"Together apart: love always wins" (the final image)

The moon teaches me that it’s okay to go through phases. The sun teaches me that no matter how many times you go down, you keep rising.

Quilting with symbols

 Here we go, with the aim to complete posts for this quilt as I seek to complete the 'topography' of the quilt. I have already ditch-quilted the strips to hold the three layers together before adding the final binding. Yep. I know - the wrong way round. But questions remain: how best to embed the symbols I’ve chosen – machine quilted, or hand-stitched? All layers have already been ditch stitched to hold the three layers together, so there is no quilting visible. Whether to use fine threads, or embroidery thread? I’m inclined to do both, as a mirroring process; but will too much special quilting detract from the overall impact? Practical thought comes to mind: machine stitching is so much faster (and other designs are on the back burner).

Everyone knows about the pictorial ideograms of the ancients: the cuneiform developed in the times of Sumerian Empire, and the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian Empires by making marks in stone and clay tablets to record and direct behaviour. They were initially attributed to the goddesses and were less abstract than the way they developed over time to represent the sounds of a word, eventually coming to us as phonemes in lineal scripts, with limited characters. Allegories that explain these early symbols undeniably derive from the human relationship to their place, to communicate and record. 

Runes are another familiar set of ‘alphabet’ symbols originating long before lineal script, in the areas in northern European continent of Germanic and Viking peoples, who associated them with their god Odin. By expressing human qualities and characteristic emotions, they were used largely for divination – or as some say, the powers of cosmological principles. The word 'rune' acknowledges the ‘mystery’, the secret that is deeply embedded in the human psyche imparted from a relationship to the wider cosmos, as well as physical attributes related to fertility, continuity and abundance.

As symbolic sources of spiritual energies I have used Runes over the years as a form of guidance in recognising and then directing my own energies. Why not now, in the process of quilting the current creation? I haven’t pulled them out of their bag, as I used to do but have looked at them by deliberately choosing the most appropriate to represent the stage of my journey in the here and now. These symbols are perfect for straight-line quilting, being formed by various angles. The human attributes embedded in and held by the quilt in its creation are: joy, strength, warrior, opening, breakthrough, harvest, wholeness of coming to the Self. And there are other indigenous symbols, for water and 

Even older symbols are those from prehistory: the Neolithic of Old Europe gleaned by archaeologist scholar Marija Gimbutas. Her assessment is that they reveal ancient reverence for woman as Goddess, honouring the powers of woman’s body to regenerate human life. The dominant form is triangular; either inverted to form the shape of a pubic triangle (often with a short slit line to indicate labia), or as triangles joined horizontally to form diamond shaped lozenges, also symbol of the vulva. The vesica piscis symbol is formed by two overlapping circles of the same size, shown as an almond shape, or mandorla in Latin. 

Ancient symbols have carried over into other cultural institutions. The hexagram is the six-pointed star, formed by two interlocking equilateral triangles, one pointing up the other downwards. Used in many cultures and religious beliefs, it can be representing male and female in perfect harmony; as above, so below – the human position between earth and the cosmos; and the interconnection between opposites, dark and light. Overlapping hexagrams (as fractals) result in numerous intersecting points that resonate higher energy frequencies, thereby forming downward pointing several diamond shapes of the sacred vulva of rebirth.

The hexagram builds on itself, extending outwards in every direction, thus representing infinity. Hence its use in religious Judaism to represent ‘ha shem’ (God). It can also be depicted inside a circle, with the points touching the diameter. It’s a symbol of unity, union – and infinity. Known historically as the star of David, a familiar use was during the Holocaust to distinguish Jews. Today it is on the Israeli flag, though it had been used over thousands of years previously by many different peoples, groups and nations. 

Another form of star that has evolved with significant meaning in different contexts is the five pointed star.  For example, as the Eastern Star of five points in Masonic symbolism expresses the importance of knowledge that is a guide to spiritual fulfillment and self knowledge. Called a pentacle in pagan earth-centred spiritual traditions depictions and rituals over millennia, it is often contained by a circle (reminding me of the DaVinci man), each point touches the diameter. It is also the way that I like to sign the first letter of my name 'A', which is easily struck in five strokes of the pen.

There are other maybe less familiar symbols used to quilt the quilt layers, from those used by the guild of stonemasons who built the magnificent cathedrals of the middle ages that are still standing today, using set square and compass. They are evidence of the geometric shapes that have deep metaphysical meaning behind them, used to explain the mathematics of the Universe. Besides being beautiful structures, they often have interesting mathematical properties and loads of history and symbolism. These geometric designs have been used by humans since ancient times in art, decor, and in religious and spiritual contexts that can be shared across artificial boundaries. They symbolically hold the values as they are expressed by the experiences and esoteric life-styles of individuals, while identifying and creating the universal patterns and energies that underlie and unify us all in Nature, and align consciousness to the infinite and eternal. 

I'm finding it difficult to bring the quilting to an end, but I want to hang it and get on with the next - well, the others as yet unfinished - and I can always add more as the spirit moves. Throughout the process of creation, I contemplated many different names that related to the daily cycle of dawn and dusk, sunrise and sunset, following on from the original inspiration of the magnificent colours at all times of day. The moon and sun are both present, and considering their daily romantic dance of attraction to each other, I have decided on Together apart. 

Internet is opting out for now, so will post final images tomorrow.

More on ways of seeing: "Together apart"

This is still a work in process, though coming towards a conclusion. I have started towards quilting the three layers together... for next post.

The creative process, once begun, comes into full bloom only when it is ready. And in the meantime, other ideas are forming buds and blossoms, waiting their turn but seeking attention, nurturing in both thought and form. Several other works have been gestating as I continue to bring the last quilt into final manifestation - though I often wonder if that happens. I'm want to hang it on the wall, and yet I can't seem to bring myself to let it come to completion. I'm referring to the quilt that I cannot even name yet - though ideas for the narrative it wants to share keep surfacing!

In order to construct that narrative visually, there is another need: to consider perspectives with regard to the fabric placement, and how they will tell their story. Will it have an aerial viewing point, as in many Indigenous works of the dot painting genre; or vertical/horizontal  layered perspective – taking eye to move up and down and across? Or both? Is there to be a focal point, or several? David Hockney used a technique that he called 'joiners', based on the premise that singular and unified optical vision comes about through joining a series of multiple perceptions that come together to create the unified whole of normal vision.

Hockney’s ‘joiners’ aim to create an image able to show reality as we experience it – in fragments, rather than as a completed whole, but as part of the passage of time. It is brought about by collage, using two or several separate images of a single scene by overlapping them or forming a geometric grid. As a composite of a single scene, the image nevertheless has a single narrative that is not static, but engages a roving eye that darts from one area to another. The effect is to alter the usual ‘realism’ that creates the illusion of depth of field. And the aim of his joiners is to reflect the real process of seeing, one based on visual experience as the eye moves across multiple plains, having fluid and multiple viewing points. Unlike the perspective that arrives at the destiny of the vanishing point, the eye moves around, back from the point on the horizon towards the multitudes of vision closer to the viewer, taking her in as a participator as the viewpoint shifts.

Hockney's Bigger Grand Canyon in the collection of the Australian National Gallery is a notable example of his joiners, being made up of 60 canvases joined to create a work of 7.4 metres in width. It uses a reverse perspective to draw the viewer into the environment being depicted, rather than looking in from the outside. This form of ‘reverse perspective’ creates a viewing point, one that draws the viewer into the scene that has been achieved in traditional Chinese art by using the diagonal to cut across the distance perspective attained in Western realism art. His fascinating work on the use of linear perspective is Secret Knowledge: rediscovering the lost techniques of the Old Masters (2001, Thames and Hudson), detailing the use of optical devices over the centuries during the Renaissance to create photographic images for patrons in particular. 

 

Here some focus to the narrative has occurred with the appearance of the Sun and Moon.

The creative process for "Together apart"

Similar to the previous quilt Carpe Diem, this quilt starts out with the intention of bringing order out of chaos: from leftover strips of different lengths, widths and shades, and assorted small off-cuts lie scattered on the kitchen bench after the latest quilt top was completed. They are dancing before me, begging for attention to find a place of their own in connection and harmony with each other. As yet I don’t know how all these bits and pieces will come together. And I have a suspicion that there’ll be lots left over for the next creative exploration. Will it matter if they are randomly pieced and matched, simply by size and tone? I think not. So I get busy combining the strips into blocks, more like strips, without knowing the end result of size. And without realising that details were to come later.

As per usual, I break my own rules. Firstly by cutting pieces to fit evenly with another compatible colour tone. And by deciding to break the ‘golden rule’ of traditional piecing: to make joins meet at the points. It has a freeing effect in the process of creating my random patches of fabric, because as yet no clear design has been revealed, other than the earlier inspiration from Paul Klee. While I do attach perceived ‘finished’ patches or blocks to a design board, the usual process of pre-empting the final form, the concepts that have arisen during the process of making them are still in hiding. I’m not sure when they might appear, so it’s a case of working in the dark.

But of course suggestions for themes seep through, without imposition or insistence. Among them are those that arose during the making of the previous quilt, Carpe Diem. Themes, such as the four seasons and their cross-quarter mid-season days, those that signal the end of the previous season and herald the one that is on its way are very familiar.  Then there are the daily changes that take us from morning, through to midday and on into the dark of night – also just simple reflections on the variants of weather changes, embedded in the realisation of climatic changes. There is no intention to impart scenic similarities (- though some I have seen are quite stunning, as the one below taken by a resident of Winmalee), but rather to evoke the experiences of seeing these seasons and times of day in the recollection of the viewer.

Like putting the pieces of a jigsaw together – or joining the various individual blocks that come together to form the final pattern in a traditional quilt, placement is important in the grand scheme of things. Eventually ideas for the final placements start to sneak in, make their presence felt as I am suddenly going into 'listening mode'. Instead of being locked into a jigsaw, or pattern, I can play with the pieces before deciding where they might be best placed. And it takes both seeing what is there, and listening to those suggestions from the fabrics. Still hovering in the background is the potentiality of themes to be presented: the four seasons, morning, noon and night, dawn and dusk... others might become more evident during the process of piecing.

The playfulness of creating is now being taken over by the materials themselves, though a conflict with the underlying concepts that have been hovering in the background seem to be emerging. And while I am not really willing to relinquish their offerings, they do seem to restrict choices - about placement in particular. I can and do acknowledge that the role of the artist is to make familiar things seem strange, this project and its process is not about splashing paint on a canvas and riding over it to see what results, a la Jackson Pollock – far too random a process and technique for my personality. There is after all a kind of ritual being observed in the creative process with fabrics, a narrative involving the construction of an emerging as yet to be revealed narrative. 

On perspectives: Leo's carpe diem

Perspective is what we see when we look towards an horizon in nature, or towards an object that prevents further visibility  – which it always does in fact, even out at sea. By looking towards, and then beyond the horizon, perspective presents the illusion of reality through suggesting an invisible distance on a flat surface – as in a photograph or painting. Accurately representing three-dimensional perspective in art is a skill exercised through a combination of observations and mathematical grid measurements, thereby engaging the eye to look towards an unseen, hidden and imaginary vanishing point beyond the horizon, and mimicking the eye’s natural focus.  

David Hockney in ‘Secret Knowledge’ (2006, Thames & Hudson) revealed another ‘lost’ technique that advanced the search for naturalism and a realistic visual perspective. It was the use of optical devices over the mathematical lineal grid, especially for portraiture by which the rise of realism took hold. The ‘camera obscura’ (dark room), containing a glass lens, was a tracing device that was particularly useful in transferring flat patterns into a 3D illusion, such as folds in clothes – and faces. Many of the portraits Hockney researched were of the same size,  about 30x30cms, and of course being portraits the greater the likeness the more acceptable it would be.

Although there is no vanishing point evident, the illusion of an horizon is a powerful way to view this quilt, where the unseen (that which is beyond of the horizon) comes forward to be visibly present, and what is obviously visible on the surface recedes. Reading the quilt holistically, that is in terms of the Earth and the wider Universe, there is no left to right, nor is up/down fixed – both can be seen in reverse and on a wide variety of angles. As we know, no two sunrises or sunsets are the same. They depend on all sorts of factors: the time difference between daylight and dark hours over the seasons; weather conditions, place and time of observation. Such is the wonderful world of the imagination that is aroused through creating art. The sense of wonder, combined with a desire to leave my own impressions of these natural phenomena, persisted in spite of the material limitations. This wall hanging is a celebration of both sunrise and sunset, beginnings and endings - in all their glory. It reminds us to 'carpe diem' – every single one that we have the fortune to live in

The quilt in situ

Inspiration from Paul Klee

Although the quilt started to take form in my internal reflections, finding new relationships between colours, and the means to bring the influences together, the structure had unknowingly always been there. I just needed to find it. Creative acts absorb influences from their lives, from other artists. Initially thinking strata formation as representing horizons, I went to my folder of design ideas and came across several A4 colour copies of the work of German/Swiss visual artist Paul Klee, working with the Cubist movement. I was no doubt attracted to the abstract nature of his angular paintings when I collected the prints as they resonated strongly with the grid of patchwork design – though in a more free form. I tend to muse that he could have been a quilter!

I chose one work as my ‘inspirational’ template, no doubt because of its horizontal stratification, and drew up a strategy for building the quilt based loosely on Klee’s elements of design. The name of the work that was produced in 1929 is 'Monument in a Fertile County'(as seen above). The usual process of creating fabric patches by joining strips was confined by size requirements. Then the fabrics had been previously cut into various lengths of about 1’6” (450mm), no wider than 4” (100mm, and many of them had already been sewn together. There had come a point to make a decision. Following the lead of Klee’s striations I would work on building roughly 7” wide striations, roughly 12” long for the width. To arrive at the desired length of 3’4” (1000mms) meant building nine or ten thirty-six inch long strata. It all seemed a bit random. To add a further random element, when each strip was completed it was stitched to the previous one, forming horizontal layers and parallel lines.

I found it interesting to read that Klee experimented with colour, both complimentary according to contemporary painterly usage, and also with colour dissonance that could be explored through abstractionism. Klee used blocks of colours designated by ‘pure’ geometric measurements, halving or doubling strips where layers cross on the vertical, creating points at which each block of strips intersected with the others. A lot can be said about Paul Klee, his life and artworks, a German Jew who fled to Switzerland during the Nazi regime. It’s somewhat incongruous that his works were both banned - and stolen - by perpetrators of the regime. But one quote is notable: when conceiving a view in this way, he suggested that it might “find its way back to reality”. This brought up the notion of perspective for me, which I'd considered as part of my PhD research, particularly as a sense of place from the perspective of those of us living in the Southern Hemisphere.

 

Playing with colours for sunrises and sunsets

I’d been collecting many of these vibrant fabrics from Dianne Johnston and other hand-dyers over many years. They had been collected for their sheer beauty. Some were destined to become part of a double bed quilt, envisaged by the images of outer space returning to us on Earth via satellite from millions of light years ago. I fancied sleeping under the stars in the comfort of my own bed! Grand, universal limitless space became transformed into the perhaps less grand, but regular events of our journey round sun, witnessed daily on our doorstep, sunrises and sunsets. And continuing the journey with such hand-dyed fabrics, they spoke to me of sunrises and sunsets, of dawn and dusk, the real experience of witnessing Earth’s journey around Sun - and all the metaphors and myths it has given rise to. 

 In my creative journey for designing this smaller quilt boundaries related to size were established. It was to fill a specific space on a wall in a bedroom. Every work of art has a purpose, concealing the artificial division between craft and what we call and revere as ‘the fine arts’. This time its purpose was to cover the unwanted sight of the frame of a small ‘dead’ air conditioner in the bedroom. The design is often limited by space. Space is what constrains – and necessarily designates design, spaces in which reside concept, skills and utility. 

 Cause and effect can be misplaced in the act of creation: we create in the process, the outcome often being as yet unseen, not yet eaten or worn, etc. I don’t have the creative gene in the same way that I have hazel eyes. The will to create has me in its grip. Creativity is definitely in the process rather than in the genes, rather than being 'talented' as is generally presumed. It’s about need, passion and will in equal share, and importantly, the opportunity to express them. Over many cycles of designing quilts, I have consciously tried to ignore the limitations of the well-known colour wheel with its normative suggestions of complementary colours. Fabric has its own limitations. Even though not showing commercial patterns, all fabric is fixed in colour and immutable, unlike a pallet of mixable paint colours. One of the pleasing aspects of hand-dyes is their streaky, blotchy nature, so that a deep red background can also reveal an orange and yellow splash, with a hint of blue. A marbled orange can hide hints of deep purple. And of course it’s all about movement, the changing reflections of Earth’s surface on its daily travels in the annual migration round Sun. 

It's trite to say that sunrises and sunsets are infinite, limited only by people's reactions. I started to collect images for inspiration from friends' photos on Facebook onto my computer. The truly spectacular and dramatic display of the setting sun can be breathtaking. From where I am situated on Earth, facing to the northeast, sunsets are less pronounced. But to watch the almost 180 degrees spread of the morning Sun’s incandescent glow arising in the darkness, emerging behind the bush surrounding the house, elicits immense awe and gratitude.

Other less conscious boundaries can occur through limitations placed on us by our perception – or the dis-ability to perceive differently. It took some time during the early stages to come to the understanding that my original plan was not only NOT going to work, but was unnecessary – coming from the way we usually see sunrises and sunsets: as horizontal; and distinct, and used to admiring the glorious colours of a summer sunset taking precedence over sunrises. As I was unravelling the relationship between sunrises and sunsets, I started to see the similarities in the time of day, at both the rising and setting of the sun. Instead of sunrise bands alternating with bands of sunset, I could see the colours in the fabrics merging into morning and evening horizons, each phenomenon becoming interchangeable. Oranges, yellows and blues are there on both occasions, at the start and end of the day, just as all shades of mauve and pink that streak the sky or light up floating clouds can be present in at both the beginning and ending of the day. The darker purples, ochres and grey-greens can recall the impending squall of a storm over the horizon, or the deepening descent of the night sky. 

 The fabrics started talking through the jangling clatter of my indecisiveness that had been rattling around in my head, I began to play by putting fabric strips beside each other, moving them to another strip, or returning them to their original place. Other ways of seeing became apparent. I started to listen to their suggestion that I had let go of the limitations I'd placed by trying to imitate or re-present and even sequence the beauty of Earth’s embrace of Sun. The fabrics were acknowledging not only their own limitations, but also other colour combinations that would work both horizontally and vertically for the composition, helping me to make the connections between these two magical cosmic phenomena. It was becoming clear that the quilt would be content to render an impression, rather than a distinct representation of sunrise and sunset, as I began learning to let the fabrics take the direction - instead of my ideas. More to come in next post.