Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Yesterday I showed you some of my earliest forays into printing on fabric with my printer's type. Some years later I got into a new phase of printing on fabric, using the letters as abstract designs rather than to spell out words. Here's an example: I prepared the background by stitching the large letters into tight bundles and applying fabric paint with a brush; the paint wicked out just enough to make a fat initial. Then I printed the smaller letters on top.
I worked for 20 years at a company that was the world's largest employer of actuaries, and much of my work involved translating complicated actuarial concepts into terms understandable by our non-actuary clients. So I spent many hours hanging out with actuaries, and my son also trained to become an actuary. I was envious of their ability to think in numbers, and imagined that when they lay down to sleep, they might see numbers floating about.
I made a quilt covered with numbers and called it "The Actuary's Dream." It wasn't in the roll that I unpacked last week and I don't have a good photo, but the next time I come across it I will take a picture and show you. Subsequently I made a half dozen or more "actuary quilts" -- here are four of them.
As in the alphabet quilt above, I bound or sewed the fabric into bundles, then applied fabric paint to make the underlying patterns, before printing on top.
Monday, April 24, 2017
Last week my art book club (the one where we never read books) had the theme of printmaking. I was busy and instead of embarking on a new printmaking endeavor, I found the roll of quilts that included several that I had printed many years ago. That seemed good enough for government work, so I took them for show and tell.
I was surprised to find one quilt that I had absolutely no recollection of ever making, and some that I had pretty much forgotten about. But all of them looked fresh and interesting, which made me happy! These quilts were made as long ago as 2000 and as recently as 2009, and most of them followed the same general recipe: make an interesting abstract fabric background, with fabric paint or discharge, then print letters or numbers from my big collection of old wood and metal printer's type. I would do the letters one by one, applying fabric paint with a brush and then printing them onto the fabric like a rubber stamp.
I first tried this approach in 2000, making a little wall hangings with people's favorite mantras. Here's mine -- a comment that I wrote on dozens of essays and stories submitted to me for editing:
The saying read: Tim was so learned that he could name a horse in nine languages. So ignorant that be bought a cow to ride on."
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Perhaps it's because I prefer teflon frying pans, but the half-life of much of my cookware seems to be measured in months. I am continually having to buy some new "good" pans, smooth enough for fried eggs or delicate fish, while relegating the "not so good any more" pans to low-end duty, browning sausage and such.
Which means it's special that two of my treasured pans are generations old. The one with the long handle came from my mother-in-law; she gave it to Ken before we were married, along with her recipe for chili, which I think he even made once or twice! The big one with the black handles came from my grandmother, and I'm not sure how I got possession, but I've had it for decades.
It's a 4-quart aluminum pan, and still has its original lid, although the original handle on the lid is long gone. Now we use a wine cork, screwing it in through the original screw hole. The cork wobbles a bit, but usually does the job for a couple of years before it needs to be replaced. The pan itself is beat up, with lumps in the bottom; the lid sometimes needs to be rotated a bit before it will slip into place. But I think it's indestructible in all important respects.
The big pot, also aluminum, used to be a pressure cooker. When I inherited it, there was a huge lid that locked into place, with a rubber flange to seal it, and a little pressure gauge. I might have tried to cook under pressure once, or maybe not at all, before being scared by the old wives' tales of tomatoes splattered on the ceiling. The pressure gauge was the first part to disappear, followed in a few years by the lid. The rubber flange lurked about in the back of a drawer for decades before I pitched it.
So it came down in the world and became just a nice big heavy pot. It's my go-to for big batches of soup, for spaghetti sauce, for applesauce, for mashed potatoes in quantities that my mother-in-law's pot won't handle. Although its own lid went MIA long ago, I have another lid that sort of fits, but it does leak a pale essence of spaghetti sauce onto the stove top when that's the plat du jour. It's permanently stained on the inside, probably from the acid in all those batches of tomato sauce.
Interestingly, both the pans were made by companies that used to be big names but are no longer in existence. The pressure cooker was "Ward's Best" -- as in Montgomery Ward, the huge retailer who vied with Sears to put out the best mail order catalog in the world, and this pot no doubt came from the catalog. (And yes, my grandmother's outhouse was supplied with old Ward's catalogs.) The saucepan was Mirro, the big aluminum cookware producer whose factory was in Manitowoc, just up the road from my husband's home in Milwaukee, so this was a local product.
No doubt I could go to the store and buy replacement pots that would be prettier, with no bumps, with lids that fit, but where would the fun be? I like the idea that every week I'm using things whose faithful service started before I was even born -- and with any luck may even outlive me, even as they have outlived their manufacturers and their original owners.
Friday, April 21, 2017
I wrote yesterday about an exhibit at the Portland Museum in Louisville that features two quilt artists. Jane Lloyd has been in Quilt National several times with her signature spiral technique, as shown in this detail shot.
She makes a pieced background, puts a large swatch of fabric over the top and free-motion stitches a spiral through all the layers. Then she takes tiny scissors and painstakingly cuts away a channel of fabric between the stitched lines to leave a skinny spiral (less than 1/4 inch wide), held down with the machine stitching and revealing the pieced background underneath. In this quilt she has also put hand stitching, and some nylon net on top.
Jane has made a bazillion quilts like this, and several of them are on display in the Portland Museum exhibit. But she's also tweaking the "recipe" in more recent works.
Here's one with the skinny lines making arch shapes instead of spirals. And she has not one but two layers of skinny lines: first the small arches, then a tracery of vertical lines on top that form large arches.
Jane has made photocopies of some of her collages and incorporated them as one layer in complex quilts that also include spirals and skinny lines.
Although these quilts are very obviously in the same family as her other spirals, the background collages add an air of mystery and additional complication. I particularly liked the very thin, illegible fragment of handwriting that appears in Day Journal.
If you're in the Louisville area, check out the show. Art of Color: A New Grasses Exhibit will be on view at the Portland Museum through May 19.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
I got to see a lovely show last month at the Portland Museum in Louisville KY, featuring two artists from here and two from Ireland. The artistic partnership between the two regions dates back several years; groups from here have traveled to Northern Ireland for a time of collaboration, and vice versa. I was thrilled to have two of my good friends in this show: Denise Furnish, who lives about 500 feet from me as the crow flies, and Jane Lloyd, of County Antrim, Northern Ireland, whom I've gotten to know very well, partly because we've shared two road trips to Quilt National, a total of 20 hours together in the car. Both of them work with quilts, but not exactly your basic quilt-police quilts.
If you had to describe her work in one word, you'd probably call Denise a painter, because she starts with old quilts, some of them in advanced stages of decrepitude, and paints on them with opaque or clear acrylics. Often the original geometric pattern shows through, either because she enhances it in her painting, or because you can detect the seams through the paint. After a lot of monochrome pieces in recent years, where the entire quilt ended up the same color, Denise has taken a new direction and painted bold images.
I'll show you Jane Lloyd's quilts in a subsequent post.
Art of Color: A New Grasses Exhibit will be on view at the Portland Museum through May 19.
Monday, April 17, 2017
A couple of weeks ago I attended a workshop taught by Beth Schnellenberger called "Extreme Embroidery." Beth has been working in this intensive format for several years, filling every speck of base fabric with hand stitching to make elaborate designs. I've admired her work and was happy to have her show us the technique.
Happy to report that I have finished the piece that I started in that workshop, hung it at Pyro Gallery last week, and it was sold at the opening reception of our new show.
Here's a detail shot. I used french knots for the iris, and plain old straight stitches for everything else. In some areas the straight stitches were neatly aligned in the same direction, but in others they go every which way. I started with six strands of embroidery floss for the blue and white, then switched to three strands for the rest of the picture.
When I finished, I cut the felt away from the back right at the edge of the stitching, then turned over a quarter-inch of fabric and overcast the edge heavily with black.
I mounted it on a 6x6" canvas; you can't see in this photo but the canvas is 1 1/2 inches deep so it has a good heft on the wall.
I've felt for a long time that eyes are a good motif for me to work with. I used them a lot in my year of daily hand-stitching, and in my three years of daily collage, so it's kind of a default image when I need to doodle or practice. I think this little embroidery, which I've called "Desert Eye," may be the first in a series.