I have alluded in other posts to a transition away from my creative immersion into a new phase of work.  That change signaled a metamorphosis - a movement beyond the cocoon.  The notion of the “return” is still a part of my process, but the embrace expands to include something larger – as if I have taken flight, still searching, but firmly on the path – and each creative act is a reunion of self with the enormous potential of the cosmos and a chance to dance with star-dust.  It is humbling to realize through all of this that I am a finite container on the third planet from the sun, situated within a vast solar system, engulfed by an even more impossibly-large galaxy, in a sea of galaxies filling the unfathomable universe….and butterflies are still free.

I am diving back into the flow of work and ideas – able to take some time to consider relationships, connections, to move ideas forward and bring their essence closer to being.  To be estranged from the heart of one’s creative light can be confusing and disturbing.  Sometimes the condition is the result of choices made, actions taken; sometimes it seems to come without provocation or invitation.  In either case it can stay well beyond any reasonable degree of tolerance and can make one’s creative process feel jerky, awkward, and strained …until one’s “groove” is recovered.  I am glad to be here in the flow once more, however temporary it may be.

Today I have been working with some nuno-felted cloth from the “vault”… dusted off, overdyed and recast as a wearable construction – the final form is starting to take shape, one act at a time.  This process is a deep one.  It represents a kind of cross-fertilization between past and present, taking on a level of complexity I did not have access to when the original cloth first came into being.  Cut and textured, with curious fringe –ties which double as the means for configuring the piece to a variety of shapes and forms on the body.  It is a history unfolding, this piece – an accumulation of layers and strands of past action and memory.  It starts to feel flexible, alive as it unpacks the memories of hopes and fears bound up in creating new work.  This is what I have been waiting for.

When I began my amazing creative immersion five years ago, I knew I had found my calling.   I also knew instinctively that I needed to give it space and time to grow.  What a gift to have had that opportunity!  Over time, I also grew to realize I would continue to support the growth and progress of my creative endeavors for the remainder of my life (and I’m hoping for the sake of the Work it there will be sufficient time within which to do that!).  In truth, I have been working on this, somewhat haphazardly, for a long time.  Many leads were followed but this was the first time I actually felt I was truly “on the path.”  So it is now with that “certainty” that I move from my current lifestyle-as-uninterrupted-creative-effusion to something. . .well. . .less so.  Of course, I really haven’t stopped the current, merely rechanneled it and, as a result, the material by product – i.e., the size and nature of the bodies of work – is changing.  What I am discovering is that as my life-focus, priorities, and supporting activities change, the intensity of my creative work and effort are actually increasing.  In short, I am distilling years of creative immersion into an essence which will (I hope) nourish the work for years to come. 

Without that lovely 5-year period, I would not have the discipline (or the courage) to do what I am doing now, nor would I feel I have a future of creative possibility still left to “unpack,” which I do.   It is for this reason that I experience no despair or regret over the shift, or worry over a future of incomplete satisfaction, or remorse for things not done in the past/lost to the past.  When one has a calling and a passion for something, no obstacle is large enough to undermine it.  Things may change, time and energy, access and resources, and many other variables may change, but the essence of the calling – the root connection to the passion –  continues. . .indeed, it cannot be denied.  It may be expressed in small works and in the temporal interstices of a life crowded with other responsibilities and relationships.  But it is still the Work.  And in truth, the quality of immersion that came out of my 5-year “grant” period is such that I am able to concentrate and focus within much smaller blocks of time and yield similar results.  I have prior experienced of this phenomenon as an outgrowth of movement meditation (thank you Dunya!) – visiting very deep wells in a relatively short period of time – so I know it is possible in any absorptive activity.  Although I would be deluding myself if I believed I would not be visited by moments of despair and frustration along the way, there is a certain comfort in knowing I can recognize and have access to that state as I move forward in my creative evolution.  

When I reach these junctures in my life and work (as I have noted before), I find I am inspired and uplifted by Lewis Hyde who has a talent for articulating the nature of art, creativity and the creative spirit in contemporary life in The Gift.  “We nourish the spirit by [realizing and] disbursing our gifts. . . .,” he writes, and I am reminded that the calling, the passion, the work are the gifts which carry with them an imperative – they must be expressed and shared else they perish.  The key to sustaining the work in the face of time and energy challenges is to surrender to this imperative. . .and to trust that the work will find its way into the cloth, onto paper or canvas, through the limbs, the voice, heart, mind. . .in fullness of time.

I am just beginning to grasp the scope of Kudzu’s use, as well as its many proponents and artisans here in the Southeast.  When we look out on the landscape, we may only see Kudzu’s insatiable hunger for more surface area over which to scramble.  Scratch a bit below the surface and we discover its ability to nourish and clothe us in myriad ways.  I think we can all benefit from a shift in attitude toward Kudzu.  Certainly, anyone who is interested in slow and sustainable textiles will want to learn more about, and work with, this truly amazing plant.

The entire structure was attached to a perfectly appointed V-branch with what look like blades of grass, apparently serving as a sort of “warp” or framework for the rest of the construction.  Interwoven were oak catkins, bits of decomposing bark, twigs, leaves and pine needles, now all dessicated, soon to slough off and rejoin the soil.  A simple but sturdy sanctuary, all made without hands.  Think about it.

We have had a good deal of rain in North Georgia – a welcome respite from the dry heat of late Spring. With all of that moisture in the mix, many a latent mushroom has pushed its way through soil, moss and leaf litter to play out its short, above-ground life cycle. A recent trip to the mountains revealed just how variously mushrooms have responded to these conditions – in one particular spot, condensed in an area of roughly a few thousand square feet, everything from Chanterelle and Boletus spp. to Amanita muscaria (and many more) were called forth.

As a student of native herbaceous perennials, I have typically focused on the ground with its rich layers of tone, color, pattern and texture. In addition to providing creative inspiration, attentiveness to the details of the ground layer cultivates a broader appreciation of the smallest creatures of the visible world, including all manner of insects and, of course, mushrooms. Fungi are our great allies (even the poisonous ones). They play an essential role in soil building and nutrient conversion. We could not live without them as they have, among other things, co-created the forests which shelter us and the earth on which we walk. Year-round, but especially in the Summer, mushrooms bring to mind the essence of both exuberant abundance and creative destruction.  Here are some photographic observations:

Click to view slideshow.

Mechanical resists are one of the most basic and enduring mark-making techniques on cloth, and although not structural, are as fundamental to the history of textiles as spinning, weaving and felting.  This class of resists includes stitching, folding, clamping, binding (including Ikat), and wrapping, and is known collectively in Japan as shibori.  The results are quite complex at times for such a seemingly simple process.  Key to these resists is the dye process:  all resists are only made manifest through that alchemy (whether through immersion or direct application). 

In mechanical resist dyeing there is a subtle dance of control and surrender.  Even the most skilled practitioners, who can produce a great deal of precision, allow that it is still a loose and ultimately imprecise practice (with the possible exception of stitched resists).  But that is its inherent beauty – and the root of my attraction to it.  Much of my textile production is exacting and not forgiving – This process allows me to step out of the way and let the surface unfold on its own.  Of course, I am still exercising my will over the process while I bind, stitch, etc., but after that, I let the serendipity of the dye pot take over.  And since the hand and heart of the binder/stitcher/clamper is as essential to the alchemy as the dye chemistry, I know no two pieces created will be alike….It is thrilling every time for me to witness the “emergent” in each piece (especially after folding/wrapping and binding). 

There are many wonderful books on this topic, including the definitive texts written by Yoshiko Iwamoto Wada, as well as one classic volume by Jack Lenore Larsen (see the “Books” tab).

Of the many issues I want to examine this year (see my last post for the definitive list!), is finding satisfying and more environmentally ethical alternatives to petroleum-based colorants.  I continue to use my usual dyestuffs but have been highly inspired by Australian artist, India Flint, who, in advance of her U.S. visit to the U.S., has received much attention this year for her “ecoprints.”  I began my process this year by exploring the wonderful world of rust – oxidized iron fragments -  in this case, oxidation is hastened by the use of vinegar. These surfaces in their intimacy are so suggestive of otherworldly terrain that they have supplied a suitable number of textural tangents to distract me from other work entirely!  Here is are samples from my excursions and an impression of a piece I am in the process of completing. 

Click to view slideshow.

Happy New Year!

I have been considering various points of departure for this year’s blog posts and have arrived at several which are interrelated.  As part of a lecture series I recently presented, I looked at various “slow textile” practices from historical, cross-cultural and contemporary perspectives.  Many slow textile practices that have been a part of human culture for millennia endure to this day and are enjoying major resurgences.  In their contemporary form, I wonder how many of them fare in terms of issues like energy and other non-renewable resource costs, social and environmental justice, and so on.  And further, what, if any, are the hidden costs of pursuing many of these practices today?  Which of these textile practices will endure in the event our highly complex society becomes less complex in the face of dwindling resources and energy access, or – to put in the parlance of the times – which are most sustainable over time and don’t require massive energy/non-renewable resource inputs? 

I want to engage in an honest examination of these issues in connection with my own work but I have queasy feelings about this whole line of inquiry.  Part of me argues (some would say justifiably so): “Hey, the practices of a small-scale artist have no measurable bearing on the rate at which resources are being depleted and the planet degraded.  I mean, I’m not a big industrial polluter who spoils the waterways, depletes energy supplies, practices labor abuses and displaces indigenous populations, etc., etc. – What impact could I possibly have on that?  And, wait a minute!  Having finally found my voice in this medium, must I now undermine the very means of that expression by looking at these questions at all?  All I want to do is keep cultivating my craft.  There is still much left to say and do!”   In the early 21st century, we keep on with life as we know it but realize it is fraught with contradiction. 

As I begin to examine the foundations of my creative practice, I wonder whether what I do is sustainable.  I don’t have to look very far to see that the materials available to my small workshop do come at a price.  For example, we generally don’t know much about the undyed cloth and fiber that comes from abroad – some of it may be inexpensive for us here, but may be manufactured or processed at significant cost to the source countries, whether by contributing to degradation of local waterways, promoting unfair labor practices, causing local community disruption, etc.  Many colorants used by small-scale textile artists are petroleum-based (although that is beginning to change and I will be looking more closely at natural dyeing in future posts), and I can foresee a future wherein the use of some of these supplies may become cost-prohibitive for the small workshop.  The cost of shipping has already become burdensome and the lack of local/regional sources for many of these supplies and materials makes it difficult to nurture a local supply economy without major reimaging and retooling.   For a time, I will continue to draw on resources with which I am most comfortable; however, I will also be actively engaging in reimaging and retooling for what I hope will be a more sustainable practice. 

To help me along the way, I will draw from history, share personal observations and collect stories from contemporary textile and fiber artists/craftspeople of our failures and successes, philosophical musings and hands-on, real-world solutions.  For now, I think one of biggest challenges to functional textile artists in particular is to find sustainable means to achieve our design goals.  Then we must reeducate and redefine the standards by which our work is evaluated.  For the larger body of textile/fiber craft, this could indeed be the basis of an entirely new branch of theory and criticism where work is evaluated not only on material and formal terms, but on social and environmental ethics terms.  I hope this will be an illuminating and empowering process, one that inspires lively discussion alongside a renewed purpose in our creative intention and activity.