Creating a caring Economy (2008)

 What happens to women’s work? How is it assessed? Or is it just an expected role in society? Questions that are definitively related to the unpaid work of women in caring for all the relationships they are involved in: husband, children, the grandparents of both families, and others through their charitable caring works.

This quilt had begun to take form over ten years ago, for the 2008 UN International Women’s Day, created before I started a blogspot. It was named "Creating a caring economy", and I was in the process of reading Rianne Eisler’s wonderful expose of the need for a more equitable basis to all economies, based in gender equity. In The real wealth of nations: creating a caring economics, published in 2007, Eisler makes the case for what lies behind how the productivity of the economies that we live within have arisen and been developed, are sustained and maintained on the basis of the long-time gender bias toward the work of males, totally discounting women's work through the ages. 

Maybe twenty years earlier I had read Counting for nothing (1988) by New Zealand’s first female parliamentarian Marilyn Waring. It was ground-breaking and is now a classic feminist analysis of the gender bias in society that so obviously extends to the economy. Without GDP being fuelled by women’s unpaid labour in the home, and elsewhere in some societies, work in the home and family has not been valued or acknowledged by the contribution to the world’s economies. Unlike cleaning up a disasters for example, which does contribute to the overall GDP, work in the home counts for nothing. 

The wall hanging (measuring 800x1000mms) was inspired by a screen-printed Indian fabric, and commissioned by my friend Sheila. Given to Sheila as a parting gift by her sisters following a visit to their religious congregation in India, the single piece of fabric showed three women. They are depicted wearing traditional Indian dress and veils, complete with decorative emblems and jewellery. These women are determinedly striding out, two with vessels carried gracefully on their heads, and one in a sack over her shoulder. Delighted to work with the image of these three strong women walking across the scene, I decided to cut them out individually and reposition them onto a background fabric pieced together from ‘indigenous’ inspired fabrics in my own stash.

By doing so, I was able to provide space to include random textual quotes from The real wealth of nations. Some excerpts are scattered down the veils, and others across the background. They include one basic message: “gender equality to remove poverty”. And other catch phrases are pulled from the text: “the economy begins in the household; good governance to open doors for women in a dominator world; trade justice to achieve women’s economic empowerment; respect of other life forms we share the planet with; reproductive freedom.” 

I had known that the word ‘economos’ in Greek is a reference to the hearth, the centre of all trade, exchange, sustenance and wellbeing. “The most important human work is sustaining the activities of the household - care and care giving throughout life.” This is what basically sums up a functional and functioning economy for me. Where would we be without home and hearth? I added some silver thread hand-stitching to the women’s paraphernalia and jewellery, including their earrings and belly buttons. Much fun in bringing to together, and very pleased that Sheila has bequeathed it to me as she is the process of finding her new place.

And now for something completely different

I’ve been thinking about fractals lately – ‘fractal’ geometry, a word derived from the Latin meaning broken or fractured. They are all around visually, and also invisible living phenomena, like blood vessels. They can be seen in the branch patterns of trees and the veins of leaves, in hurricanes and lightening bolts, seashells and snowflakes, river deltas and spider webs. They are certainly evident in the usual block formations and iterations in building quilts, where the whole is made up from the smaller parts. The most basic form is the circle. Think about raindrops falling on a pond of water, and the ripple effect – or even the most basic parts of our being, the formation of our living cells from stem cells through to our organs. What fascinates me is the interdependence that brings about unity and cooperation. 

 The mathematical formula that explains fractal geometry shows how fractals are formed by iteration. Benoit Mandelbrot used a simple equation, where the numerical answer arrived at is fed back into the original equation in a repeated circular motion thousands of times over to explain the structure of the world we live in. Even the rugged outlines of mountains follow this repetitive process. What has come to be known mathematically after its creator as the Mandelbrot Set started with his ‘theory of roughness’, and looking for patterns in the world around us. The outcome was his formula, one that unlocks the ‘roughness’ of the Universe, from the clustering of galaxies to frequencies that enable mobile phones into a pattern. It describes creation in action as a simple process of re-iteration, through a form of feedback to create self-similarity in the purpose of re-creation. 

 

Andy Goldsworthy often uses the circle as a starting point for his wonderful works in the landscape, using materials from the environment to create impermanent structures that replicate fractals, whether it be from snow, rocks or leaves. He points out through his art that if we lose connection with nature we lose connection with ourselves – because we are nature. Returning to my fabric circles, and next stage of construction…

I have very much enjoyed putting the circular florets together over the time of dealing with the restrictions imposed by response to the pandemic, gradually growing them by layering contrasting fabrics from my stash, to randomly build up the different and repeated shapes and colours. I am building on an earlier vision, sparked by the little carry case bought quite a while back at a Reject store for $8. (see Archive 2020). The circles are mostly completed, though some of the florets need to be brought into full bloom, with the centres needing to be added to with smaller circles that stretch back – zoom out into infinity, holding the seeds for the next iteration of the genus. 

A lot of life-surging waters have passed under the bridge since beginning this project, both during the pandemic and in my personal life. Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the number of circle flowers, sixteen in the orange colour way, five in blues, and others in yellow, the way to bring them together into one space was looking a bit daunting. I did consider putting them back in their tub to wait for another airing – maybe later, in full summer, but they prevailed and I decide to press on. 

Having matched the background colour fairly closely to that of the inspirational little carry case, there was nothing stopping me from taking the next step in bringing the 23 circle fractals together. But before moving into action I had to think ahead, since the circles are layers of fused fabric – four layers at least, attached to a fused base that will in turn be attached to the background in the same way. In this type of applique it is essential to stitch through all layers for stability the overall fixture of them - and to prevent fraying at the edges. 

I have used the machine applique technique by double stitching each individual shape, both inside the shape and outside at its edge.  However, the skills required of such machine work in the case of my circles and their greenery is I have to admit beyond me, and the tediousness is certainly enough to put me off such a tack. As a result, I started to think about long-arm machine quilting. The decision to have the final outcome commercially quilted has provided the ground for moving forward, so I go ahead arranging the circles on vertical panels. With the circles ironed on to one panel, joined by their green stems, the sense of an underwater world comes through, showing itself as coral formations, formed as they are too by the self-similarity of fractals. 

Here is how the first panel is shaping up. Not quilt stitched yet.

Addendum to “Twilight”

 This small art quilt has existed in liminal space over several years, waiting to be reinvented. It has in fact come into final form after the addition of another panel. After completing this little wall hanging by stitching along the binding another option presented itself for inclusion. 

I’d muddled around with a small strip, adding a variety of leaves from my collection, already cut out and stored in my shoebox. Created separately, I wasn’t sure whether to include it in this backyard quilt or save it for the next one that I have in mind. However, this has probably become the most ‘unpicked’ and reworked piece I have ever made. The lower boundary had to be unpicked for the addition to be made. So be it! As a result, the final manifestation now includes the ‘ground’ at the base, as though standing at the edge of the lagoon, and positions the viewer to be drawn into the entirety of the spirit of this amazing and sacred place. 

570x360mms

Twilight: between the worlds

 My visit to Kerry in her days of twilight assured me she was about to set out on a very important journey, her soul journey towards tranquillity. It is not easy to see someone at this stage of life, but on realising that she was in deep communion with her soul journey I felt relieved and comforted – privileged to be with her for a short time. It’s the same when I sit at the lagoon, or drive through those big old trees as I ask them to give me their loving Earth hug. It is the feeling of being held by the Mystery that is Life and Death. While the quilt may be a metaphor for where I am standing personally also, confronted by the likelihood of dying from a terminal cancer, this quilt holds a deeply felt appreciation for and a loving memory of my extraordinary dear friend Kerry.

The gum leaves have again presented themselves for inclusion on the surface of the calm waters of the quilt. Already cut out from hand-dyed cottons, they have been saved in another shoebox and ready to be used. I decided to cut out a few more in red. Ever since noticing the red leaves of gums, both new and fallen into the leaf litter that is ever present in my backyard, I have gained confidence in including such brightness into a bush scenario.  And at this time of the year, the magnificent spring blooms of waratahs stands in the bush cannot be ignored. They celebrate the backyard of the Australian bush that we all share.

The final naming of a quilt usually becomes obvious after it has been finished, even though it has most likely been there from the inception. As the parts are saying to me this is the Glenbrook Lagoon, a place of natural beauty, peace and tranquillity, I began to think of other words, such as twilight. The word resides between dark and light; it could apply to both early evening and morning. It is a liminal space in Earth’s traverse around Sun, and in Kerry’s transition to the liminal space between life and death. It’s a space of being, in twilight between diminishing light or diminishing dark. Hence the name for this little quilt has become: “Twilight: between the worlds”.

1'7" (480)x1'2"(360)

Here's a final thought: 

BEING AN ARTIST 

(as we all are in so many different forms) MEANS 

FOREVER HEALING YOUR OWN WOUNDS 

WHILE ENDLESSLY EXPOSING THEM.

In memory of Kerry

Two years ago at the beginning of spring, when I’d unpicked the little quilt to transform it into new life by becoming the Glenbrook Lagoon, I visited my textile artist friend in the hospice for palliative care. After surviving myeloma, Kerry had developed a malignant brain tumour that had been surgically removed. I’m now thinking that this "lagoon" quilt – little though it is might represent the strength, love and community caring threads that Kerry had woven into and throughout her life’s journey. Our connection had come about through our shared love of the arts, especially creations in fabrics, and we shared many values and visions. This resurrected quilt is for Kerry.

When I visited Kerry in the hospital’s palliative care unit I did not expect what I saw, nor to experience what I felt. She was lying completely still with her eyes closed under a beautiful, bold, bright pink quilt covered with naive floral motifs hand-stitched all over - a quilt of her own making in collaboration with a long-term fellow quilter, she was passive, speech clearly unavailable to her. Only the regrowth of her shaven head and swollen face showed above the blankets. Though I’ve been told that hearing is the last faculty to leave, I wondered if she could hear me because there was no sign of recognition - until on leaving she opened her eyes and her lips moved slightly. Nevertheless, I pressed on with my partly prepared thoughts about what I might say. It takes me very close to the bone to see Kerry this way.

Gently stroking her hair and face, as my father had done when I was a confused teenager, crying myself to sleep, I said how delighted I was that our paths had crossed through our shared love of textile art and gardens. Kerry had twice helped me out on the final finishing touches with her free-machined details, one for a commission for a close friend and one of my own UFOs, which had lain dormant for many years since its inception. It was an important quilt for me to finish as I struggled with all the physical side effects from the immunotherapy treatment, and the emotional dramas of dealing with living with metastatic melanoma. Somewhat ironically it had begun as a ‘still life’, a vase of exuberant flowers, gleaned from a wide selection of fabrics in my stash by “fussy cutting” (- a term I recently learned, meaning to cut around shapes within a piece of fabric to transfer them for use in another work). 

The various blooms had been arranged into the vase on a chequered tablecloth, with some hand stitching into the stamens of the lilies. But it was Kerry’s meticulous attention to the separate petals and hearts of the flowers that brought it to life, each flower given detail through her skilful free-machining embroidery, bringing them forward into a low relief. The naming of the wall hanging became “Resilience” – partly because it had waited so long to be finished, and of course to echo my own physical and emotional state in the process of learning to live with Stage IV melanoma cancer. As I read recently, it's like the seeds of a dandelion being blown off to take root elsewhere.

The making of the "Resilience" quilt is in 2016 archive

Life at Glenbrook lagoon

 I have been attempting to resurrect a little 40x40cms art quilt submitted for an Ozquilt Network exhibition many, many years ago. I had submitted two; one was accepted for exhibition, the original of this one was not. It started out life as the depiction of a ‘hanging swamp’, a particular natural feature unique to the Blue Mountains, and was intended to be included in the series I was developing to celebrate this World Heritage National Park that I was calling “The backyard”(see Archive 2012). All these years later I have decided to continue the theme by unpicking and reconstructing the rejected original. In my imagination, the ‘backyard’ place has shifted to a more familiar one over the thirty years of living in the lower Blue Mountains. It will be transformed into the still, quiet, peaceful Glenbrook Lagoon. 

The ample water supply was used for the steam trains that made their way up and down the mountain. Prior to that, it was a stopover station for those settlers aiming to cross the Blue Mountains to the rich pastures beyond in order to establish homesteads and farms on property. It is often used by the fire-fighting helicopters to suck up water for the overhead bombing of the local, quite regular bushfires. But it has a much longer history than that of course – way beyond the incursion of white settlement. 

I often go there when I’m feeling the need for a hug from the big, old angophora and gum trees that over-arch the narrow avenue growing along the banks of the lagoon. On my way back up the Mountains from Penrith, this passage is often taken as a diversion from the main route, the Great Western Highway. Sometimes I stop and walk in to the public area, stand and watch the ducks and spot a carp cruising in the shallows. A refuge for ducks and birds, it is currently being rehabilitated as a breeding home for long neck turtles. It’s easy to imagine flat stone skimming across the surface in half a dozen skips.

The ample water supply was used for the steam trains that made their way up and down the mountain. Prior to that, it was a stopover station for those settlers aiming to cross the Blue Mountains to the rich pastures beyond in order to establish homesteads and farms on property. It is often used by the fire-fighting helicopters to suck up water for the overhead bombing of the local, quite regular bushfires. But it holds many more stories than that of course – going way, way beyond the incursion of white settlement.

Gazing at the remnants, I wait for them to speak to me, to tell me where to place them together. Suddenly it seems there is no need for creative negotiation. Without asking for further discussion, the parts start to form into the whole. It seems the process of deconstructing from the original, perceived whole the parts will tell me to get to where I’m going…to engage in re-creating steps for living in what resilience for the future may look like. It could be that creating in pandemic lockdown has removed that hesitation so often part of the creative process. Deadlines can do that too! As we know, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts - so just do it! And it has come together thus far for the background.

The butterfly over the moon

 A butterfly is the last image to be added into the centre of the leaf litter that circles the white sliver of a new moon under the waxing full moon. Instead of the little possum at the centre of the protective wreath of leaves, there is a butterfly hovering over a crescent new moon, the left as it first appears in the southern hemisphere. A small leadlight butterfly made from orange glass and bought many years ago from the local Ivy Markets, where I used to sell my homemade chutneys sat beside a photo of Leo and Mel on their wedding day, and a candle I lit every day to farewell Amara on her journey. The glistening golden delicacy of the pink damask fabric used is transformed into Amara’s soul, taking wing as a butterfly. She sits prepared for take-off at the centre of the quilt. 

The butterfly’s wings are Leo and Mel flying together in harmony and sharing rhythm, creating the space for the birth of new life. Spread out they form the oval shape of a ‘vesica piscis’, the life-giving womb. It is also the shape of the Sheila-na-gig forms from pre-Christian times, with legs apart to hold the entrance to her womb open for all to see, a gesture that to reminds us that what emerges from Earth’s womb must return to the womb of the Great Mother who gives us life. Such is the potential for woman’s womb for manifesting creation. (But don’t get me wrong – I support all decisions made by a woman in relation to her capacity to bring life into the world, or not to. It is after all every woman’s right to decide.)

The fabric for the butterfly is a small piece of a treasure trove, given to me over twenty years ago by a woman I met by chance at a gathering of women in Umina on the central coast of NSW. I was invited to present my quilts for the Wheel of the Year at a local women’s health centre. After showing the eights quilts for each season and talking about my inspirations for each in relation to the diametrical differences between the southern and northern hemispheres, a woman named Nikki approached me. She offered me some very special fabrics that originated in Syria, Damascus to be exact. Her father, who was in the British army, had been stationed in Palestine during the WWII and had sent back the fabrics to his wife and children. These ‘damask’ fabrics are woven through with thread quite literally made from gold. 

I listened to her story. The wall hanging I made for her from these exquisite fabrics had been fashioned into tiny dresses and capes for her and her young sister, and another for their mother. They became the materials from which to create a family wall hanging that gave visual and symbolical recognition to at least some of their lifetime memories and stories. I knew it was a trust she placed in me to bring these mixed memories into visual space for her - to be a form of healing for her through the symbolism created by the use of these exquisite fabrics.  (see Archive February 2011)

However, such wonderful complex fabrics are not easy to work with, especially in small pieces; they need to be stabilised and the edges are liable to fray easily when machine stitched. But the golden glimmer emanating from the flowers and other motifs interwoven into the fabric throughout is irresistible. The butterfly is attached into the middle of the protective leaves, flying across the new waxing to a full orange moon.  The question is: how to keep Amara’s butterfly firmly in place, while letting her fly to visit the various flowers that provide her with nourishment? After machine stitching through the layers, I decided that a fitting adornment was in order, a crown of some sort. She has been adorned with beads across the tops of her wings, which together with her golden ‘eyebrows’ sketched in, she wears a crown - and she is the Queen. 

The butterfly image is also a reminder of the fragility and diversity that is Life on Earth – but most importantly, the transforming and transformative beauty of our natural world. I have been trying to create a little memorial that also brings hope and sense of renewal in observing the cycles of nature – particularly through the fecund body of woman, with the collaboration of man in creating life – and that this little life, cut so short, might find a way back to us so that we can give her or him the love we hold ready. 

The spiral as symbol in Amara's quilt

 As symbol of renewal, the ancient spiral form invites a sense of hope through completion and return, as do the phases of the moon. The name chosen by Mel and Leo for their little girl was Amara, meaning ‘moon’ in Arabic, and if anything is symbolic of life renewing itself the phases of the moon are a very real monthly reminder, tied as they are to women’s menstrual cycles.  It hadn’t occurred to me before that the umbilical cord takes the form of a spiral, a physical connection to the Great Mother, She who gives life and takes back in death, ready for the next manifestation. Though feeling completed now, this little piece was very much a work in progress, took on a life of its own as I felt my way through what will be a healing for us all – a shape shifting into another phase as the Wheel turns. 

Shapeshifting is brought about by the Goddess energy - or that of the Great Mystery spiralling through our lives. In Eastern Europe it was personified in the playful faeries known as Vila, women who showed up unannounced in forest places – maybe even natural bush landscapes! When I first heard this term in relation to the Goddess stories and legends of old, it had literalness about it. Now that literal understanding has shifted to another realisation applied to our personal lives, when we are pulled up short by a sudden, unexpected, harrowing, or maybe joyful event. To learn the art of shapeshifting is how we find our personal pathways through life’s shadows, and access the means to gain new insights, to encourage new growth. It brings the gift of an expansion of awareness that Life is our lived experience and everything comes into being through us, and what it is to just ‘be’ with that process.

The triple spiral, found on the kerbstones of the building at Newgrange in County Meath Ireland, was carved into rock deep in the chamber at the centre of this pre-Celtic mound, and is believed to be the oldest ‘sundial’ in prehistory. At the dawn of the Winter Solstice the sun shines down the length of the underground tunnel, similar to the birth canal, to reveal an intricate, beautiful triple spiral lit up by the rising of the dawn sun. It heralds the sun’s traversing over the seasonal year, and the return of the life cycle in nature, agriculture and animal life. It is also a reminder to be open to change as the most constant quality of Life: change, as demonstrated by the seasons, is the most essential quality of Life, and is part of coming to terms with and making meaning of the many seemingly inexplicable events that inevitably crop up and transform our lives. 

The spiral form is found in other ancient dwellings and sacred spaces, such as the underground Goddess Temple, the Hypogeum of Malta. Estimated to have been built about 6000 years ago, it is one of the world’s most prehistoric sites, only recovered in 1902. Much like Newgrange, its purpose tended to be described as a burial chamber for those awaiting rebirth. Other ideas, based on small clay figurines of reclining women found within the red-painted caverns of Maltese temples, suggest the temples may have been where women gave birth, in safety and with blessings from the being in the womb of Mother Earth. The spirals at this site are two-fold, that is one links back into the other, and has been interpreted as an emblem for the tree of life, its branches and roots deep in the earth, and the return to the womb of Earth after death. 

Then there is the labyrinth, another prehistoric, but well-known spiralling form because so often embedded in the floors of large Christian churches. Chartres Cathedral in France is one very well known example, walked by many a pilgrim and visitor. It reveals the path of the spiral to wind our way into the centre and then return, though changed, by the same path, inviting contemplation and with the intention of changing, of renewing and revitalising our inner self, a magical path to insights, healing and growth – of shape shifting by bringing together the rational and the other intuitive level of consciousness.

After weeks of uncertainty and searching for the best technique to attach by stitching the cut-out triple spiral motif I finally took the plunge, deciding that whatever approach I took it would not be perfect. To hand stitch or machine stitch these small, closely spiralling circles was the question, long pondered for the difficulties and effects of different

methods. Even though each of the symbols has been attached using fusion fabric it is necessary to secure them by stitching. I was finding it difficult to make the decision, partly because of uncertainty about my skills, and probably more so because I was still in the process of mourning, grieving, remembering the first time I heard Leo utter those words. 

Sig Lonegren wrote a very comprehensive, hands-on book on labyrinths in 1991 (Gothic Image Publications,UK) - not to be confused with mazes:  "Labyrinths: ancient myths and modern uses" - complete with instructions and work pages on how to design one!

Next post: the butterfly over the moon!

Symbols for Amara's quilt: flowers and leaves

When the willy-wag-tail came to visit my garden, he made his presence felt by flashing that tail, fanned out as he flitted from branch to branch very nearby. I remember reading to Leo as a child the story of this little black and white bird as the messenger of a death, one of the stories of the Dreamtime. Our little girl, registered as Amara Kheir Solomon has been peacefully laid to rest in the ground surrounded by gum trees, colourful chirping birds and no doubt laughing kookaburras for company. Her resting place backs onto a farmyard, comforting for Mel who spent her young years living on a nearby farm, and near where Amara is 'nurturing the Earth', as Mel said to me.

I thought about including some lovely white flowers within the glowing full moon, having bought a mini version of Magnolia Grandiflora “Little Gem”. Not only a lovely botanical name for our girl, Mel and Leo have an avenue of these gorgeous plants along their driveway, with their full moon and beautifully scented flowers, their dark green leaves and velvety brown undersides. Either it has been difficult to make decisions about the placement of the floral symbols at the edges and corners of the square – or I need time to cherish our little gem, loved so much and missed so dearly. They will show the way in time.

Waratahs are at each of the four corners, placed there to keep Amara bright company under the gum trees. My indigenous friend Cheryl has told me that the Eora word ‘warada’ has the meaning of ‘seen from afar’, so beautifully relevant here. Roses are there to carry the love that so many of us have for her, especially her beautiful parents, Leo and Mel, and grieving grandparents. Another dearly loved friend, so present in Leo’s early life is represented by the roses, which had featured in her personal story quilt. Rob was my antenatal support person and present at his birth 33 years ago. Positioned at the Cross Quarter points, they are also the cycle that is birth, blossoming into life, coming to fullness and then manifesting renewal. There is a group of four roses at the base of the of the leaf circle for Mel, Leo, myself and Amara's bud.

Gum leaves, retrieved when one caught my eye while wandering through the garden, have become a fascination for me over the years with their different sizes, shapes and colours – ‘leaf litter’, as it’s called. I have been picking up those that have called to me, attracting me to check them out by their colour, size or shape. Australian eucalyptus trees are famously not deciduous in the autumn. They lose their leaves all year round, leaving a deep litter of multi-coloured, misshapen and chewed leaves on the ground. Some just fading back to feed the earth, some get eaten away and others are still quite green and young, all of which seems to be so analogous to the human condition.  

I have been collecting these natural items of fascination over time, tracing and cutting onto various home dyed fabrics with a fusible backing attached, ready to be used in the next creative venture. Little did I know that they would be used in this tiny memorial wall- hanging. Both lovers of our beautiful natural environments, it is heartbreaking that Mel and Leo could not share their love for the beauty of our Australian bushland with their little daughter as she grew through them. Trying to move on, while feeling devastated and vulnerable, I’d seen a very sweet photo of the eyes of a baby possum peeking out through a nest of leaves; she looked very safe, secure and comfortable. It also brought to mind a drawing in my visual diary of what we can to be grateful for. My shoebox ‘gumleaf’ collection was a resource to form a circle of protection around Amara's moon motif at the centre. And most significantly, it represents the wider circle of friends and family, those who are saddened by her loss.  Another nest will be built.

This work is "Possum dreaming" by indigenous artist, Molly Peterson (Coral Street Art Space). It speaks to me cross culturally,  marking the four directions, holistic environments, seasonal changes, all brought together into the central circle that unites them/us all. Ironically, I had searched for 'possum' hoping that the image mentioned above would turn up. This one did instead....not complaining! Such a wonderful painting, and so resonates.

Amara's memorial wall hanging

 Nearly five months ago I lost my first grandchild. What follows is the making of a memorial quilt for our little Amara, stillborn on 3 July 2021. In the time of making the little wall hanging my grief has come to terms with the Mystery that is Life and Death, even in the very young, and it has brought it home with great grief. Amara means moon in Arabic, and I was so looking forward to meeting this wee new moon.

I had bought some lovely Australiana style fabrics featuring kookaburras, possums and of course koalas for the purpose of making a cot quilt and floor-throw for our little baby girl, due later in the year. Beside the possums, koalas, kookaburras were all sorts of native bush flora, grevilleas and eucalypt leaves, seed nuts and flowers, flannel flowers and banksia, tea tree and proteas. Work on it was about to begin, as I imagined pointing out the different creatures: “Where’s the possie; and can you see a kookie?” 

On that Monday night there was a phone call from Leo. “Are you sitting down, Mum? Maybe get a glass of wine.” I was familiar with that type of introduction to our conversations and knew it portended some sort of news, but I was not prepared for what was to follow.  After some small talk in response to his query about my state and the annoyances of living in a Covid-19 world, the words he uttered left me speechless and broke my heart. He continued by telling me they’d been to the clinic at the hospital, “…they couldn’t find a heartbeat.” With that small clinical phrase, everything fell apart, and the unrealistic hope that somehow they were wrong stayed with me until I heard my dear son whimper, as I desperately searched for words that would not come.

Talking to the oncology nurse this morning, I told her our sad news, and that making a memorial quilt was helping me accept our tragic loss. She is a quilter too. She said “Ah, that’s lovely – and it will remind them of their little girl whenever they use it.” I didn’t quite get her comment until it dawned on me that she was probably thinking of a bed quilt, not a wall hanging, which is what I am working on. It began as a simple, small cloth intended for Leo and Mel to hold little Amara in their arms after the 22 week gestation and her birth as a stillborn, and perhaps to be used as a burial cloth later. It was a mourning cloth, but has now become a wall hanging that I hope brings peace and comfort to Mel and Leo – and a memory of their first pregnancy. It’s devastating to lose a child, especially the first, in utero and for no apparent clinical reason.

The 24” square of backing cotton depicts the pale white petals and golden-centres of the Tasmanian blue gum species of eucalypt. I’m reminded that the botanical word is derived from the Greek to describe the calyx of gum flowers, safe and protected from the environment, before they burst open into full bloom. But even what has not come into full blossom brings beauty to the world – and our lives. I brought my sister into the cloth by stitching a finely crocheted necklace of flowers and leaves that she’d brought home for me from Turkey, stitched into place at the corners and mid-points of dissection in quilting the two layers: the wheel of the eight seasons of Earth’s annual cycle. The double orange flowers overhanging the edge seem to bring the flatness of the square to life, and there’s a little sparkle from the clear glass beads incorporated into the crochet.

More to come in the designing of this little memorial quilt.

Still waiting and surviving!

Still waiting for the Survivorship/writing process of the Klimt-style quilt to come fully into fruition. Maybe it’s about the spring, forthcoming in a few weeks, so again it’s about waiting. It has now been bound, after being held together with very simple ditch stitch through the three layers. Having decided to use felt as a wading between front and backing fabrics, an easy solution, but creating a less than ‘flat’ connection between them. The result has me a little concerned, since there are sections less ‘flat’ on the surface than I’d like them to be. (Always seeking perfection according to the rules!)  

The twelve blocks have only been ditch-stitched to hold the three layers together. Stitching the fused pieces of fabric has ben on the edges, through the top layer, stabilised with a fused-on cotton backing.  So I devised some ways to try to deal with the dissatisfaction of an uneven surface. One method has been to add extra small pieces fused and stitched to the outer boundaries of the quilt. It seems to have helped in pulling the border fabric more taut for those blocks on the outer edges. I then have added more surface strips to help in that endeavour. It has also allowed me to include the border fabric that I’d not chosen, by adding these small strips. 

Feeling somewhat satisfied by these approaches at smoothing out, I decided it was time to apply the binding, again not before a lot of soul searching about which of two fabrics to use. I have always been used to using a dark border as a ‘frame’, because it does to take away from the image, rather throws it forward. However in this situation I’ve overlooked the rules in order to reinforce the theme. I chose to use the very bright, white-backgrounded and gilded fabric, rather than the more sombre greens of a William Morris I have on hand. I came to the decision thinking of Klimt’s propensity for outlandishness, and I think it works. It also hints at those huge gold frames used for artworks of the time.

Even though ‘framed’ and hand-stitched into place and seemingly ready to hang, with the hanging pocket attached, I feel there is more to come…more gilding of the lily. But that will be surface applications, and requires no more than a few stitches – or the gentle application of gold paint in the form of Klimt “tree of life” spirals. If I get brave...

Creating while waiting

 

Is this the ‘survivorship’ quilt, or writing quilt, a waiting time quilt – or a metaphor for all three? 

As I think about the piecing of this quilt from leftover squares from my William Morris ‘layer cake’ collection, I am reminded of the story of Penelope. Her story underlies Homer’s epic of the adventurers in the Odyssey. In brief, while waiting for the return of her husband Odysseus she undoes the weaving done during the day so that her tapestry will never be completed. She does this to delay demands by the many suitors who continually pester her during her husband’s absence, with the argument that he must be dead, so she needs to remarry. She resists their demands by saying she will consider proposals when she has finished the tapestry. So what does this have to do with my quilt here? I don’t have any suitors knocking at the door. Nothing quite so romantic, thankfully! 

Like Penelope’s weaving, it’s to do with the art of waiting, ever present to so many of us living in ‘lockdown’ because of the global viral pandemic we call Covid-19. Waiting is also part of the creative process, both in continuing with my memoir writing, and in this case to finish off this ‘survivorship’ quilt. My first concept for this creative venture had me questioning what it means to be living as a survivor of Stage IV metastatic melanoma cancer after nearly three years of treatment and disrupted living. What does it take to be resilient, find peace and regenerate? It’s about creating connection through reciprocity, giving and receiving and then giving again. For me, waiting brings with it the need to satisfy myself of the unpredicted outcomes for being creative, as I do in the process of designing, thinking about and putting a quilt together to bring it to its final form. It’s not necessarily a linear process, particularly as it might become necessary to unpick an aspect of detail, or to add more. This requires gentle listening from the heart and to the creation beginning its manifestation.

Twelve blocks have been sitting on my design board for a few months, formed from the leftovers from nine-inch squares of William Morris inspired fabrics. Each one has been embellished with other smaller, brighter patches of contrasting geometric commercial patterns in oranges, fused onto each of the blocks in a reverse applique technique. After I joined the blocks the need for further lightening up, and my memories of works by Klimt came to the fore. Although his works are so graphically fluid, the colours in the fabrics seemed to be calling for strips of ‘gold’ ribbon, to unite and overlap the individual blocks into a more holistic nine-block wall hanging. 

Next step will be finalising with the backing and binding – but even then it won’t be finished. The waiting now will take the turn of deciding on how to do the quilting. I can quilt in the ditch to stabilise the nine blocks. Then, following the Klimt legacy, tree of life spirals provide inspiration. But their execution by machine may also present a challenge, though perhaps I could have them done commercially. A DNA spiral has also come to mind - another challenge there! Time to wait for a decision to emerge, deriving from the interplay of these various factors – and next post! I am also toying with the idea of adding a few golden spirals, of a different sort!! Next post will be the finished manifestation…not sure how long I’ll have to wait for that, but beginning to feel a sense of urgency to complete the quilt...the writing will take much more patience...

Kawandi quilting

 I’m looking forward to trying one of these hand-stitched quilts, called Kawandi. They are built up gradually from scraps, starting around the four edges, with the middle wadding and backing already in place, turning up the backing raw edges to be covered by first row of fabric and stitching.

Next you start by stitching with an embroidery thread through the three layers using a small running stitch, spiralling in towards the centre with stitching lines of a finger's width and folding in raw edges as you go. No real planning - apart from theme maybe - very random!

The one shown here was made by my friend Val Nadin, in which she used her scraps of African fabrics. Although coming from India, the quilting process seems to be a blend of Indian and African processes transported to India by emigrants from Africa. The name is of African origin. Below that there’s also one made by Val using scraps of Indigenous related fabrics. So vibrant and exciting. Cool hey! Check the technique out on Google!

Quilting, writing and being a survivor

  I am a strong and powerful woman, 

using the stepping stones I have put down to take me into my future. (note to self, Annabelle 1992)

As I'd been advised for the writing process, I decided just to let the stages for making this tablecloth flow - no measurements to act as a guide, just going by general feel. It all started with the inspiration provided by a rectangular piece of fabric in ochre tones showing distinctive symbols that could be construed as being Indigenous in design. This was to be the centrepiece and starting point. To give it emphasis, it would be framed by strips of an already cut fabric in small read and beige squares. It has been one of my favourites for borders.  But when I attached the pre-cut strips, there were shortfalls on one or two sides, so small squares were cut for the corners in black and white squares. The third fabric would provide a sort of backgrounding for the centre, having a clay brown randomised cross hatching. It had to be joined, but the randomisation of the fabric pattern made that less detectable. All too easy, except...

I had stabilised the whole cloth by ironing on a simple cotton backing and then started to attach the backing with a spray on glue. Before putting the binding on around the edges, I quilted through the three layers around the frame, then attached the binding to finish it off. When I hand hand stitched the binding in place I threw it onto the table top triumphantly, expecting a fete accompli. 

But when on the table, I noticed that there were 'buckles' on the edges of the quilt. It did not sit flat and the lines that I thought were straight lines looked skewed. So, then came the unpicking in an endeavour to straighten out the buckles and wavy lines.  It also meant re-attaching the backing fabric. Of course, to do this the finished binding had to be removed! Frustrated, rather than unpicking, I took my scissors to it! So much for trying to 'wing it'!  All of this meant more time, and more actual top quilting than I'd thought to do and rebinding. After finishing off with a new binding, the tablecloth is sitting flat on the table, as a tablecloth is expected to do!

I have to ask myself why such a simple thing as putting a flat tablecloth together from three main fabrics has caused so many complications along the way. It came to me that it was a metaphor for the story I am wanting to tell of my life's journey. That I've been trying to put into words the recent years my experiences, feelings, observations and learnings while confronting the diagnosis and living with the treatments for advanced melanoma. It is a limited lens, especially since I have reached a turning point on the journey with melanoma, by having come to what is arbitrarily known as being in, living in 'survivorship' mode as the five year mark since starting treatment passes. 

What has this creative venture revealed to me about writing, and this next stage of my life as a survivor of metastatic melanoma? I'm not really sure, other than I had been trying to use existing journal writing of the time of treatment as you would base fabrics, and squeeze excerpts into a prefabricated framework of themes. It has been a useful process for sorting and gathering. But in coming to realise that those writings are the raw materials - the uncut fabrics - that can't be forced into a particular part of the overall narrative until they are carefully chosen, and in the process unpicked and re-discovered as part of the process of creating the story of who you are becoming. As a 'survivor' it is about finding out who you are continuing to become through adapting to and learning from the richness of your lived experiences. This is what I'll be writing.