Category Archives: Persistence

The Art of Noticing

This doesn’t happen all that often, but I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out what to write this week. And then it occurred to me, perhaps that conundrum in itself is worth a few paragraphs.

The first pass of color literally sets the tone for what is to come

The challenge of finding something to share with you every other week, beyond just “I made this and then I made that” is a big part of what has sustained me in posting regularly for – can it really be? – nine years. Invariably, if I keep an eye open, something unexpected will spark an idea and from there it’s a matter of connecting the dots. My goal, of course, is that whatever that particular something is will be of interest to you as well.

Inspired by my sitter, drawing from my button stash was a no-brainer

So as I was driving to the grocery store several days ago, mulling over what I’ve seen, read, talked about with folks, and yes, been working on in the studio over the past couple of weeks, I was still coming up dry. But then it dawned on me: having nothing to write about is something to write about. In other words, running into walls is a given and finding a way around them is just as much a part of my (or any) practice as threading a needle and putting brush to paper.

The embroidery on this piece is relatively minimal. Not only does it encourage a viewer to slow down in her looking, but also to more closely considering the unique qualities of watercolor as the stitches and the washes work together. The hard and fluid edges throughout the work are another nod to the medium.

There’s no gliding through this game; every single detail is worthy of consideration. As Lorene Edwards Forkner of A Handmade Garden has written: “Noticing reveals the invisible”. So if I had to distill into a single element what it is that most feeds every part of my practice, both in and out of the studio, it comes down to two words: pay attention.

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While sewing the buttons on The Alchemist yesterday, I listened to a recording of Jeannet Leendertse talking about her work on Zoom. Leendertse forages seaweed (specifically Rockweed), that she sews into remarkable vessels and sculptural forms. As a native Mainer, I am intrigued by her use of this material that, as I grew up, was as common to me as grass.

Noting that she is highly aware of the materials she uses and the lasting impact of her creative process, Leendertse shared a link to Future Materials Bank, a resource that highlights sustainable materials gleaned from the waste stream and artists who incorporate them into their work. Check it out – you will be amazed and inspired.

Detours

Part 1 – Firestorm

There’s often no telling how an idea will evolve.
A piece may start with a specific destination in mind, but logistical snags invariably crop up and I soon find myself on a different path. The serendipitous twists and turns that result take me to a place I hadn’t imagined, but one where I am ultimately quite happy to have landed.
What follows is the story of one example of this phenomenon unfolding.

As the top sketch shows, capturing an idea often takes just a few quick lines. But the evolution of that idea invariably becomes much more complicated as one moves through the process. My initial idea was to make a house that was completely enclosed / cut-off from everything around it.

News of the devastating wildfires out west, paired with having a son who has been navigating dreadful air quality at home in the Bay area, has gotten me to thinking what a malleable canvas these little houses can be for making a statement beyond COVID-19.

Reporting on personal wildfire stories has stressed the horror of being surrounded by fire as it rages all around. While I can’t begin to imagine such a scenario, I wanted to make a piece that in some way expressed that sense of being enclosed or trapped.

Resist stitches in place before the dye bath

My original plan was to make a small house that would sit in the center of a larger, house-shaped shell, and to use a translucent fabric for the outer house. Silk organza would allow one to see the house within, while also being a worthy medium for portraying the amorphous nature of fire which I planned to suggest with dye. Unfortunately, organza’s porosity, a characteristic I expected to work to my advantage, was also a downside. When undoing the resist stitches I’d sewn before the dye bath, I discovered that the dye had seeped right through many of them, leaving only a faint pattern. That fact, paired with relatively weak color, resulted in a rather anemic appearance.

This suggests fire, but not as forcefully as I’d imagined

However, there are always ways to work around an issue.
While dyeing the unstitched areas of the fabric, I discovered a way to create an effect reminiscent of the striations of flickering flames (as seen in the top section of the silk in the photo above). So I dyed more organza, employing that process with stronger color, figuring that layering the two lengths of fabric, one on top of the other, would achieve the effect I was looking for. It worked rather well.

With the fabrics layered together, the color and effect is much closer to what I envisioned.

Not wanting to compete with the impact of the fire-inspired cloth, I decided to leave the inner house a blank slate, covering it with un-dyed raw silk and stitching with neutral-colored thread. Spent daylily flower stalks gathered from my garden, varnished and sewn to the house, enhance the effect of the natural coloring while providing support.

The house constructed with the daylily stalks as stilts.

Once this stage was complete, I ran headlong into the problem of how to then create and support the organza casing that would surround it. I have a full page in my sketchbook with various brainstorming solutions, none of which ended up being right or feasible to execute. It became apparent that I was going to have to switch gears.

The “fire” would have to run up the sides of the structure rather than fully enveloping it. I was still undecided as to whether or not to support it so that it would hover above the roof and be held out from the sides as in my original plan, or lay it directly upon the roof, letting it fall naturally down the sides. If it hovered, the stalks’ prongs could be leveraged to support the fabric, but even if not, their physical resemblance to a flame still added significantly to the overall impact.

In the midst of deciding how to attach the fabric, I discovered that using both layers of dyed organza together (discussed above) was unworkable; the layers became just too thick and unwieldy. However, reverting to using the originally dyed piece alone worked beautifully. Layered upon itself as it was gathered and folded to fit the narrow roof space, the previously bemoaned lack of pattern and color suddenly came alive. Pressing folds into the silk to create a tactile pattern that is reminiscent of flames added to the overall effect.

Loosely pinning the fabric in place, one begins to get the impression of fire, the effect of which is emphasized by pleating and the jaggedly raw edges along the roofline.

Running my progress by the discerning eye of a trusted artist friend, she rightly commented that the house, left white, appeared “unscathed and disconnected” from a fire’s devastation. My decision to keep the house neutral was meant to suggest universality, but she was of course right — the piece appeared inappropriately light – even upbeat. The solution was charcoal.

Drawing with charcoal directly upon the raw silk, achieves the charred effect that is necessary for conveying fire’s impact.

In the end, I decided to leave the dyed organza resting directly on the roof rather than elevating it. The top edges of fabric have been left raw and uneven which not only suggests the upward movement of flame as it consumes a building but, with the bottom edges of the organza sweeping around the base of the piece, I could maintain the suggestion of the house being enveloped.

I’ve learned not to be surprised by the unexpected issues that present themselves as most of my pieces come to life, or the need to puzzle my way to a solution. It is the rare work, for me anyway, that runs a straight line from conception to completion. But to be honest, that is one of the perks of art-making — it’s what keeps each day fresh, interesting, and ultimately rewarding.

Part 2 – Isolation

The addendum to my blow-by-blow tale above is that going down a different path doesn’t preclude one from getting back to the original starting point. After finishing Firestorm, I was still anxious to find a way to make a piece that mimicked my original sketch. I thought of all sorts of options for how I might construct a wire structure to support an organza “envelope”, but in the end they were all a bust. Any wire I tried was too soft and flexible to hold its shape. What could I use that would maintain the stiff, straight lines I wanted?

Framework

It took my architect father less than a moment to offer a solution: coat hangers. We talked through the best way to form the frame and how to attach the various pieces to each other. In no time I had the structure I’d envisioned and after that everything came together very quickly.

Hard to believe because my thread drawer is brimming, but I had to dye some silk thread to get just the right color for this one. However, it was too dark to use to suspend the little house. But no worries, I had just what I needed in that notorious stash.

After making the inner house, I suspended it with clear thread so that it would appear to be floating. The next step was to make a house-shaped sleeve out of silk organza to tightly fit over the wire frame. I didn’t mind the idea of seeing seam allowances, in fact, that seemed preferable to me aesthetically. Joining the seams via the hand-stitching method used in Pojagi (Korean Quilting) was the best way to complete this step.

This is one of the more delicate ways to join two pieces of fabric; its effect is lovely

Now complete, the outer casing was stitched invisibly to the frame to keep it taught. The final piece appears exactly the way I had hoped. Whether describing the fraught emotions of being caught in a fire or isolated by the coronavirus, it strikes the note of removal and disconnect that I had originally intended.

Time and again, I’ve found that hitting stumbling blocks and being forced to rethink my approach allows for an idea to evolve into something greater than I might have come up with in one shot. The roundabout discoveries often provide a suitable proving ground for finding my way back to an idea that needed additional “simmering” before it could be realized. It makes the detours well-worth the time, and perhaps ultimately a sort of secret weapon.

Thanks so much for hanging in with me to the end of this very long post!
Ready for a visual palate cleanser? Check this out.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Ai, yai, yai!

This week is as close as I’ve come to crying “uncle” during the selfie project. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to capture my dear friend Dianne in a satisfactory way. Sometimes only the eyes and nose pass muster, sometimes it’s the mouth that is okay. And every single time I’ve struggled with the overall shape of her face, partially because in the photo her mouth is open, making her chin look unusually elongated.
This is the inherent danger of drawing people I know. I so desperately want to get it right.

I can’t even tell you how much courage it’s taking for me to post these images, especially since I know many of you who read this blog know Dianne personally and will immediately see my missteps. However, I think it’s important to highlight that rough patches are a given. They test our resilience and are also the secret sauce that moves our work forward.

The picture she sent was not meant as a selfie submission, but rather to share the beautiful hat her granddaughter had made for her for Mother’s Day. She looked so tickled and proud that I asked if it would be okay to use the image for this project and she graciously said yes.

Dianne 2

The result is I have felt doubly responsible to both Dianne and her granddaughter, so my shortcomings and inability to do them justice cuts deeply. Four unsuccessful iterations later, each new version cringe-worthy in its own way (I’m not even going to share the 3rd attempt with you), the process has left me feeling more than a bit beaten up.

Dianne 4

To say I’ve been frustrated doesn’t come close. The next best (and only) step was to just shake it off and to start completely from scratch, this time using a bamboo reed pen and a bottle of ink. No expectations, just the joy of line and the buttery feel of the pen as it glides across the paper.

Red Ink

This latest may not be successful in a formal way, but it’s not a total loss because I can finally see the slightest glimmer of my friend Dianne as I know her peeking through. Even more importantly, I am going to celebrate the fact that this little drawing represents a fight survived. Not one that was won, or even one that was escaped without a few mental scrapes and bruises. Rather, it marks a battle that honors persistence and stands as a reminder that the real reward is in the process, not the result. That realization in itself is more than enough for today.

Note: Austin Kleon’s latest book Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad is a welcome shot of inspiration for navigating minor rough patches like the one outlined above, or for finding ways to keep your creativity intact through bigger challenges, such as the uncharted territory of a pandemic.

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On the flip side, there was also a bit of a win last week.
I’m quite happy with this new little house – an offshoot inspired by the Shelter in Place project. It’s an expression of the dichotomy of feeling both hemmed in and safe at home – one I know we’re all experiencing these days.

Enjoying the Ride

Last July I started experimenting with a new approach to my dyed and stitched pieces.
Flipping the coin from the way I’d been working, I started embroidering the imagery with white silk thread first, and then dyed the cloth afterward using a new stitched-resist method that I had begun experimenting with at the Vermont Studio Center in April.

My hope was that the silk thread would absorb the color and pattern of the dye process, leaving the image to some degree camouflaged while still maintaining its visual strength. I wanted the viewer to be drawn in by the pattern and to discover the imagery upon closer inspection. Unfortunately, the results were decidedly unsatisfactory because the image became almost completely lost. It shows more clearly below because the angle of the photo catches the light to its advantage.
To jog your memory, check back to my post “Committing to a Process of Search” to read about my initial stab at this new process.

After working my way through the more recent lobster piece (my second attempt at this idea), I returned to the original this week with new thoughts on ways to salvage it from its ghost-like appearance.

While there are elements of the process I’d like to tweak, I am definitely making progress toward my initial objective. And more importantly, as I work back and forth between the stitches and the pattern they sit upon, I’m really enjoying the ride. For lack of a better way of describing it, there’s a satisfying rhythm to considering both image and surface, puzzling out a way to bounce between the two so that they can simultaneously work together and independently, with neither being overwhelmed by the other.

Meanwhile, serendipity happened in the form of Neil Gaiman’s 2012 University of the Arts commencement address “Make Good Art”.
The thing about a good graduation speech is that it’s just as inspiring to everyone else in the audience as it is to the graduates…maybe even more so because being older provides the benefit of life experience as a measuring stick. Gaiman’s advice resonates loudly and clearly in its encouragement to make mistakes and to keep trying.

If you too are attempting to gain some traction in your current work, give it a listen and see if it doesn’t give you a boost.

Art as a Responsibility; Art as a Superpower

As troubled as this world is and has always been, we owe a huge debt to those artists who have the ability and the courage to give voice and form to our collective conscience, pulling it back into the light in times of darkness. It is no small service that they remind us of our shared humanity during those periods when that treasured quality appears misplaced.

This inspiring Huffington Post article, “What It Means To Be An Artist In The Time of Trump”, published soon after the election, asks 21 artists how they envision their creative role for the next four years and what advice they would offer to other makers. Their responses speak to both a common distress: “pain, anger, sadness and fear” as well as the optimistic power of “hope, unity, compassion, motivation, and strength”. Above all, they acknowledge the importance of not remaining silent. Read what they have to say, it will make you proud to be part of their tribe.

In 2015, Toni Morrison wrote the following in an essay for The Nation, entitled “No Place for Self-Pity, No Room for Fear”:

“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.

I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge – even wisdom. Like art.”

I am not a political artist, but this past month I’ve found a small sense of solace in making the above piece to fulfill the prompt “fantasy” for the Journal Project, the group I’ve participated in over the past year. Believe me, I am not deluded enough to think the president-elect will show any remorse for his xenophobic, misogynistic, anti-environmental, self-centered, self-serving, and frankly hateful rhetoric and actions. (In acknowledgement of that fact, in addition to referencing America’s red, white & blue, the dyed color, pattern, and bleed are a subtle nod to hell freezing over.) I am, however, grateful for Michelle Obama’s graceful, grown-up response “when they go low, we go high” as a reminder that decorum and measured intelligence still hold sway and will always have champions.

In the tempestuous days ahead, we can look to artists to challenge us and provide prospective, giving voice to our shared humanity as they always have, while not letting us off the hook. A mere apology is by no means the answer, but wouldn’t it be a nice starting point?

Share the Wealth

I have found that most artists are very generous with their knowledge. They are happily willing to share hard-won lessons from their studios, easing the road for others who are interested enough to ask. And with the internet making it possible to be more closely connected to an ever-wider creative circle, the task of addressing our own artistic challenges is eased through exposure to how others face theirs.

I have been working on this piece intermittently since February. The process seems to just drag on and on. I have definitely been in this spot before, so I know that patience and persistence are key. In the meantime, I’ve been grateful for other textile work and my drawing practice, which have provided a welcome reprieve. But that doesn’t solve the fact that I still have to finish this particular challenge.

Happily, two things this past week have contributed to getting me back on track. First and foremost, a lengthly and honest critique with a friend/artist whose ideas and feedback never fail me. I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t stress enough how important it is for all of us to have a solid bond with another artist, allowing for a frank back-and-forth about work in progress. The distance of an unbiased eye is invaluable. Hopefully you have that kind of artistic partnership as well.

Secondly, I fortuitously happened across this short, 2 minute video, recently uploaded to his blog by painter Nicholas Wilton. His suggestion to “listen to your work” speaks directly to the challenge I’m wrestling with at the moment. I was introduced to Wilton’s paintings, writing, and video clips last month by another artist friend and couldn’t be more grateful! His point of being fully “in” a work and truly listening to what it has to say hits the proverbial nail on the head. The more I read back through his archives, the more impressed I am with his ideas and generosity. Among other things, it is so important to know that certain issues are universal, no matter what level of achievement one attains.

So, I’m back at it — not thrilled yet, but finding a rhythm. We’ll see; this may be one that ends up, at best, as a good learning experience. But regardless, I am grateful for the unselfishness of others and the safety net to be found in a sense of shared camaraderie.

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And speaking of camaraderie, I can’t resist sharing this uplifting clip of the “Graffiti Grandma”, Luísa Cortesão in Lisbon, Portugal, who found joy in making street art by tagging walls with her buddies. Another reminder of the importance of community and to not take our work – or ourselves – too seriously.

The Power of Persistence

I have a dear friend who, for numerous years now, has sent us an amaryllis for the holidays. It’s always different and always spectacular. Each season I tried in vain to tend the bulb past its winter’s bloom with the hope of carrying it through to another year. But busy family life, with a couple of household moves added to the mix, thwarted my meager attempts; every year I failed.

Until 2 years ago.

Late in December, after the requisite weeks of darkness in our cool basement pantry, I brought the previous year’s gift bulb upstairs to rest on top of the refrigerator, hoping its warmth would coax new growth. Periodic checks showed absolutely no progress. So late that January I finally reached for the pot fully expecting to heave its contents into the compost. Imagine how thrilled I was to discover a fresh sprout of green emerging from the papery brown folds at the top of the bulb.

And so it goes with work in the studio and the resulting ups and downs.

There are many hours that go into the pieces I diligently construct. Along the way there can be numerous false starts, often accompanied by plenty of discouragement. However, as my artist friend Dianne Shullenberger wisely counsels: despite the frustrations, we continue for the joy of making and because stopping isn’t an option. How true. I have come to learn that most of the time, by steadily pushing on, a breakthrough will eventually reveal itself.

In the next weeks, I’m going to revisit the making of Ulysses’ Wave, a piece that absorbed innumerable stops and starts, plenty of doubts, and finally satisfaction once I found its rightful path.

Sometimes the stars align and a piece comes into being easily and quickly. This is not one of those works.
But that’s okay – and maybe more than okay. This certainly isn’t the first time I’ve struggled and it won’t be the last. But with each new challenge I build a bit more confidence that in the end I will find my way to resolution.

And, as this amaryllis reminds me, there is power in persistence.

Elizabeth Fram

Eye of the Needle