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Materials matter, and Those of loved ones gone can live on

5/26/2018

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Clockwise from top left: Great-Grandfather Quilt; Dad's Throw; Tie Cushion. (Carlyn Yandle photos)
Materialistic. People say it like it's a bad thing.
But there's not necessarily anything selfish or hoardy or wasteful about feeling deeply connected to materials. If we all started being a little more materialistic we might not be now contending with the Great Pacific Garbage Patch or space junk. I want no part with parting so quickly from one-use-life materials when a meaningful second life is possible.

So when a couple of people dear to my heart were clearly torn about parting with some favourite clothes of their loved ones who recently passed away — one within this year, the other within 18 months — I felt it too.

These bits of cloth are interwoven with the memory of the wearer, his style, the special occasions and the everyday. Just looking at them hanging in the back closet brought the son, the wife, to tears. Some of that emotion is also about feeling at odds with what to do with it all. Yet holding onto useless things, especially in this town where we're so squeezed for space we have to go outside our living spaces just to change our mind, can even bring on some shame or panic that we can't let go, move on.

I felt the potency of the pieces too, and suggested selecting a few items to be repurposed into something that would bring comfort, and in remembrance.
The first project this spring was the Great-Grandfather Quilt, for the first of the next generation who missed meeting his great-grandfather by 9 months. The second was Dad's Blanket, which lives on one of the two matching sofas where father and son watched the baseball in his last three years. The third is a lumbar-support cushion made from silk ties that's parked on his wife's favourite reading chair.

It takes a bit of faith to allow those blazers and sweaters, ties and dress shirts to leave their dark cupboards and be subjected to my fibre-art experiments but I'm grateful they did. It was a little unnerving, plunging wool blazers into a hot-water-wash and tumble-dry, or severing several silk neckties in one swipe of the rotary cutter, but that's the deal with making and innovating: sometimes you have to take a deep breath and boldly go, risking failure.
And there is definitely failure in all of this making. Design changes happen on the fly, dictated by odd dimensions of the pieces and unpredictable fabric behaviour. (It's a thing.) Trying to wrestle slippery bias-cut silk, unstable cashmere knit and coat-heavy woven wool into submission enough to lie flat together is a test of one's patience. The trick is to embrace imperfection and keep the big picture in mind. I think about the Gees Bend quilters I saw a few years ago at Granville Island and the gospel spiritual song two of them sang at the start of their talk, and I say a little prayer myself: God I hope this works.

The other challenge is creating works that resonate with the spirit of the original wearer, so it's not just a matter of chopping up the clothing into tiny unidentifiable pieces to be re-fabricated in a generic quilt. You don't want to be too literal either, appliquéing ties into a Ties Quilt or (creepier) using every last button and pocket or (horrors) just sewing all the clothes together into a blanket or something.

Binding the one blanket with necktie fabric and appliquéing the suit labels in one corner of an army blanket backing (for the man who served in the US Army) felt like the right balance.

I post each Remembrance Pieces project on Facebook to inspire other material girls and guys, and to pay my respects to the stuff of life and to those of this life no longer.
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Making merry makes the maker

12/20/2013

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The Crassmas season is one big distraction to me. But once I remind myself that a gift does not have to be a solution to someone's problem but a simple, seasonal gesture, I embrace the chance to make, and make it merry.

The place is a happy mess. Wool strands are stuck to my glue gun nozzle, my slippers are splattered with spraypaint. Black plugs of leather from my new punch tool are lodged in my laptop keyboard and tiny glass beads have rolled into every corner of the apartment.

There is some method in all this mad, frivolous playing and decorating, but I only see the playing with ideas after the fact.

Turns out my spontaneously created (ie. still in pajamas) 'copper pipe' wreath (sliced wrapping paper rolls and copper spraypaint) was a practical exercise in understanding patterns of circles within circles — the focus of a major project next year.


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Glass-bead snowflakes, a dark-weeknight distraction, was a lesson in math ( a five-inch-diameter object requires a five-foot strand of beaded wire) and an experiment in creating area and density from line.

Crocheting chunky-wool slipper booties had its own lesson in scale; in this case, what looks cute in a kiddie size looks hideous in an adult version. (Breathe easy, teenagers.) 

The gingerbread A-frame cabins involved more industrial design than I anticipated and more geometry than I normally like to endure but was essential for gaining the most area out of four cookie-sheet squares of dough. The possibility that math can be fun is matched by my new-found fascination of some basic chemistry that reveals the power of heat to turn granular sugar into glass, and the power of water as the only solution for pots cemented with rock-hard sugar syrup.

I can't rationalize the pounds of candy and icing sugar I bought for the four kids to decorate the gingerbread camp. That I would ever indulge in that sort of seasonal folly is a freakin' Christmas miracle.

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Breaking up is hard to do

12/7/2012

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It's the most wonder-what-to-make time of the year — or used to be, for me. It was all tra-la-la-la-la and glue-guns and glitter puff paint back when I had the 9-5 office job. Messing with sparkle and colour was just the thing for fending off the stress of the day and the inky wet nights. My right brain happily buzzed as I explored how to make new kinds of gifties, from jester-style ski toques to mini twig wreaths. I even hosted an annual alcohol-fueled Craft Night for the Craftily Impaired. (Celebrity tangent: One year one of those half-gassed girlfriends ended up showing her little collection of homemade cards to an approving Eric "Will" McCormack at a bar later that night.)

But now I'm discovering that an emerging art practice is a major buzz-kill to what used to be a craft-tastic, shamelessly uncritical seasonal activity, a creative retreat from my daily managerial role. My extensive craft repertoire remains an important foundation for my work now but I have to move on. Learning quilling or book-binding is not moving my work forward, and the ol' right brain now needs a break at the end of the day. Those pure, fun seasonal jollies I used to get from learning to make a thing have now been replaced by regret for the time and effort spent on silly seasonal notions.

It's like I'm breaking up with crafting, but know I'll be seduced into a few more one-night stands before it's all over. 
This may be a glimmer of what the struggle looks like. 
To get through this transition I've been getting that hit of passion for making by cruising some serious crafters' blogs and online magazines. My primal heart beats, "Me make! Me make!" but my right brain says, "Not tonight; I have a headache."

Some crafty temptations, with seductively-free instructions:
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Snowflake gift-topper

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Felted slippers made from old wool sweaters. I'm so tempted.

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Origami business card holder

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Table-top tree made out of cereal boxes (pant! pant!)

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Weaving through weighty material

11/16/2012

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I needed to shed my years of sewing and knitting and general crafting so I went to art school. No more crochet hooks and embroidery hoops; I wanted to do Real Important Art.

But it was only after I could finally separate out all the crocheted pot-holders and felted figurines from the lump of Fibre Arts that I could see that this is a medium that offers endless innovation beyond what I wanted to do in paint or metal or wood.
Fibre arts has a global and historical connectedness but it's the culture embedded in those fibres that really carries weight. A doily is not just knotted cotton thread but a slightly-disdained symbol of women of a certain generation; a cheap polyester shirt can refer to class or sweatshops. Fibre is rarely neutral, but hot with connotations. It can be at once attractive and repulsive, modest and monumental. It can reveal the artist's intimate passion for the material or method and evoke ideas of global exploitation or environmental degradation — often in the same piece.

Vancouver sculptor and educator Liz Magor capitalizes on the cultural weight of fibre in her new show at the Catriona Jeffries gallery in Vancouver (through Dec. 22). It's impossible to feel nothing when confronted with revealed box after box of familiar yet altered, oddly-accessorized garments. They almost demand the viewer to connect the gaudy contents, construct a narrative, create a character. There's a lot of chatter in that quiet space.
Yet even the most abstracted, distilled fibre arts works have a lot to say.  A recent tour of the World of Threads international festival (continuing in Toronto to Dec. 2) revealed conceptual artworks fabricated from everything from brocade to pig intestine. A felted cloth full of gaping holes hangs heavy with dark emotion. An expansive, torqued mandala-like piece of dirt brown sisal and burlap is surprisingly uplifting. 

Or maybe it was just being in this gallery, in the company of some engaging examples of fibre artwork, just one of the many venues celebrating conceptual fibre arts during the fest.

It was quite a contrast to the art scene back home; Magor's show is an exception in this photo-conceptual-branded town.
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One of Liz Magor's many boxes of garments in the I is Being This show.









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Toronto artist Lorena Santin-Andrade's Warm, felted wool



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Lisa DiQuinzio's Good Morning, Midnight, 91" diameter
 

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Maker's mecca in downtown Toronto (for now)

11/9/2012

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A real trip: Toronto's textile-retail district is a visual feast for any kind of maker. (Carlyn Yandle photos)
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Stephen Cruise's 1997 public artwork at Richmond and Spadina. (Carlyn Yandle photo)
Like other Vancouver makers, I mourn the latest closures of stores dedicated to those who work with their hands, hearts and heads, for love or livelihood. Last month it was the needlework shop in my neighbourhood. Dressew is fast becoming the city's last great fabric store standing.

So the first chance I got while in Toronto last week I headed to the mecca for fibre-arts-makers: the Queen/Richmond/Spadina area. This bit of heaven boasts 100-year-old storefronts jam-packed with notions both humble and grand: a button shop — just buttons — next to one devoted to beads or ribbon or wool or shiny embellishments. Across from a luxury textiles boutique is a warehouse crammed with tables heaped with remnants. All in the space of a couple of blocks, and right in the thick of the city.

Yet even Canada's biggest textile retail district appears threatened by encroaching condo towers. (Note the billboard in this photo hawking pre-sale units in the "Fabrik" development on the site of the old King Textiles building.) 

Just when you think you're the last fabric-hound standing there's the World of Threads festival to restore the soul. This multi-venue Oakville-Toronto event showcases staggeringly skillful works embedded with rich ideas and spaces to consider, and to transcend. Despite the diversity of media and methods, a thread runs though this fest: in an all-too-consumptive art world these artists are grateful for the chance to show. The value of the work is not foremost in commericial saleability but is in the maker's connection to the material itself, the often transcendent physical experience of the making, and the connectedness to the pattern of art forms that pass down through families and through every culture.


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Unravelling the mystery of an unravelling rug (It's a lo-o-ong story)

3/25/2011

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Design has the most to say about the origin of what is commonly known as an Oriental carpet. But the patterns woven into a mysterious tattered, dun-coloured wool rug that has been in my family for as long as I can remember have led to more questions than answers.

My mother purchased the rug in 1969 at a Salvation Army thrift store in East Vancouver. As a long-time social justice activist, she was attracted to the two major central designs in the rug. They looked to her like bombs, and she was attracted to the notion that it may have been made in creative reaction to the war-zone region where it was woven.

This curious design saved it from an uncertain future 40 years ago, and saved it again during a recent “shoveling-out” of the old family cabin. Aside from the two bomb-like figures there are other mysterious pattern features: dark indigo lines of arrows that appear to point in specific directions; an intriguing, restrained use of white as a border highlight; faint yet distinct lines of pattern resembling field rows. The ‘bombs’ themselves are marked by subtle differences, including the fact that they are not the same size.

My general, limited knowledge of handmade area rugs told me at first glance that this was, at the very least, an Oriental rug, due to its pattern of a border surrounding a central field. It was also likely tribal, due to its asymmetrical dimensions — 80 centimetres at one end and 100 at the other — indicating it was made on a small, simple and probably transportable loom. It was also likely an important size to its nomadic makers; at just 170 centimeters in length and an almost brocade-like thickness, this lightweight carpet packs easily. The colourway reflects the largely barren region of the largely nomadic Central Asia, at least prior to 1969. The lack of saturated colours indicated that the wool might have been natural, from animals that would have been important for nomadic peoples such as camel, goats and sheep, or would have been dyed using natural plants or minerals found or traded in the region.

But it is the simple, abstracted geometrical patterning that is the most compelling indicator of its roots in rural Central Asia, as opposed to China, India and Persia where the complexity of those stable cultures is representative in the largely floral, ornate patterning.

Pattern would provide both definitive answers to location, but also more questions about how complex ideas of culture, the physical environment and the mystic can be embedded and encoded in deceptively simple patterns.

My hunch was that this was a prayer rug, and the ‘bombs’ were directional elements contributing to its purpose of orienting the worshiper toward Mecca.

Initial research did confirm that this was not a “war rug”, a highly collectible type that first appeared in the Steppes region of Afghanistan and northern Pakistan following the Soviet invasion in 1979.

So are these central features in the field known among collectors as the “main stripe” ships, buildings, fish? Anything resembling the images is at odds with the arid geographic location in which this rug was likely made.

Other than these two confounding images, this particular carpet resembles Turkmen rugs in terms of size and colours, however, the main stripe lacks the typical pattern of rectangular or octagonal ‘guls’ that many believe to be heraldic emblems. Also, its lack of a mihrab, or prayer arch, in the main stripe arguably discounts this as a prayer rug.

The simple abstracted geometrical border design of narrow frames, known as the guard stripe provides structure and focus in the same way that a frame highlights a painting but it is also the most useful part of a carpet’s design in determining place of origin. The border of the rug in question features a number of motifs, from a turret-like pattern, and a linking of triangles that may derive from the Tree of Life that is characteristic of all Oriental rugs including the strictly geometric pattern of Turkmen rugs. Any interruption of the flow of the pattern around the corners would indicate that the rug was copied from another rug or done by memory.

The fact that the dyes in my rug are essentially shades of brown, with navy and white used as outline connects it to the general group of Turkmen rugs, which are traditionally dyed with madder in shades that include browns and brick shades, and the limited use of black or dark brown outlines for to create subtle emphasis. 

However, the almost minimalist ground and subdued patterning points to weavers of tribal groups distinct from the Turkmen with whom they are usually associated. 

Research also reveals that the Balouch rug, also known as Beluch or Baluchistan, is often described as monotonous and drab. One blue and a small amount of white is typically used in contrast to a range of browns. This is an accurate description of my rug, which locates it within a people, but it is the one specific pattern set of the Balouch that is more intriguing.

The Balouch often incorporates the Tree of Life design, often on a camel ground, like mine. It may be an Engsi, a rug traditionally used as a closure on the tent-like entrance of nomadic dwelling, specifically a Khatchli design. Adding weight to that theory is the typical design of a Khatchli, which is Armenian for ‘cross-like.' A “cruciform paneling” essentially segments the rug main stripe into quarters and includes and “elem” panel at the bottom. The cross-like shape can be seen to mimic the panels in many wooden doors but also suggests a garden, according to one collector I found at a website on Oriental carpets.

This rug does seem to bear traces of the Khatchli layout, although without the elem panel. However, the two main images remain at odds with any examples shown in Khatchli rugs.

It was only after seeing an image posted on an online discussion board of a similar ‘bomb’ that I realized my rug was pictured upside-down. One collector/writer discusses this uncommon design:

“The footed vase design is referred to as Qalem Dani, or pen holder. Because of the protruding leaf forms, Westerners think of an upright holder for a quill or pen. The weavers more likely had in mind the Persian type of long, ovate, papier-mâché or wooden pencil box, richly ornamented with lacquer painting. It graphically shows how a pattern is simplified and then a specific element is extracted to become a major design element.”

The author says he believes the Yacub Khani sub-group of Balouchi weavers, who were not known for making prayer rugs, made the footed vase rug.

The arguments and theories continue, now more likely in online discussion boards dedicated to specific topics under the subject of the Oriental rug.

Three collector/academics at the most prominent non-commercial website for collectors of Oriental rugs I was able to locate weighed in on the rug and gave three different interpretations of the design. One suggested it was an Afghan rug featuring a design reflecting the narrow and pointed headstones of the area:

“The arrow-like devices could represent cypress trees, which have been associated with cemeteries for a very long time, or a fence around a tomb. Afghans and others visit cemeteries on their New Year. Some areas have a tradition of weaving a rug for the funeral and in Turkey many were then donated to the local mosque.”

Another agreed that it was likely not used for a door, also known as an “Engsi”, because it lacked the typical bottom panel design in the pattern. He theorized it was a Balouch floor rug, featuring an old design no longer used but roughly translated as “inkwell,” which may refer to the aforementioned “pen-holder” theory.

Another aficionado attributed the uniqueness of this rug to the possibility that it was a knock-off of another, more valuable rug style, while others on the discussion board suggested rugs with similar ‘emblems’ may be referencing the espaliered trees the weaving cultural groups were known for cultivating. 

The lively discussion reveals that although these tribal rug designs appear simple they are difficult to attribute and interpret because of a long history of cultural change in the region. As cities changed hands, so did the redistribution of tribal motifs to the point that the patterns cannot be definitively attributed to a particular group.

The exact meaning of specific patterns may be lost or simply unfathomable to western sensibilities, but their mystery continues to inspire discussion on matters both mundane and supernatural.

Considering the political upheaval and harsh physical environment in which this rug was likely created, it is reassuring that some aspects of tribal culture cannot be accessed, exposed, dissected and explained in definite terms.




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