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.