beams and steel posts, and jacked the roof back up and made everything secure again. 2 years later we had a 4' snow storm that collapsed hundreds of old houses and would have destroyed my home. Whew!
WOW...what an adventure. Any images of your home you would share with the class?
DeleteI truly admire people who can take a dwelling be it old, barely standing, or needing cosmetic update and turn into a beautiful place to live. Sounds like you have something special. Building and crafting the old way without power tools , to me, requires more creative brain power. Would love to see pictures!
DeleteDavid, that is amazing work! I swear I must have been a carpenter in a past life because I love old houses, when they were built to last. The first thing I thought of to write about was my great grandfather who was a carpenter. Only thing is that I have nothing to remember him by. His son, my grandfather, built a humble house in Hitchcock, Texas, and when ever I get a chance I pass by to see it. The last time I saw it....sadly it was nearly destroyed by a hurricane. The current owners were living in a trailer alongside it. So sad.
DeleteYour home sounds like a treasure, with such rich history and strong bones.
What a treasure and such an amazing history! I'm glad that this treasure of a home has someone who appreciates and cares for it like you have. Sound like a very happy connection of home and fine craftsmanship.
DeleteWow! I can even imagine the work that went into your home. Would you mind sharing a picture??
DeleteThis link will show pictures of our home. The larger building is the main house and the smaller one is a free standing garage with a studio upstairs. https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8612588180694125394#editor/target=post;postID=1277016951291773357
DeleteMy craft was handmade for me. It’s currently hanging up on my octopus. Unfortunately, my craft does not see much use. It was made to be used during the winter.
ReplyDeleteMy craft was made for by my friend. I was able to be a part of the process by selecting the color for my craft. My craft is as green as new growth in a garden. It reminds me of freshly picked granny smith apples. Because of the handmade nature I choose not to use my craft much. My craft keeps me warm on a cold day and reminds me of a warm spring day during the cold months of winter. The color also reminds me that the drab days of winter will be over and I will see the green life of spring burst forth soon.
My craft is a handmade scarf.
Thank you for sharing the story of your gift. That is the power of crafts made with love, we carry them with us wherever we go, for their use and for their story.
DeleteNigel, I really enjoyed your story. I think that it is interesting how special handmade crafts are. If I have a functional craft, I tend to use it cautiously. If the craft was made by someone I know, I treat it with great care and use it sparingly. When the craft is irreplaceable, from someone gone for example, I cherish it and it takes on a new venerable existence. Overall, using something made with thoughtful creativity and love, just seems to make me feel special.
DeleteGreat choice Nigel. Reminds me of the crocheted items I have here with me. My mom sent me with crocheted booties, a crocheted blanket, kitchen towels with crocheted tops, and so many crocheted hats and scarves I gave away a few to friends. We are surrounded by much more craft than we realize or take notice.
DeleteAbout a year ago, I was reading about Dale Chihuly because I wanted to do a Chihuly unit with my K-5 students. When I begin, I always try to immerse myself in the craft. This time, it was glass blowing. I happened to be traveling to Florida to visit family, and on our drive home, we stopped in St. Petersburg and visited the Morean Art Center. I was able to take a one hour, one on one glass blowing class. The heat in the "Hot Shop" was one I had never felt before. The sound of metal tools clanging against metal doors. The colors of the different types of glass frit. It was all overwhelming. I concentrated so hard on learning everything I could but at the same time was so distracted with taking everything in that I could.
ReplyDeleteThere was something about working with molten liquid by adding and subtracting and not knowing for sure how it would turn out that was exciting.
When I got back home, I found that we had a glass blowing school locally. While it wasn't the exact same as my one on one session, I have often gone to make a glass creation. Those same feelings of awe come flooding back over me every time.
Because of this, I have recently started experimenting/learning about glass fusing and slumping that I can do in my kiln. I can't wait to see where this goes!
TTU offers hot glass first summer session in case you did not know.
DeleteDo you have a favorite work by Chihuly?
One hour for glassblowing? what a tease. You should take the glassblowing class.
DeleteNo favorite, I enjoy seeing them all! Although I did see one that was made with UV lights and then black lights were used to display it!
DeleteCorina- yes, such a tease about glassblowing, but at the same time, it made me really appreciate the work that goes into each piece.
Written in a book filled with stories and outlines of people who all share the same blood and DNA is a story about a man. I never knew this man personally but he is real to me as if I have known him all my life. This man was a small town Methodist minister who owned and cultivated a large pecan orchard. The way he told stories about each tree you would think they were all his children. I guess in a way they were if you really think about it. Some tall, some short. Some thick, some thin. Some with a hearty bold personality and some sickly- almost meek. All to feed and nurture, all to provide a home, all to protect from outside calamities like wind and hail. All of them to pray over every night that they would produce good fruit. Yeah, much like children in my opinion. So as the man pruned the trees or when a tree died he would cut, collect, and save the wood in his barn. Not knowing exactly what to do with the logs, they sat and the collection grew. For many years they slept quietly in the barn. Waiting for him.
ReplyDeleteOne day they spoke up to the man as he stared at the long forgotten pile. This time he listened. He reached over and grabbed a short piece, looked it all over. He ran his fingers over the bark... thinking. Walking over to his work bench, he grabbed some tools and began to carve. The man whittled and carved the log into a hollow centered cylinder shape. After smoothing the wood with sandpaper the man had an idea. Grabbing more wood he carved the cylinder shape a lid. The tree was alive again, resurrected with new life and purpose. It was not long before the large pile of logs and branches became a barn full of small creations: bowls, vases, and containers. The man was generous offering his handiwork as gifts to family and church members. It was not long before the man created a little store on his pecan orchard and as people came to purchase the nutty fruit they often purchased a beautiful craft made from the hands of the tree’s guardian. The trees lived. Almost immortal like. Long after the orchard became a grave yard of dead trees, after their master died, the land was sold. It all became a memory… a story to tell. Even the fruit is long gone. But the trees still live. Many of which are living in my home.
North West of Abilene is the small town of Roby, Texas. There on the out skirts of town was the nursery of little trees that would one day grow up to have life outside the orchard. Their owner was my great, great uncle Emmitt Yeats. He was the nurturer and craftsman of the trees. Through my grandmother- his niece- I came to own the crafts –letting the trees live on through me.
Debbie, I love your story. It is such a blessing to be able to keep a relative's dreams alive for future generations. When reading your story I had a interesting thought. I suppose storytelling, oral and written, can be considered craft too. I guess that's not an amazing thought, but I really had not considered it in relation to this class...hmm...
DeleteWhat a wonderful story. I could almost hear him speaking to the trees.
ReplyDeleteThank you.
I brought many sentimental items with me for when I came up to Lubbock last semester, with my home being in the Rio Grande Valley with my husband and furry children. I specifically brought things that I felt I could draw strength from, and one of those things was a quilt my grandma Cuca (koo-ka) gave to me. Cuca is a nickname for Refugia. It is solid blue and white single abstract pattern with interwoven curvy lines and squares. My grandma Cuca is ninety-two and has the sharpest mind and memory of any elder I know. I regret that I never asked her when, where and how she learned to quilt. I have asked her so many other questions about her life, but not about quilting. She talked about how she quit school in the second grade because it was too tough for her, also probably because it was a racist system in the 40’s that was meant for people like her to fail, (Spanish speaking Mexican American). She told me about how it was common for poor families to send one of their children to live with relatives that could accommodate them, but that child was put to work for that family. That child was her. The family she lived with briefly was abusing her, when someone finally told my great grandmother what was happening, she went and brought her home. My grandma showed me the cuts she had on the palm of her hand and on her upper lip she got from one of her boyfriends wielding a blade at her. The shifts she and my grandfather worked at a local factory I’m sure broke all sorts of labor laws, from time they had to stand in line in the wee hours of the morning so they don’t get cut off from a day’s work to the late nights they would come home. My grandma Cuca doesn’t speak English, can understand quite a bit, but she never got a chance to learn to read and write. Schools back then did not accommodate Spanish-speaking children, they were punished for speaking Spanish, sat in the back of the room to be forgotten. My grandma never sold her quilts, she would make them especially for certain family members. She made me one for my fifteenth birthday. It is pink with side view of a colonial little girl. Growing up, I never really talked with my grandparents even though I was around them, because I was not raised to speak Spanish. My parent’s are from the generation with the belief that if you wanted to get ahead in life you had become more assimilated to American culture and you had to speak English. So my parents never spoke to my older sisters and I in Spanish. I didn’t speak fluent Spanish until I began teaching high school, because a large population of students where I taught only spoke Spanish, or my student’s parents only spoke Spanish. I learned a lot of Spanish then. So it has only been the last twelve years or so that I have been learning as much as I can and having long conversations with my grandma to make up for all the lost time. One day it occurred to me when she was trying to remember a recipe for carrot bread, one they would make when they would pick carrots as farm workers, that I was amazed how everything this strong brilliant woman all her life has ever cooked is from memory. From knowing what to buy to measurements. I was amazed, and I realized that that is the same way I cook too sometimes. Free. Refugia means refuge.
ReplyDeleteI loved your story. I would love to have a handmade quilt. My friend had a quilt made for him by his grandmother. That was the only thing that he slept with even in winter. I need to try and convince my mother to make me a quilt lol. She is great at handmade items :)
Deletethank you...a wonderful memory filled with the awful truths of the past, and at times/places, the present. Quilts and cooking...it all makes sense to me.
ReplyDeleteyou are so lucky to still have your grandma. Treasure every moment with her. Write it all down. Record her if you can. Her voice will be special to you later in life.
ReplyDeleteI recorded my grandmother'/ voice and just had it digitized. I can't wait to listen to her again after all of these long years!
DeleteI haven't had a chance yet to read everyone's story or respond, but hope to get caught up. My middle daughter is in hospital at present and my plate is full with some family responsibilities at the moment. So I appreciate my classmates being patient with me.
ReplyDeleteI have quite a few treasures craft pieces. But probably my favorite is something that keeps me warm and that I and my kids cuddle up with every winter. It isn't a quilt. My grandmother on my father's side was an expert at crochet. She made everyone in the family an Afghan. And when I was little I thought that they were saying "African". It was so confusing! But I finally figured it out. I have so many memories of Nannie in her chair and her hands flying with the needle and yarn as she chatted with family or watched television. He favorite was the Lawrence Welk show. And I cannot tell you how many of those episodes I watched at her home growing up. An untold number, for sure.
If there was a new baby on the way, she would crochet a baby afghan. She did different designs also. Sometimes a flame stitch, or with squares put together, sometimes even with flowers or roses.
One of my favorite memories was picking out the yard for my very own afghan. A flamestitch with salmon and orange colors
That we picked out together. I had great ambitions to follow in her footsteps and learn this craft. And I started out doing ok. She was so patient with me and a great teacher. But I was very very slow and it took me so long to get just a few rows done. I think that maybe I completed 8 inches of rows and then got discouraged. I really wanted an Afghan to have that she had done, and I admit that she finished it for me. Her hands would just fly and the click and rythym of the crochet needles were a constant background music to whatever else went in in that small family room. With two chairs, a sofa, and a small tv. The finished Afghan is huge. Probably close to 6'x7'. And it is warm and cuddly and comforting. When it is very cold and I wrap up in it, I remember my grandmother and her rose scented hand lotion and the click of those crochet needles. There is a line of where my work ended and hers began. We couldn't match the exact color. So the colors are a bit different. A line that superstar me from her, but still connected by all of those stitches.
I meant to write a line that separates me from her and yet still connects us by all of those stitches.
DeleteFirst and foremost my hope is with your daughter's speedy recovery. I remember when afghans were so popular, and then they somehow became long vests. All beautiful.
DeleteThank you for the wishes for my daughter. It will be a long road of recovery. But thankful for each bit of improvement.
DeleteYou are right about the crocheted vests. I guess I was ahead of the times, because AI also remember my grandmother made me a pink vest as a child. I didn't appreciate it then like I do now.
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