AMY MEISSNER
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The 6th boxes of mystery.

1/21/2016

11 Comments

 
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery

First, a story.

I have three younger sisters, and when we each turned 16, my mother insisted we needed a trunk. Not a furniture-store-end-of-the-bed blanket chest, but something old and solid with a journey and a history of its own. In part inspired by the massive steamer trunks passed on to her -- all peeling labels and zig-zagging trips across the Atlantic -- I think she was looking to fortify our domestic stamina, readying us for adulthood, giving us a literal space to store all the handmade things that kept arriving in America from Sweden. 

She left her country at 19. If we needed to flee ours, we'd have a receptacle to hold the tangible elements of a life even if none of our trunks have functional locks. None are airtight either. Emotion and memory seep through their cracks. The idea of them forever protecting the items within is just that, an idea.

One sister's trunk belonged to a carpenter; inside are blocked mounts for saw blades and oblong knobs to lock the tools in place. Another's hinges have been replaced and repositioned, leaving shadowy chiseled marks and drill holes from the original hardware. They are utilitarian and square, mended, dented, abused, refinished. My sisters landed trunks with flat tops, able to pull coffee table duty -- despite the hammered-all-to-hell corners and fumigated European worm holes -- able to hold several households-worth of linens each, able to shelter an adult and child if the boogeyman came 'round searching.

Mine is a dome top captain's trunk. When my children were 2 and 4 and messing with the high arched lid, I asked each of them to hold their pointer finger next to a pencil: See? Your bones are the same size. Now everyone stand over there and watch this lid. I let it fall and guillotined that pencil and no one has gone near it since, despite the lure of the little rubber giraffe they know is inside, my impossible little red baby shoes, the doll with the eyelashes that click shut when she's tipped, the three compelling sets of mortarboards and tassels and gowns. Think treasure chest, all wooden slats and strapping and iron end caps, think leather handles, think rivets and black Japanning. It is heavy when empty, a behemoth when full, and serves only one purpose -- to be The Trunk, sitting trunk-like in its trunkiness in every home I've ever had. Actually, I take that back. The cat claw skids on the lid remind me that it served as a launch to reach a narrow 11th story window sill in one teeny Canadian apartment 2 decades ago.

When I was pregnant with my first child here in Alaska, after buttoning my belly into overalls to help scrape acoustic popcorn off our then-house's ceiling, repainting walls and trim and re-surfacing and thinning, I announced The Plan to Empty The Trunk and Jettison Everything. Everything. My husband, God love him, abandoned paint rollers and scrapers to sit with me in the small green-walled baby's room while I piled stacks of linens, doilies, photographs, random silverware and dishes all around my cross-legged self. For as much as he'd grumbled for 13 years of marriage about The Trunk and everything in The Trunk and having to move The Trunk and the fact that there was nowhere The Trunk could ever go and how now The Trunk had dented/scraped/bruised the floor/him, he laid down the rules about the growing discard pile: if a name or date was attached to an item, I couldn't get rid of it. Also, if something in The Trunk was connected to the woman/girl I'd been before marrying him, it stayed. If it was connected to a woman in Sweden, it stayed. If I wasn't sure and probably should phone my mother, it stayed. Those were the rules.

Well, crap.

With a thin bag of unidentifiables set aside for the thrift store, I refilled and slid The Trunk back into place. Done. Whatever. Now let's figure out how this baby crib goes together. But lodged in me since then has been the niggling idea of provenance and worth. Somehow a name and a date could lend an object value. Initials on a tea towel or scribbled notes on a doily's plastic bag or a hand-written label on the bottom of a painted cup were the small history of a hand. These gestures, like a painting's signature, lent worth and identified the maker, named the dead, honored the thing and the time it took to make it, whether or not it was useful, needed or wanted.

Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Makers: Inga-Lisa Andersson, Nanny Andersson, Britta Andersson, Christina Andersson; Origin: Sweden; Circa: 1950-2010.
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Makers: Inga-Lisa Andersson, Nanny Andersson, Britta Andersson, Christina Andersson; Origin: Sweden; Circa: 1950-2010.

​This last Christmas, 15 of us gathered at my parents' home -- sisters, significant others, cousins and grandmas from extended families. Throw into the mix a couple of road-weary felines, a rescued Mexican lap dog, a grandpa-built go-cart featuring a 1970's lawn mower motor and orange helmet from the same era, several hundred cookies, ditto colored pencils, ditto Legos, dear friends and a brand new adopted baby. All hail luscious chaos, and in the middle of it all my youngest sister -- with a ripping head cold -- was tasked to sort her trunk, still in her childhood bedroom. She really doesn't have room for thing in her current life, certainly doesn't have room for the miscellanea pitched into it over the decades, and while she may not have felt the pull, she definitely felt my mother's gentle, but persistent push. 

So I sat with her.
​​
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery

​If there was something she was willing to send down the road in a flash, I stacked it in the going-home-with-me pile. Was I a vulture? A rescuer? A judge? I'm still conflicted about my role or if I should have even been in that room at all, but I do know I recognized her exasperation: I've dragged my own trunk from country to country, crammed it into apartments/truck beds/spare rooms/closets, all pissed off or mildly embarrassed by its unusable contents. But my connection to these items strengthens as the original makers age and now my children age. As I age. Deep in the second- and now third-generation-children-of-an-immigrant milieu, there are mysteries about the women we are connected to, but are vastly separate from. Women who have difficulty even stiffly embracing a child, but who will use those square hands to make and make and make for them, then ship via airmail and sit wondering when the thank you cards will come.

So I followed the rules: names and dates meant things couldn't get pitched, and if my sister didn't want them, I would take them. Some of it I will use for my work, but a large portion is now in The Trunk here in Alaska for when she has children of her own. In 5 or 10 or 15 years, I will send these linens back to her. Worth growing up with and passing on, someday she will receive a Box of Mystery from me.
​
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery

Now, the Boxes of Mystery from elsewhere.

Before Christmas, several shipments of textiles came my way. All traveled so very far. Some are beautiful in their crispness, others beautiful in their decay. 

Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Maker: Unknown; Origin: Unknown, Circa: 1950's, a wedding gift; Found: in a Sydney, Australia estate & given to Mo Orkiszewski by the owner's daughter.
Thank you,  Mo Orkiszewski in New South Wales, Australia. I've used a sheer organdy panel like this once before and have been on the lookout for another ever since:
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Detail, "The Accumulation of Language."

​Also sent from New South Wales:
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Makers: Unknown; Origin: Unknown; Circa: Unknown; Found: Hastings Autism Op Shop in Lake Cathie, New South Wales, Australia (near Port Macquarie, or about half way between Sydney and Brisbane).
Thank you, Adrienne van Spanje, for the battered and wounded doilies and linens. She wrote, “We don't know where they have come from - just part of many donations we receive. Clearly some are very old and well used. I hope that they can be of use to you with this wonderful project -- or perhaps the next project.”

I'm happy to say that I've used several already -- as batting -- before I could even get this post written:
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
WIP, "Inheritance," Abandoned needlepoint, vintage doilies, silk organza, velvet drapery, 2016.

From Arlington, Virginia, USA:
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Makers: Unknown; Origin: India & Unknown; Circa: Unknown.
Thank you Tina Thuermer. If anyone has thoughts as to where the embroidered structure may hail from, I'd be delighted to hear. It looks liturgical and what appears in the photo as black embroidery is actually tarnished metal thread. So compelling.

​And the last clutch of doilies was slipped into my hands at a recent birthday party:
Amy Meissner, textile artist | From the post The 6th boxes of mystery | www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-6th-boxes-of-mystery
Makers: Veeda Pearl Duryee & Sarah Brookfield; Origin: Coos Bay, Oregon, USA; Circa: 2005
Thank you Jeanna Duryee, friend who I've known for many years, who can enter the Alaskan woods and emerge with a medicinal arsenal of plants. One of a small number women I've met in my life who resonate magic and earth wisdom. 
*     *     *
If you, too, would like to contribute the wounded, unwanted or useless handmade items you've stumbled across, inherited and/or just can't bear to throw away, consider sending them to Alaska. They will eventually become something else, maybe a part of something bigger, even if that something is a larger narrative or deeper understanding. Please know I'm working on it and contact me here for further information. Check out the other Boxes of Mystery posts if you are new to this blog and are left wondering what in the hell is going on up there in Alaska.

For more information about why I feel compelled to do what I do, you can check out this recent interview with Jen Funk Weber. Good to have it in writing because there are moments when I wonder what I'm driving at, and lot of it is laid out in that post. The rest I'm still circling around.

11 Comments
Lotta Helleberg link
1/22/2016 03:58:55 am

Amy, I am wiping my tears. So perfectly do you sum up the sense of yearning for what once was while wanting to belong here and now, and the conflict it represents when your true origin resides somewhere else. I especially liked the part about the square hands, difficulty to embrace, but making, making and waiting for the thank you note... Beautifully written. I also relate to the collection of the discarded and unneeded. I feel really fortunate to have found you here in cyberspace. Hopefully our paths will cross in real life soon.

Reply
Amy Meissner link
1/24/2016 07:23:35 am

Hej Lotta, I'm moved that you've taken the time to write a note here and that what I've expressed has resonated so deeply with you. Yes, of course you would understand the many facets of yearning and belonging and questioning -- maybe more deeply that I do, or at least from a closer, and perhaps more complicated, stance. I would love to meet you some day, as I've followed your work for a long time. Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. I'm honored, really honored. XO Amy

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Olga Norris link
1/22/2016 09:22:01 am

How well you write - it is a joy to read, even without the companionship of tea. I believe that you are not only doing great work giving importance to the handwork of the silent makers, but also your personal narratives are important.

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Amy Meissner link
1/22/2016 10:45:46 am

Olga,
Thank you so much for your kind words. I appreciate your note so much and your taking the time to comment....there's always that navel gazing fear with memoir and the hope is always that the personal narrative hits the right personal chord with the global reader. Additionally, I look at your unfinished cross stitch every day on my wall. It fills me with great joy, inspiration and an amazing feeling of connectedness to a woman I have never met. Thank you.
XO
Amy

(For Comment Readers: to see Olga's cross stitch that she graciously sent to me, please go to http://www.amymeissner.com/blog/the-fifth-boxes-of-mystery ... It's the first image. You'd probably want to look at it every day, too).

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Vicky aka stichr link
1/22/2016 03:26:21 pm

Wonderful. I enjoyed reading words, and wishing more men were like your man. I know how you felt, I have felt that way too, The need to purge far out weighs common sense.

My mother too was given a hope chest , a simple thing of cedar-ly beauty. She hated what it represented. She wasn't filing it full of useless linens. No sir. But she kept it because it was handy at the end of the bed. Then I whisked it away from her when i left home, I loved it! Filled it with Christmas do dads. Now my son has it, he too loves it.

Mom kept blankets in it. Woolly scratchy things. I hated them, couldn't get rid of them fast enough. They were WWII era. But they were scratchy!!!

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Amy Meissner link
1/24/2016 07:21:08 am

Vicky,
Thank you so much for sharing your story about the cedar hope chest, scratchy blankets and Christmas doo-dads. What a vivid memory for you and lovely that your son is now using the trunk. I bet you can't smell cedar without being swept back to a specific place and time in your life. I loved your comment about "the need to purge far outweighing common sense." I would say the same about the need to hoard! I'm so glad you took the time here and hope you'll return.
XO
Amy

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Christina Haines link
1/30/2016 12:34:05 pm

Thank you, thank you. Your thoughts evoked so many memories for me. First, I have 3 trunks. One is cedar, inside and out, that was my mom's and from her uncles house after he passed. It held her linens, crafts and fabric. I also have my dad's trunk he used in the service, WWII which I painted white with a lighthouse on it. It has a strange aroma inside so nothing gets placed in it. Then I have a humpback trunk. So beautiful to look at and very hard to lift. Not sure where that came from but I had it with my 1st apartment in 1971. Thoughts are flooding me. Thank you.

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Amy Meissner link
2/8/2016 08:43:21 am

Christina,
Thank you so much for sharing about your MANY trunks! My mom has 3 or 4 right now and those smells! Some more pleasant than others. Our Christmas box still smells like the funky, leaky apartment basement where it was stored in Vancouver BC 20 years ago (where all the dough ornaments exploded and grew great blooms of mold). I open these boxes and am immediately transported elsewhere. I'm so glad this post did the same thing for you!
I appreciate your comment--
XO
Amy

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Laura link
2/6/2016 02:44:06 pm

The nostalgia of old things, especially textiles, really resonates with me, too. Difficult, as I have no children, and I don't think my nieces and nephews will ever be interested; they're still pretty young, so maybe when they're adults. Just in case, I should probably start using more of it for art projects. I've had my great-aunt's cedar chest a number of years, and your post makes me want to put more fun things in it than sweaters!

I do have an idea about the mysterious embroidery from Arlington, with the building and the cypress trees. Between the motifs and the color palette and the metal thread, I think it is Turkish. It is very reminiscent of embroidered towels called yaglik I've seen in Ottoman embroidery books.

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Amy Meissner link
2/8/2016 08:53:11 am

Laura,

Thank you for sharing about your cedar chest and for the suggestion about the Turkish origin of that small linen piece. I've spent the morning down the Google rabbit hole and I think you're onto something there. I didn't realize those were cypress trees and the Yaglik napkins you've introduced me to are gorgeous! I can now deduce that this is quite possibly vegetable dyed silk thread and tinsel, worked in this way: "THE EMBROIDERY TECHNIQUE, OPEN COUNTED STITCHES --MUSABAK-- AND WORKED REVERSIBLE, NOT DISTINGUISHING BETWEEN THE FRONT AND BACK. USUALLY, THIS WAS ATTAINED BY STITCHES BEING WORKED FIRST IN ONE DIRECTION AND THEN IN THE SAME MANNER IN REVERSE ALONG THE FIRST STITCHING."

Fascinating!!!

I so appreciate your eagle eye, Laura. I love it!
XO
Amy

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Laura link
2/9/2016 10:13:34 pm

I'm excited whenever I get to apply some of the knowledge gathered from one of my obsessive reading kicks! There are some neat stitches in Ottoman embroidery that aren't in western embroidery books. And I'm laughing that I haven't Googled yagliks myself--too late to risk the rabbit hole tonight. :)




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    Amy Meissner, textile artist. Photo credit Brian Adams, 2013. www.amymeissner.com

    Amy Meissner

    Artist in Anchorage, Alaska, sometimes blogging about the collision of history, family & art, with the understanding that none exists without the other.

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