Amy Meissner

Inheritance: makers. memory. myth.

5/18/2018

Inheritance is a project I've worked on for nearly 3 years. It began in 2015 when a woman in New York state sent me a box of mystery filled with linens and vintage garments, and based on the response I received from sharing that story online, I officially crowdsourced more household, handmade/hand-embroidered cloth, along with associated stories. I offered to become the final inheritor of it all, even though most of the origins and makers were Unknown.

"Inheritance: makers. memory. myth." installed at the Anchorage Museum.

Also unknown, was what a body of work made from cast off, abandoned, sometimes-unwanted, or even still-loved-but-burdensome objects would look like. Even when I submitted the proposal to the Anchorage Museum in 2016, I had little to show, but must have been convincing in my direction. I gave up so much control over my materials during the course of this project that it's changed the way I work. After 12 years in the clothing industry, I already endure a rocky relationship with clothing and fabric, but after this exercise in mindfulness, strange abundance and deep emotional dives, I have more ways to side-eye run-of-the-mill cloth.

Yesterday, I walked into the fabric store to by 1.3 meters of fabric to back a piece I'm finishing, found exactly what I was looking for, pulled out the bolt, walked 5 steps and stopped. My daughter, age 9, who was with me when I opened that first box of mystery and there for the dozens that followed, said, "I think I understand, mom," and then, "I don't want be in here anymore. Let's go." So I returned the perfect bolt of cloth to the shelf and we walked out the door.

We aren't snobs, we aren't garbage pickers (well, sometimes), but going through this process has put me somewhere in the middle -- somewhere between what can be and what was, between old and new, between shouting and silence, between the beautiful and terrible, between confidence and uncertainty, between hiding everything and baring all.

And always, always existing in the Not Knowing.

Artist Statement, "Inheritance: makers. memory. myth." Anchorage Museum, Alaska. 2018.

Here's something I feel strongly about: theme kills. Entering into a project -- whether writing or visual arts -- with a theme in mind is a mistake. Themes emerge from the Not Knowing and from probing the Living Questions.

"Hysteria," Approx. 105 W x 90 H Vintage potholders, doilies, domestic/household linens, abandoned quilt, 2018.

My work explores the work of women--literal, physical, emotional. Theme emerges from stomping around on this landscape, turning over rocks, lifting dead things to find new growth, or investigating why that thing shriveled and died in the first place.

"Descent," (Suspended component: 9W x 20H x 9D, flat assemblage: 35 W x 53 L) Vintage doilies, silk organza, rubber, wire, epoxy clay, 2017.

These materials could have been debilitating, or narrow. They were. But roaming and poking at every single corner inside those confines is the ultimate freedom.

13W x 43H Vintage Persian lamb coat, vintage “yo-yo“quilt components, satin and men’s ties, rope, wire, epoxy clay, 2018.

I pushed against the confines of form and these surface-bound artifacts -- base items made for the bed, the body, the table, the wall -- elevating and lightening them, while at the same time infusing them with weight.

"Panoply," (8”H x 8” W x 36” L -- installation dimensions vary) Vintage crocheted potholders, adhesive, acrylic, vintage wool embroidery thread, needles, 2017.

I wanted to look at things we generally don't.

"River" (36 ½” W x 20’ 10” L) Vintage domestic/household linens and doilies, abandoned embroideries, silk organza, cotton, linen, wool, 2018.

And open up the process to as many other hands as I could.

"Needle & Myth," Community Art Project. (approx 120" x 150") Vintage handkerchiefs, silk organza, found objects.

I met incredible generous people throughout this multi-year process, many of whom I now call friends. Some are traveling to Alaska this summer to see this work installed at the Anchorage Museum.

Eventually I'll share more about each of these pieces -- where the components came from, process images and further thoughts. But the next posts will be about the installation process and museum programming. There are so many things I've learned that will continue shaping how I approach future projects.

I'm so happy with this work, even when I thought it wasn't enough, or too much, or that I shouldn't have started down such a path in the first place.

I'm still wandering around on it, somewhere between lost and found.

Many thanks to Brian Adams for taking these gorgeous photos, to the Anchorage Museum for all of their unfailing support and guidance, to the Rasmuson Foundation and the Sustainable Arts Foundation for funding assistance to do this work.

1 year ago on this blog:

A history of intention. (The piece in this blog, "Fatigue Threshold," is part of this body of work, but is currently touring with Quilt National until October 2019).

2 years ago on this blog:

Unicorn heart.

3 years ago on this blog:

Fool's gold.

24 Comments

A history of treasure.

2/12/2018

21 Comments

Amy Meissner, textile artist. | From the post, A history of treasure. | www.amymeissner.com/blog/a-history-of-treasure

This winter I was honored to be asked to create a series of small works to be presented to four recipients of the Governor's Awards for the Arts and Humanities here in Alaska. The awards ceremony was held last week in Juneau, and while the idea of giving a recipient a piece of artwork instead of a laser-engraved object is exciting on its own, an even more exciting idea is giving textile-based artwork. And even MORE exciting than this, is presenting textile artwork from TWO different artists: myself and good friend, Maria Shell. Maria wrote about the pieces she created for the awards in a recent blog post: Memento. Her work is intricate, vibrant, lovely, intense. I've been a fan of hers for a long time and happy to say we've been friends for a long time, now too.

If you've followed this blog for a while, you'll know my family cleans beaches in Prince William Sound during the summer. This isn't a paid gig. Nor is it official. Nor is it helpful when we accidentally clean monitored beaches (sorry, it had junk on it, we didn't know you were counting exactly how much). It also isn't pleasant. But the reward is generally a pocket full of rocks. We never take anything from a beach unless we've cleaned it, and most of the time we don't find anything interesting unless we've cleaned it first, anyway. We've been known to cruise back into the harbor with a couple hundred pounds of ghost nets, rope, and too many plastic water bottles to count. We recycle what we can, dispose of the rest. Twice, my son has found the coveted Lego Piece. Once, I found a fairy tea cup.

It's a treasure hunt.

The requested dimensions for the awards commission was 12" x 12" or smaller, so I used 10" x 10" x 2" cradled board, which I pre-finished with 2 coats of polyurethane. I use an upholstery technique on the reverse, which I receive great joy from because I get to use a hammer and beautiful nails called cut tacks, plus it's a clean finish. The materials for this small series are an amalgam of the Reliquary Series and items sent to me for the Inheritance Project. The grey linen is new, but the rest is not. The materials include vintage shantung drapes and heavy taffeta, vintage unfinished needlepoint, crocheted doilies and trims (which I dyed) and beach stones from Prince William Sound and Nome, which are the oldest thing of all.

Four of the works were selected for awards, a fifth will remain in the permanent collection of the Alaska Humanities Forum. They are lovely as a collection, but strong enough to exist on their own.

Amy Meissner, textile artist. | Fossil Series | From the post, A history of treasure. | www.amymeissner.com/blog/a-history-of-treasure

"Fossil #1," (10" x 10" x 2") Vintage bobbin lace, shantung drapes and abandoned needlepoint, linen, found objects. 2018. Photography, Brian Adams.

I think a lot about language and titles, expecting them to work hard and be clear. "Vintage," for example, is anything over 20 years old, while "Antique" is over 100.

Some words I do not use in the lexicon of my current work: "upcycled," "recycled," "stash." These words are tired. They are a contemporary attempt to turn something that frugal women have always done into something new and exciting. These words make me feel like someone is about to sell me something I don't need.

I'm the stoic daughter of an American water well driller and a Swede raised on a farm by grandparents so "Work" is a word I use a lot. "Play" is a word I use, but never in my studio.

"If work was fun they wouldn't call it 'Work' -- they'd call it 'Fun.'
And then we'd all wake up and go to 'Fun' every day."

--My Dad

I know, I know, but "Play" is different from "Challenging."
And "Fun is different than "Pleasing" or "Satisfying."

"Fossil #2," (10" x 10" x 2") Vintage crocheted trim and doilies, shantung drapes and abandoned needlepoint, linen, found objects. 2018. Photography, Brian Adams.

"Fossil #3," (10" x 10" x 2") Vintage doilies, shantung drapes and abandoned needlepoint, linen, taffeta, found objects. 2018. Photography, Brian Adams.

Why does any of this matter? Because words matter. There is a difference, for example, between an "Art Quilter" and a "Quilt Artist" (something Maria Shell brought up just the other day). A person can be "crafty" like a fox or "crafty" with popsicle sticks, while the elements of "Craft" versus the "crafting" of a work all have different weights and meanings.

(And also, before it was called "Craft," it was called "Work" and everyone did it, every day, for various reasons and with varying degrees of skill. It took an Industrial Revolution before the idea of Craft was even a thing.)

"Fossil #4," (10" x 10" x 2") Vintage crocheted doilies, shantung drapes and upholstery, cotton, found objects. 2018. Photography, Brian Adams.

This is not an argument for Art versus Craft. This is an argument for Language and using it in a way that evokes clarity, yet opens a door for further interpretation.

Are these actual fossils? No. I probably need a permit to remove fossils from an Alaskan beach. But they conjure the idea of something rare and hunted for -- or stumbled upon -- evidence of a life before our own. Titles have to work hard. They are the extra narrative layer that pushes a piece beyond what you see visually. Titles can reiterate a piece (and I've certainly got a few titles I wish I'd spent an extra week or year considering in order to avoid this), but please consider the rich narrative difference between "The Doilies and Rocks Series" versus the "Fossil Series."

I personally want nothing to do with the "Doilies and Rocks Series."

"Fossil #5," (10" x 10" x 2") Vintage crocheted trim and doilies, upholstery, linen, found objects. 2018. Photography, Brian Adams.

And then there is Dada.

Consider, the difference between "Dada the Cat," being named after an art movement (so cool), versus "Dada the Cat" actually being re-named when my 2-year old couldn't yell "SIMON!" at the sliding door, but he could yell "DA-DA!" (the reality). My husband is "Papa," so, zero confusion on that front.

Does this change your perception of Dada? Of course not, he's still just a Siamese on a diet. But you've got to love a double meaning. Even still, it took 8 years for us to admit to the vet that this fat animal's name isn't "Simon" and it should be updated for their files.

Sometimes weighty titles are personal. Sometimes everybody gets it.

A year ago on this blog:

The final boxes of mystery. (except they weren't, because they still keep coming...)

Two years ago on this blog:

A history of relics.

Three years ago on this blog:

Find your teachers: Bren Ahearn (I need to start this blog series again and keep profiling other artists I admire...also, I need to drop Bren a line instead of just stalking him on Instagram @brenahearn).

21 Comments

The 27th boxes of mystery.

1/31/2018

7 Comments

Amy Meissner, textile artist. | From The 27th boxes of mystery. | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-27th-boxes-of-mystery

Handmade clay buttons. Circa: 1977.

I "officially" stopped collecting boxes of mystery for the Inheritance Project a long time ago. Like, September-30th-2016-long-time ago. But in the way I always accepted old cloth before the Project became a thing, I still accept it now.

At the end of this post is a sneak peek at one of the pieces from the Inheritance Project body of work, and when I send out the next newsletter, I'll give another peek there. I just finished a large piece yesterday and I'm on the home stretch for a May exhibition at the Anchorage Museum.

Meanwhile, a deep and belated thank you to the next two Vintage Linen Contributors to the Inheritance Project. These items were delivered this fall.

Life Essence.

Many Contributors to this project are artists, and Anchorage-based Carol Lambert is no exception. I met Carol two years ago, when we were both curated into a small group show at Alaska Pacific University called Fragments of Time. She is a fine artist -- draws, paints, and is someone whose eye seeks the details that flesh out the darker undercurrents of life: a severed bird wing, a bit of bone. Around Christmas, she opened her studio and offered years-worth of still life props to other artists and makers who could find them useful. Alas, I didn't make it to her open studio prop give away, but I'd already visited with her in my own studio this fall when she delivered culled fabrics and accoutrements. Of course, these items blended easily into my life, despite how long it's taken me to share them here. So long, in fact, that I've already used several yards of it (although the Canadian in me really still likes to think in meters). Thank you, Carol, for contributing to the Inheritance Project and for attending one of the Needle & Myth workshops at the Anchorage Museum this fall. It's been a delight to follow your work all this time.

You, too, can see Carol's paintings and drawings here, and/or follow Carol on Instagram: @carollambertarts.

Various linens and shantungs, some old, some a little newer.

Several yards of fluid wedding gown satin found in Carol's mother's mother's drawer, circa: pre-1969, unused (age-worn and gorgeous). An Irish linen sheet with a "B. Altman, New York" label. Various other linens and chunks of newer upholstery with crewel embroidery designs.

Orange silk, originally a skirt and may become one again. So gorgeous.

All the various trims and hem lace/tape we all collect, but rarely have use for in contemporary dressmaking projects. The bottom row (left features a length of sturdy handmade bobbin lace trim and a lace dickie (false blouse front), which I've since dyed charcoal grey.

Handmade clay buttons: Maker: a family member in her 20's; Circa, 1977; Origin, unknown. They came in that groovy star-covered box at the beginning of this post, featuring that US Bicentennial vibe. So good.

Teeny tiny petit point on a linen napkin/handkerchief. Not to be confused with a really big dime.

Matching embroidered linen tea towels. Circa, Origin, Maker: Unknown.

Arizona Hardscrabble.

Thank you to Dennis Anderson, one of two men who have contributed to the Inheritance Project. Dennis and I were put in contact through the International Quilt Study Center & Museum in Lincoln, Nebraska last fall. The quilt he contributed was made by his Great Grandmother, Hettie, on a Singer treadle sewing machine. I love this photo of her and have it on the wall in my studio. It's a source of great joy and defiant power.

Do not mess with this lady. Do not.

Hettie Colliie Nickell Harrison. Born 1873 at Str Lime Works, Lyon County KY. Now underwater as part of the creation of Lakes National Park.

"Please use the photograph to the fullest. I love that picture. My mother said that Hettie always dressed that way. The ranch house had a wind mill with a 100 gallon tank about 50 feet from the home. When I spent a week end there about 1949 they had running water in the kitchen. I don't know about a bathroom. They had an outhouse about 100 feet from the house. It was a one seater with the quarter moon cut out in the door. And HONEST To GOSH a Sears and Roebuck catalog toilet paper."

--Dennis Anderson, Contributor

Hettie collected Bull Durham tobacco pouches from her husband and the cowboys at neighboring ranches, using the cloth to make this quilt. It is sun faded and water stained, but I've already incorporated a baby quilt and another piece -- an unfinished embroidery from Olga Norris in England, with its own story of strength and defiance -- to complete "War Room," for exhibition this May. Below is a sneak peek. For those of you who follow me on Instagram, here's where those 2,000 tapestry needles landed.

"In that quilt is the love of the Anderson family. Hope you can find a place for it in your artwork." Dennis Anderson, Contributor.

"War Room," (46" x 62") Baby quilt, quilt, abandoned embroidery, domestic linens, foam, tapestry needles, 2017.

One year ago on this site:

The Thread Unraveled -- VM Art Gallery, Karachi Pakistan.

Two years ago on this site:

Broadsided.

Three years ago on this site:

Worth Keeping.

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6 Needle & Myth workshops.

12/4/2017

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Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post 6 Needle & Myth workshops. | www.amymeissner.com/blog/6-needle-&-myth-workshops

"She played bridge, tennis, smoked and needlepoint. She thought Tang was a good source of Vitamin C. Those are things I remember about her. And she loved the Lord. Of all those things, her needlepoint is all that is left in the tangible world, but the rest must be inherited in another way."

Diana Weymar, Artist, Writer, Curator and Vintage Linen Contributor, describing her Grandmother in The 14th boxes of mystery.

How well do we know anyone, even people we see everyday?
And how can we possibly know people who've left us, especially if they never allowed us know them in the first place?
And then, the impossible task of knowing someone who remains unknown because history has failed to attribute her time, her marks.

We can gather our scraps.
We can pick through memory.
We can re-consider.
We can collaborate.
We can create a new mythology.

Last spring I received a Rasmuson Foundation project grant in support of the Inheritance Project. A portion of the grant allowed me to complete a special workshop series this fall at the Anchorage Museum; "Needle & Myth" was designed as five, 2-hour sessions for small work groups of artists, makers, museum members and the public, with a 6th session added at the end. The work generated in these work sessions will become a large community piece installed in May with the exhibition Inheritance: makers. memory. myth. My gratitude to the Rasmuson Foundation for the gift of time, to the Anchorage Museum for the gift of support and space.

I originally prepared 45 or 50 panels, we completed 80.

Over 70 people participated. My deepest gratitude goes to them.

I asked registrants to consider the following prompt before arriving: "She was ____." or "She is ____." This single word or short phrase was then embroidered onto a prepared panel, a linen handkerchief mounted on sheer silk organza. (I received around 85 hankies during the crowdsourcing portion of the Inheritance Project. One Contributor sent me her entire collection of 33). I also asked participants to bring a small, lightweight object, which we then mounted or embedded between the cloth layers. The sheer panels are numbered, and when hung together begin to form a more complete picture of a complex woman, of ourselves.

"...harlot, always making things beautiful, an artist mother, brave, powerful, powerless, rooted, tough as nails, sew much love, too attached, happiness, iguapaeterei, je brule, the matriarch, my only comfort, worth the time, unknown, clever, a weather pattern..."

When was the last time you spent a full two hours considering a handful of words? Hand stitching forces you to slow and consider a needle's placement to achieve a certain curve or line, but this is a small technical thing. What I hoped this project would do was create a 2-hour space to honor memory -- some of it pleasant, some of it painful.

"...These handkerchiefs have probably found their way to countless libraries, golf courses, and trips both across the country and abroad. These everyday items wear the lives of my grandparents."

Kathleen Probst, Artist and Vintage Linen Contributor, fromThe 18th boxes of mystery.

"...daring and original, once mine, into thy hands, everything, graphic, judgmental, a hearty babushka, one of those mean-mean-mean girls, paying attention, the only one, brave, busy, patient, fearless, the tie that binds, a red head, our treasure (hunter), happy, enough, a survivor, tall, an artisan..."

Five men attended. And two children. Six languages are represented.

When one woman told the story of her beautiful mother's two abusive marriages, the entire room fell silent. When another woman shared her mother-in-law's journey from China to Peru to the US with 10 children in tow, the same thing happened. And again, when a woman explained how she'd created the panel for herself, her mother-in-law and the four babies they'd lost. When another woman furtively shared that her mother sometimes stole things, "maybe just a little," we laughed, but then retreated inwards to consider this. Not to judge, but consider. Because aren't we all guilty?

And aren't we -- aren't women -- all worthy of awe?

The safety of a space like this is generated when a task is on the table. No one has to make eye contact with storytellers, no one has to respond directly. There is a reason why the tradition of gathering for handwork has remained so strong for generations.

"...resilient, authentic, finding herself, a complex woman, covered in glitter and dancing like a fiend, ancestral, a smoother of roughness, a Kansas City girl, heartbroken, trouble, delightful, beautifully strong, beautifully hidden, so much more than I ever knew, far from home, grieving, an oasis, told to be quiet, an artist, mom..."

After the workshops, one of the participants sent a link to this TED Talk. It put a lot of things into perspective and gave a broader language for what I was, and am, trying to do. Perhaps it explains why so many people came, sometimes more than once, to such quiet gatherings.

"...enough, unknowingly lonely, frail, gentle, kind, in my heart, still full of wonder, my very first sewing role model and idol, so witty, a twin, a mother trucker, bright, my rock, mother, a sailboat captain, a birdie, mujer mexicana migrante, a fairy with strong wishes, love, a stout woman, persistent...."

I'm now in the process of finishing: taking up the stitches left undone, considering the panel order, planning their mount. I've been asked many times if this will be a quilt. It will not. I can tell you it will suspend and hope viewers will be able to journey around each piece, because the messy b-sides are just as valid as all those pretty facades.

Maybe more so.

One year ago on this blog:

How to raise a dragon.

Two years ago on this blog:

The fourth boxes of mystery.

Three years ago on this blog:

How to be better.

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Of course, no place like Nome.

11/12/2017

4 Comments

I've lived in Alaska for 17 years, but I'd never been to Nome. With distances as vast as this state's, I haven't been many places, but hope to change that. First off, props to my husband's architecture firm who completed the Richard Foster Building in Nome last year. It houses the Carrie McLain Memorial Museum, the Kegoayah Kozga Public Library and the Katirvik Cultural Center -- three entities with individual histories and voices that united to create a space of beauty and heritage. We came to attend the grand re-opening, now that all the museum exhibits are fully installed.

Richard Foster Building, Nome Alaska. ECIAlaska Architects.

This structure, like others built on permafrost, is erected on stilts. Unlike other places in the world, stilts in the Arctic have little to do with one hundred-year flood plains and everything to do with drifting snow and -- more importantly -- the heat generated from the building itself, which will melt the permafrost beneath.

Think about that for a bit, then consider the large-scale consequences. Of course, the most blatant destruction doesn't point fingers at single buildings, but, in part, to the actions of an entire world.

Richard Foster Building, Nome Alaska. ECIAlaska Architects.

To the left: the Bering Sea (Norton Sound). To the right: Downtown Nome

Official signage.

Maybe Nome sounds familiar, but you aren't sure why. If I explain it's the official finish line to the 1,000-mile long Iditarod sled dog race, this might jog your memory of its recent history, but the area's deeper culture spans thousands of years. If you study the map below, it begins to build a picture of Alaska that most people don't fully understand. What I've seen on some language maps referred to as "Eskimo" doesn't exist on this one. And what might seem like an empty, stark landscape is full of culture and tradition that resonates in the various arts practiced by its inhabitants, native and non native.

The work of Alaskan artist, Sonja Kelliher-Combs, hangs prominently in the Katirvik Cultural Center's entryway, with additional work in the gathering room. Sonja grew up in Nome, but is now based in Anchorage. Her work is immediately identifiable and much desired; I feel even more of a pull to it now that I've been to the landscape of her childhood. (Please visit her website and body of work. Hers was some of the first Alaskan art I encountered 17 years ago at the Decker/Morris Gallery when I moved to Anchorage from Vancouver, Canada, and thought, "Hang on, this place might be ok").

Her work still punches me in the gut.

Mixed media work by Sonja Kelliher-Combs in the Katirvik Cultural Center, Nome, Alaska.

I was so honored to bring my children to Nome, even if it was for a short time. I'm honored they have the privilege of growing up in Alaska, honored we get to live and work here, inspired by land, culture and an extreme, changing climate.

Children who come from this place will be forced to solve problems we can't yet imagine. Crossing cultural divides with grace and empathy is a major piece of their future. Understanding consequences is another. Taking risks is another part of the equation.

Some of the largest storms in the world begin in the Bering Sea, but consider the origins of the greatest sea change.

If you think this post prods at a lot , you're correct. I'm thinking about all all of this, all the time.

Reindeer, rabbit and beaver fur wall hanging, circa 1910. Carrie McLain Memorial Museum, Nome, Alaska. Maker not identified.

One year ago on this blog.

Ice. (Because, Alaska).

Two years ago on this blog.

Splitting open the idea. (The brave seed to the Inheritance Project, which I continue to generate work for, and therefore blog less).

Three years ago on this blog.

A history of chaos. (And here's where I'll reveal my own #metoo, although the extent isn't divulged in this post, and feel I'll never do more than dance around what still has very little clarity for me. I understand so much about women's silence, and am grateful I had the choice and resources -- emotional and otherwise -- to simply slip away).

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Inheritance: makers. memory. myth.

1 year ago on this blog:

2 years ago on this blog:

3 years ago on this blog:

A history of treasure.

A year ago on this blog:

Two years ago on this blog:

Three years ago on this blog:

The 27th boxes of mystery.

Life Essence.

Arizona Hardscrabble.

One year ago on this site:

Two years ago on this site:

Three years ago on this site:

6 Needle & Myth workshops.

One year ago on this blog:

Two years ago on this blog:

Three years ago on this blog:

Of course, no place like Nome.

One year ago on this blog.

Two years ago on this blog.

Three years ago on this blog.

Amy Meissner

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