Hi all - I posted an overview of some of the books I've collected on textile, pattern, and surface design on my art blog. I still haven't found an ideal blogging format or a way to reach out to all my audiences - I miss blogging here, and maybe I'll revisit my decision to stop posting here. But meanwhile, if you love books about textile and pattern design, take a look. I'll tackle my books on quilting, sewing, embroidery, paper arts in forthcoming posts.
Absolutely everyone who is interested in art, culture, and the human condition should see Cave of Forgotten Dreams. It's extraordinary. And then go and read "First Impressions," the 2008 Judith Thurman article in the New Yorker that influenced Werner Herzog to make the film. You can rent Cave of Forgotten Dreams on iTunes and, I assume, on other film rental sites, though if you can see it in 3D in a theater, it's probably well worth the effort. I watched it on my 13-inch computer screen and it was powerful and beautiful and completely intriguing--right down to the Werner Herzog signature strangeness in the postscript.
If you haven't heard of it, the film documents the images in Chauvet Cave in France, made perhaps 30,000 years ago; they are magical and graceful and seem effortless. There's been a lot of talk among archaelogists, cultural anthropologists, and art historians about what this means. Did the skill to make artistic images evolve, or, as these images suggest, simply appear? Thurman draws fascinating connections between images in contemporary shamanic ritual and the images in the cave, especially when humans are in motion before them. You simply can't help but be entranced by the mystical possibilities and the human connection to these most ancient of ancestors.
An image from the walls of Chauvet Cave.
Edited to add: Today, as it happens, is Werner Herzog's birthday, so celebrate his brilliance by watching this film. You can also listen to him read Go the Fuck to Sleep, because it's awesome.
What is there to say about Paris? I only had two days there, but it took me a few decades to get there and it was everything I wanted it to be. In my imagination, Paris was always my city; the city of light, art, perfume, flowers, sex, couture, romance, beauty, Bohemian brilliance, moody existentialism, sensuality. And now, I can truly say that it's my city in my heart too.
I left La Rochelle on the last day of April on a 5:47 a.m. train that arrived at Gare Montparnasse about 9 a.m. I stopped for a quick café allongé - I'm not an espresso drinker even if that brands me as a soulless American - and took a taxi to my lovely little hotel in the Marais near the Place des Vosges. The Hotel Jeanne d'Arc is a budget hotel, without a doubt, not fancy, but if budget is what you need, it's ideal. It's simple, a little funky, very clean, full of people from everywhere, with a super-friendly and helpful staff. It's on a side street in a perfect location; out the door, turn the corner, you're in a square full of charming Paris shops and cafés, blocks from the river Seine and a bridge that will take you to the Ile Saint-Louis and from there to the Ile de la Cité or the Left Bank.
There's only one way to see a new city, in my opinion, and that's on foot. I spent the rest of the morning walking west along the river as the bouquinestes were opening their lockboxes and setting up their wares; in less than an hour I was at the Louvre, which I bypassed for another time. I got lunch and walked through the Tuileries to the Musée de l'Orangerie. Knowing that Sunday would be a holiday with everything closed, this was the one museum I had my heart set on seeing. This is the museum -- once storage for the gardens' landscapers -- with rooms specially built for eight of Monet's waterlily murals, the great masterworks of his late, cataract-ridden years. Music composed just for these rooms plays constantly, and visitors are asked to be silent; it feels like church.
Those paintings in those rooms had me near tears, I was so moved by them. Despite the colors that look so peaceful to us, there's a driven quality. They have a sweeping beauty and urgency that seems equal parts ego and inadequacy--or you could call it a powerful expression of the human condition, knowing that time is short, wanting to accomplish something big, something meaningful and lasting. And Monet did.
I took the long walk back to my hotel down the touristy Rue de Rivoli, with detours along the way. To my great delight, my friends Donna and Wendy were both in Paris that night as well, so we had a leisurely, wonderful dinner at a restaurant on Rue de Jarente. Then we walked through the city for ice cream and the night views of Notre Dame, taking Donna back to her apartment in the Latin Quarter.
Sunday -- May Day -- was as gorgeous a spring day as you could imagine or ask for. With all the museums closed, I walked for miles, through gardens and churches and squares and cobblestone streets of fascinating and tempting boutiques and parfumeries and bookstores. I had the most delicious falafel for dinner at Mi-Va-Mi on Rue des Rosiers, then a final ice cream at Berthillon.
On Monday I woke up to American news of American wars and the death of Osama Bin Laden. I walked to Gare de Lyon, took the bus to the airport for a slightly edgy flight, thinking about the long decade since 9/11 (when I was also in an airport), thinking about this crazy world, and headed home.
I don't have the new blog quite started yet, despite having had twelve days off and almost feeling like myself again (but it'll be over all too soon). I ordered my new easel but it hasn't arrived yet; I'm looking forward to that. A little sewing and stitching got done, but not much, to be honest.
I spent a day at the Denver Art Museum where I saw the King Tutankhamen exhibition; while it's great to see these antiquities any way we can, I was disappointed in the way the show was put together. It was very crowded, and the traffic flow was awful and killed the intended drama at several moments. As you might have heard, some of the more spectacular pieces are no longer able to travel from Egypt. Still, it's hard not to be intrigued by it all. The exhibition felt like it hasn't been updated much since the first and second tours, several decades ago, and there were missed opportunities to integrate 21st century multimedia. For example...they'll sell you a $5 audio tour that only you hear, so why not develop audio tours that focus on specific areas of interest? I would have loved and gladly paid more for an audio tour that discussed the textiles and apparel and decorative elements of the show.
As so often happens at museums, the big show was not the best show. Alongside King Tut, the museum has just opened an absolute gem of a show of contemporary American landscapes, called Western Horizons. I fell in love with the work of painter Mark Bowles, and the "expedition watercolors" of Tony Foster. The Deborah Butterfield horse, at right, was an unexpected sculpture in the show of paintings. Finally, we visited the beautiful Asian galleries, which housed a lovely show of bamboo objects; I liked the perfectly made snail, below, from the century before last.
In keeping with the ancient Egyptian theme, I'm reading Cleopatra, by Stacy Schiff. I've only begun, but I'll report more when I've finished. I'm also reading this Sally Kempton book on meditation.
The Slow Cloth group has now been in place on Facebook for a year, for better and worse. What it's become is both more and less than I'd hoped for, but there are 1,947 members as of today, and I'm very thankful to every one for being there. I'm amazed at how my idea -- which got me nothing but quizzical looks back in 2007 when I started to talk about it -- now evidently makes sense to so many more people. I bought the new issue of Threads magazine today and sure enough, there's an article titled "Slow Sewing" by Patricia Keay. Her version of slow is more literal than mine, but does focus on craftsmanship. She acknowledges slow-movement leader Carl Honore, who published my Slow Cloth article a couple of years ago on his Slow Planet website. No mention of slow cloth, though. Whatever. It's a nice article and I'm sure it's a satisfying version of "slow" for most Threads readers. I wonder if the haters will target her next.
Which brings me to the new year. 2010 was a kicker, wasn't it? I'm glad I made it through intact, and glad for the good things that outlasted the year. I hope that this year sees many changes for the better. And I thank you for reading and visiting and sharing your thoughts in the comments and sending good vibes and for inspiring me to keep on. Have a very beautiful 2011! Back to work on Tuesday (on the good side, I'm especially liking working with authors Alisa Burke and Daniella Woolf, two very talented and wonderful ladies).
Denver Public Library, seen through the window of the Denver Art Museum.
edited to add: I think I've fixed all the links. Let me know if any are still not working. Typepad seems to have made some changes - one more reason that I'm moving the blog to Wordpress soon. Sorry about that!
I really enjoyed the Textile Society symposium at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln last week. First, some highlights:
In general, I loved the high level of scholarship, cultural context, and international scope of this symposium. If these things appeal to you, I recommend joining The Textile Society and attending the next symposium, scheduled for Washington, D.C., in 2012. By relocating the symposium each time, different locales get to shine, and Lincoln did very well. My Colorado College classmate Wendy Weiss had a lot to do with organizing this symposium (she teaches at the University of Nebraska) and she did an excellent job. There were many exhibitions, from local galleries to the beautiful Sheldon Museum of Art and the International Quilt Study Center; good restaurants nearby; beautiful autumn weather and the friendliness of the Midwest. There was a small but excellent marketplace; I bought Laura Foster Nicholson's ribbons and had the pleasure of talking with her, and I also saw my friends from Goodweave there. I had a very interesting conversation with Leesa Hubbell, the digital news editor for the Surface Design Association. And a big bonus for me: while in Lincoln, I got to see my dear brother, my lovely sister-in-law, and my beloved niece and nephews.
There was some minor room for improvement at the conference, generally speakers who didn't seem well prepared or comfortable presenting to a group, and too many concurrent sessions, forcing difficult choices. Because there are such strong relationships between food and fiber, I'd love to see the presence of good local and organic food at events like this (I know this is a cost issue and a hotel contract issue, but it can be done). But all in all it was a terrific event, and for me there was more substance than at some other textile conferences and trade shows that I've been to.
I left there with a lot to think about for my work as well as my personal direction with textiles and the future of Slow Cloth as an entity and as an idea. One thing that always comes up for me is the lack of diversity -- in age and gender, in particular -- in the textile community. Young people are coming in, but too often as a marketing target, as consumers of craft products. And men are mostly there if they come from other countries, by and large, or in a celebrity role to audiences of women, so it often seems a little out of balance.
The question is, I suppose, do we want it to be different? I think we do, because diversity is a core concept of sustainability. And because any group with 99% one gender or age group all the time tends to magnify any flaws or weaknesses in communication style and interaction of that gender or age group. Anyway, that's a big topic for another time. I think the energy of the textile community would change if it were more diverse in any number of ways, but maybe I'm just projecting my own discomfort with groups of all kinds.
The image above is Torn Notebook, a Claes Oldenburg sculpture in the sculpture garden at the Sheldon Museum of Art in Lincoln.
Going through a box of miscellaneous stuff, I came across a very worn and stained piece of paper that I've had for about 17 years. On the front, there are notes written by my first yoga teacher for my first practice; I remember that it was a late winter morning in a beautiful house in Massachusetts. On the back, I was surprised to see this, in my own handwriting:
I don't know when I wrote that. But it's still true. Wherever you are, whatever you're feeling, there is no other place to be.
I'm greeting summer in bed with a fever, achy body, and laptop. It's always so weird to be sick in the summertime, especially on this day of glorious abundance of light and nature. Yet it's not bad to have a day to reflect on the changing season.
I'm reflecting on the idea of excellence, and looking at how often I let things lazily slip into mediocrity, treating things as if they're not that important when, in fact, they are. So often just a little more consciousness, a little more preparation, and a little more commitment is the difference between okay-but-sloppy and well-done. I have a thousand reasons why I don't give things my best effort, but none of them are very good, or very relevant to who I am today; I think it's time to make a conscious decision to do better as my mission for this new season.
Excellence is, in part, about practice. Malcolm Gladwell says it takes 10,000 hours to be really good at something; by my calculations, if you give something ten hours a week (reasonable when you're working full-time and all that goes with that), that means it's a 19-year journey. Maybe a little less with some credit for time spent. So that means that excellence is also about choice; you (I) can't do everything.
More on this to come. Meanwhile, a brilliant solstice to you. What are your summer plans?
This is the Snow Moon, though it's late in the winter and almost spring. On the edge of the eastern slope of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, we have the most snow in March and April -- though this year we've been besieged since my birthday in October -- but at least the days are getting longer and the light is stronger.
Collection of the Musees des Tissus et des Arts decoratifs de Lyon
I couldn't summon even a whimper for this blog all month. I keep asking myself - is it done? But I think it's just in transition. Last year at one point I plotted out a new blog called Art Craft Culture, and maybe it's time to birth it soon, and start blogging again with a fresh start (The Red Thread idea has been appropriated by so many people in so many ways, and that's all to the good, but for me it no longer feels as original as it once did.) But many of you are connecting with me on the Slow Cloth group, and that's been a surprise and a delight. We imagined we'd have maybe 50 people interested, and we have almost 1,000.
My wonderful and perceptive boss referred to me as an iconoclast last week. This is a positive variation on what some other people have called me -- troublemaker, for example. The iconoclastic shoe fits, so I wear it with varying degrees of comfort. It means to be outside the mainstream, questioning the status quo, subverting the dominant paradigm. The formal definition is to overthrow or destroy religious symbols, but I don't really relate to that level of aggression; I prefer to think of it as being ahead of the curve - a little bit visionary, even - and I'm nothing if not a dreamer.
The only problem is that iconoclasts, especially female iconoclasts, often have a hard time making a living; we're square pegs, and the powers that be often don't know quite what to do with us. At some point you have to give up the struggle to fit in, because the only way to do that is to limit yourself. And you have to give up the idea of being anyone other than who you are. Then you can get to work on being the best version of who you are.
So I dedicate this new moon to being a peaceful iconoclast and owning it with pride. I am working on a stitching project that's been a little stagnant, but with the longer days it's seeing signs of life. Here's the current state of the peace mandala:
Oh, and the beautiful 16th-century Japanese silk above is just one item from a beautiful collection at the Musee des Tissues et des Arts decoratifs de Lyon; they have many more of their exquisite pieces online. Here's a 4th-century Egyptian textile that looks very contemporary; inspiration is where you find it, even in the distant past.
Decorated leaf
Egypt, 4th-5thcentury AD.
Linen cloth, linen and wool tapestry
0.29 x 0.24
Warning: Long and rambling post. I know I keep talking about more frequent short posts, and I'm trying to get there, really!
Has this been a really strange month for everyone, or just me? Maybe I should say strange year, and I can't believe it's almost over. I have twelve days off for the holidays, and I really need it to regroup and reconsider all that's happened this year, and my intentions for next year.
I'm at a stitching standstill. I can't seem to get moving on anything. It's partly that I'm so immersed at work with a particular side of the craft world; it's sucking up a lot of my textile energy. In the words of the most famous six-word autobiography, this year was not quite what I was planning. Remember last year? When I was all gung-ho about graduate school in cultural studies so I could create the job of textile anthropologist/global explorer/artist/author/sustainability expert/philosopher? Then the recession happened and I had to find a more stable income with health insurance. Then I spent the first few months of 2009 negotiating about the Washington job, spent a month there (yay museums) and ultimately decided not to take it, possibly my stupidest mistake biggest learning experience in a year full of 'em.
And now suddenly I've logged seven months in a different job, making ends meet, and many of the things that matter in my life are sitting in the way-back of the bus, and I can hear them clamoring for attention. I'm so grateful for the stability the job has given me, but also frustrated that opportunities came up that I could not fully embrace because I didn't have much flexibility. So I'm glad for a break and a chance to plan.
Meanwhile, I'm thinking about how different art forms inform each other. Given the stitching gridlock, I've been looking at paintings and photographs as well as fabric and stitching. The New York Times (seriously, I could spend all day just reading their art, politics, writing and culture blogs) has a great blog called Lens, and if you are at all interested in photography as art, journalism, or cultural record, you should visit it. I was captured by this post on Librado Romero, a photographer who also paints. I have no photography skills (have you noticed?), but I'm looking for a new camera that will at least give me a better basic tool to learn to take a decent picture with. Right now I'm thinking Canon S90 or Panasonic LX3, if anyone has thoughts.
Last week, I rediscovered Richard Diebenkorn's paintings. The more you look at art, the more you see the kinship in what calls to you. Though I'm a stylistic omnivore, I always swoon over the painterly, color-field experience, the kind that's deeply emotional but also intelligent, not random, with both a spiritual quality and an inherent reference to nature and the material world. Diebenkorn's Ocean Park series is like this. The Orange County Museum of Art has an exhibition of this masterful series scheduled for spring 2010.
Richard Diebenkorn, Ocean Park #54, 1972
Richard Diebenkorn, Ocean Park #125, 1980
This article about Diebenkorn draws a parallel between his Ocean Park paintings and the work of Agnes Martin, who I've written about before -- I admire her work enormously. Alabama Chanin has been inspired by Agnes Martin for her spring collection of handmade couture. I like when these pieces fit together and there seems to be a context and a narrative that links the work I'm drawn to and the artists I admire. (Here is a good review of Agnes Martin's work from 1992.)
Closer to home, I've raved about Deidre Adam's stitched and painted quilts before; she's also a gifted photographer and is now making some amazing paintings. She's a wonderful example of someone who can explore different media with great fluidity and grace. I especially like that there is a unified vision and point of view in all of her work, no matter the medium; this may be what distinguishes a professional artist from a hobbyist with a short attention span, so her fine example is something worth aspiring to. Here are some of her newest paintings, reprinted with permission. Her story of these paintings is fascinating; read it on her blog here.
Deidre Adams, Resonant State 2
Deidre Adams, Resonant State 4
I'll leave you with these images of beauty on this Christmas Eve. Thank you for being here all year, and a very sweet and soulful holiday to you; listen for the song of the angels. And a special thank-you to Laurie for paying forward my small gift; that made me very happy!
It came upon a midnight clear
That glorious song of old
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold
"Peace on earth, good will to men
From heaven's all-gracious King,"
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
