In 2003, in a wandering-around-a-Swedish-city-where-I-could-maybe-get-us-fed-as-long-as-I-only-had-to-ask-for-an-open-faced-sandwich-and-a-cup-of-coffee kind of way, we stumbled upon Gothenburg's Rohsska Museum. A new exhibition had just opened, and while I'd never heard of this artist and my husband and I were mid-afternoon crabby (what we really needed was an open-faced sandwich and a cup of coffee), the signage for this bright, textile-y exhibit was alluring and people poured through the front doors, so we checked it out. The work on exhibit was by a guy named Kaffe Fassett. (I know, right, you've never heard of him either.) And as I bumped into Swedes who'd stopped to inspect the seashell-inspired needlepoint upholstery and the enormous colorful sweaters and the prolific monochromatic quilts, I jammed my fists deeper into my pockets because I really (and I mean, really) wanted to flip all these things inside out. I wanted to inspect edge finishes and backs. Analyze materials. Squeeze. Prod. I know my gallery-visiting self well enough to keep the pokey fingers on lockdown, but others apparently didn't because the security guard spent the afternoon rushing all over the place, politely asking for restraint. This was hard for the particular group gathered there that afternoon. My Swedish isn't great, but I recognize an undertone when I hear one. I can translate a petty criticism, a fleeting muttered comment. That hem doesn't hang straight. Does he really make all these things by himself? The stitches are uneven. That sweater needs to get blocked. I wish I had a photograph of a certain needlepoint tapestry that hung down over an entryway -- not because of the remarkable work, but because of the hilarity of watching every single Swede that walked beneath it contort their necks to view the snarled wool and knots visible on the warped back side. I can make fun of Swedes because I am one -- well, a half a one plus a bit of one -- and because I shared their thoughts that afternoon. Anyone who has been taught to sew by a Swede (or a German or a Dane or a Norwegian or a Finn, or a Russian Grandmother ... etc.) and has survived the PTSD of, "The back has to look as good as the front," or the dreaded, "You have to rip this out because it's not perfect," will tell you: This kind of thinking is REALLY hard to shake. My mother taught me how to embroider when I was about 3 or 4. Taught me how to use a Viking machine and to manipulate a Simplicity pattern when I was 9. And then I took off. At 17 I knew my way around a Brother industrial single needle, could troubleshoot and rethread an industrial 5-thread overlock, and began training with a designer while going to undergraduate school for degrees in art and textiles. My mother was then asking me for sewing advice. And here's where I have to take a second to collect my thoughts, because this was going to be a post about how I really have a dislike for commercial fabrics. How nothing zaps my creative energy faster than a fabric store. How, in order to use the vintage fabrics and thrift store clothing and linens that really fire me up, I have to back almost everything with cotton interlining and this is where I employ all that commercial quilting fabric. This was going to be a post about technique. I was going to flip my work inside out and show you all the B-sides. Show you something that maybe everyone else is already doing, but I'm too silly and in my head to know this. And yes, I do press the majority of my seams open. It reduces bulk and this technique amasses it. But now I'm bored with this whole idea. Why talk about it more? You get it: interesting, yet thin fabrics + hours of extra work + structural reinforcement = Content Swede. Right. So, I'm far more curious about that sentence up there, the one about my mom asking for help with the skill she taught me in the first place ... this resonates with me all of a sudden. I'm interested in mining that intersection of motherhood and childhood and the ideas and techniques that are passed on, because what, exactly, does it mean to have your child suddenly become more proficient at something than you are? It's going to happen. We want this to happen for our children. We want to give them the tools and the foundation and the skills to go out into the world and forge their own way. A master tailor I worked for, Manuel, used to say "Kill the father," meaning, "Become better at this than I am." But when does what we teach our children become a hindrance? When is our voice a muttering, petty criticism that lodges in their minds and keeps them from moving freely into creativity? Keeps them forever ripping out the same seam again and again until nothing's left but a hole? In our house my husband and I have a gentle reminder for one another with regards to what we say to our children. Sometimes laughed out loud, sometimes muttered in passing, it is: Hear you, hearing you. --My 8-year old claiming that the boy in his swim class is "inappropriate and disrespectful towards the teacher?" Hear you, hearing you. --My 6-year old wanting to loan a book to a friend "so she can get a sense for the overall series?" Hear you, hearing you. --Both of them bursting into tears over this or that project because they can't make it perfect? The first time? Hear you, hearing you. And a museum full of Swedes one afternoon, who've been taught to work by hand with stoic perfection, viewing a wild riot of colorful textile gestures, seemingly created at a speed barely able to keep pace with the ideas tumbling out? Hear a generation, hearing a generation...and a generation, and a generation, and a generation. That's scary. So, do we embrace these voices, this history, in our work? In our lives? Or do we heave and push against it? Or both. Maybe it's some kind of luxury to take the time to even think about it, but sometimes the work takes so long that all I have is time to wander around in my head, bumping into all those other Swedes. I spend more time undoing perfect stitches in an attempt to free the look of the hand than I do ripping out actual mistakes. I'm unraveling on a cellular level. Damn ... here I've gotten all heavy and flipped myself inside out to present my B-side for you all to prod. Makes me realize I need a cup of coffee. Here, I'll order one for you, too, and we'll page through this lovely Kaffe Fassett book. Then let's just take a peek at the back of this stitching here and assure this Little One that the knots and wool snarls don't matter. It's all easily fixed and no, you don't have to re-do it, and no, we're not re-doing it for you. Because what we want her to embrace and understand and carry with her into adulthood is the idea that it's the motivation to keep going that is the true perfection.
12 Comments
Greek grandmothers were also tyrants about the B side!
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So funny that you posted this the same day I posted an article about the back of one of my pieces. Love that shot of the back of your piece that looks like writing (first one in the article) It might be interesting to do a piece backwards. In other words work on the front but end up on the back. The backwards writing with knots and twists adds a level of intrigue to the view. Sort of a "post secret" of quilts, only you would need to know the message. The rest of us could see our own query.
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12/22/2014 12:47:55 am
Paula--great minds must be thinking alike...either that or they're running out of topics to post about...kidding...we'll NEVER run out of ideas!
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Oh man, the curse of the perfectionist! I think this is where the artisan and the artist crash together. I think we have to decide what we are. Are we a backside person, that rips seams out and constantly judges and re-invents the wheel? Or are we artists that move through the knots, tangles (egads perhaps incorporates them?) of the work. Our art group had a non-textile artist (he was a painter and printmaker from NY) come and critique some of our work, and you know what? He never, ever once looked at our backs, or stitch lengths or ANY of it. He did talk about context, intent, impact and for a few minutes, color, form, texture. It was all about how the artist was conveying the message to the views. Eye opening.
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12/17/2014 01:57:08 am
This post has brought up a lot of memories and thoughts from needleworkers on various social media outlets, as well as some debate as to whether perfection is a hindrance to one's "art." And here's the thing: not everyone is an artist. Not everyone is a diva architect. Not everyone is on the New York Times Best Seller List, but we ALL have a responsibility to learn a craft before we can begin to push the limits of any medium. Being stifled is part of the process, it is the tension on the slingshot before it is released. The ability to move beyond the boundaries of stasis is where art begins to emerge, but you can't build an avant garde ANYTHING on top of a crap foundation and expect it to endure. Here's where I can't help but feel like "craft" is a component of any art form. All artists are artisans, but not all artisans are artists. However, we all owe it to our respective professions to be the best we can possibly be through practice and production, and by remaining students of theory and acknowledging the persistent questions living within.
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Bobbie Molony
12/18/2014 07:48:22 am
I read this post and I really resonated with your statements about "Kill the Father" and I transposed it to read "Kill the Mother" who I am struggling with at the very young age of 73. My mother has been gone for about 25 years, and I am just now sorting through the legacy that she has left me and giving myself the permission to move beyond that legacy and establishing a legacy of my own for my children and grand children. Thank you for these thoughts.
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12/22/2014 12:28:15 am
Bobbie--thank you for sharing your thoughts and what I'm sure has been and still is an arduous journey of self-discovery. I hope that at 73 I'm still mindful of my own legacy, and haven't descended into complacency. I wish you all the best with your self-permission. You deserve it! XO Amy
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12/21/2014 04:37:44 pm
Unlike you Amy I had no grandmother to teach me sewing. I did learn some things from my mother and at school. I can't remember if the back had look like the front but I soon learned how to keep the reverse side neat. I entered dressmaking competitions and although i reached a certain level of competence and my clothes sat well and looked good, I was told the finishing of my seams was underpar. I didn't know about overlockers then back in the 60's.
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12/22/2014 12:45:57 am
Catherine--thank you for sharing so much about your work and history here. You're so right about the how the eye wrestles with "perfection." Are we just always seeking out mistakes in so-called "perfect work"? Or do we more readily accept the small imperfections, inconsistencies and lack of symmetry of we are familiar with already in our our bodies? A wonderful question. Best of luck with your many projects! XO Amy
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Your posts are always so thought provoking and this one just poked me .. it's all good. And yes I woke up at 4 am and couldn't sleep anymore so I've been reading your blog.
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Violet Hour Muse
7/2/2015 05:16:24 am
My Australian mother was the same tyrant of the B-side; as was her Australian-born mother who was a country dressmaker, and <i>her</i> mother of Scots parentage (the Colonist) before her was known for her exquisite embroidery.
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7/7/2015 01:09:15 am
Dear Violet Hour Muse--
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Amy MeissnerArtist in Anchorage, Alaska, sometimes blogging about the collision of history, family & art, with the understanding that none exists without the other. Categories
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