Sitting in the library my husband built I drink my coffee and ponder my day. Having returned from the mountains a few days ago I have visited friends by phone and in person, gone to several movies, and caught up with the laundry. I have picked out fabrics to begin a new quilt, cut and laid out the pieces. Today is the day I start sewing.
My first experience with quilts was through a gift my father gave me when I graduated from high school. I think it was to make up for his not coming to my graduation. It was a small quilt made by his Aunt Nancy, my great aunt. I don't remember her, I am sure I met her at some point, but she was my dad's favorite. With his mother dying when he was seventeen, my father spent much time at Nancy's house and always visited her when he went home to West Virginia. So on one of those visits he returned with two quilts and I got my pick. A black and white twin size blanket that I would take to nursing school and around which I decorated my room.
I don't know what happened to that quilt. I did not value its worth, I am sorry to say. Having no idea of the labor that went into making that simple covering, it passed out of my hands. I am the opposite of a hoarder, so it is not surprising, but that is a discussion for another time.
Many years later while working on my art degree I was invited to attend a sewing group. They met once a week and many of the women had children my sons ages so I went whenever I could. I did not sew at that time, although I had sewn since I was a child, so I would take my sketch book and work to fulfill the requirements of whatever class I was taking at the time. Sometimes it was painting, sometimes figure drawing, sometimes wood carving or metalwork; all required keeping a sketchbook.
Periodically the group would halt whatever individual work they were doing and gather to create a quilt. It was usually a going away present, as many of the attendees were temporary residents; the military and the medical college brought many transients to town. At those times I would stop drawing and join in sewing. The quilt would be framed at my across the street neighbor's and we would come and go throughout the weeks adding our stitches to the project. It was through this effort that I was introduced to the art of quilt making and understood what I had so lightly let pass through my hands many years before.
That sewing group was almost thirty years ago. All the children we shared stories and concerns about are now adults with children of their own. My oldest is thirty-seven with three of his own, my younger son and his wife just had their fourth child. From that time I remembered the desire to make quilts of my own and began when our first grandchild was born. Now there are ten and while I have not made ten quilts, as some were made by other grandmothers, I have made six. The last stitch was put in place in a hotel room not so many weeks ago. Now I endeavor to explore my own art of quilt making.
Quilts are significant on so many levels but to me they speak to process. The process of selecting the fabics new and old; the process of selecting the pattern, traditional or free form or some variation in between; the process of cutting the fabric, laying out the top and slowing piecing it together. Then there is the making of the 'sandwich' which consists of the top, some filling and the backing. It is at that point that one begins the long hours of sewing that sandwich together.
I am somewhat of a traditionalist. I piece by machine but I sew the quilt together by hand. I don't have a frame; I want my work to be portable to take it back and forth to the mountains so I use a hoop. I gather old fabrics and new and try a different design with each quilt I make. I am a process person. I love the process involved in art and have always engaged in forms that require a lot of process over time. Sometimes I forgo the product in favor of the process; once the process is achieved, mastered, I may move on to the next endeavor. It drives others crazy at times.
What I love about quilt making, and functional art in general, is the rich history behind the various forms. All art was initially functional; whether it served in the function of daily living or for ceremonial purposes it had a specific purpose. Rugs, blankets, dinnerware, clothing, over time all became more and more decorated as we had time to pursue that ideal. With the industrial age many handicrafts have been lost, replaced by machine work, their value minimized. For me, the problem with machines is that they are cold, coming between the creator and the creation; they tell no story.
Handmade artworks, whether they be functional or purely decorative, carry the energy of the maker. The many hours that went into creating the object required love, attention, concern and care. Laughter accompanied the groups that came together, whether to fire clay or create a quilt, laughter was woven into the fabric. And oftentimes tears accompanied the laughter.
Life is a process. We are conceived and carried to fruition in the bodies of our mothers wherein her laughter, tears, joy and fears are woven into our very being. We are born, live and die in a process laden culture. And we often fail to notice it is the process, not the product, that makes life worthwhile. If we valued the process, we would value the product so much more, that life that we let pass through our fingers as easily as the quilt my great aunt made for me, if not with me in mind, so many years ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment