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.

Makarrata: peace making through truth telling

This post is long overdue. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been continuing with creative projects. But I’m circling back to circles, where the circling is manifesting as a square containing five circles. This small piece (440x440mms – almost 1’6” squared) came about in order to use up the leftover circular florets after having decided what was needed for the other two panels that I was in the process of finishing. It seemed more manageable to meet my insistent, nagging and self-imposed desire to get something, anything finalised – just to get something finished! This small piece seemed manageable to bring that aim to fruition, but it has taken many more months than I expected to do it, and then write about it. The inspiration started with a painting that a Facebook friend posted called “Possum dreaming” by Molly Peterson (thanks Kathryn) an Indigenous woman living in South Australia. I had kept a copy on file. Then a nearby close friend had a smaller version of the same formation, painted by a local Indigenous person to the Blue Mountains, that she had given me as a gift (thank you Sheila). These paintings were the fertile ground on which to plant my own leftover circles. It wasn’t until I placed them into that formation that the symbolic significance brought to mind the power of the circle, and its practical applications experienced in my own life.

The background fabric is an original Indigenous design from the Babbara Women’s Centre, which is situated on the coast of the Arafura Sea in the Northern Territory, a few hundred kilometres from Darwin. It is a collective of women from twelve language groups of the surrounds that supports the economic independence of Indigenous women in community of Maningrida, Arnhem Land. Designs for the beautifully crafted screen prints are drawn from local wild foods and flora, and the ancestral stories from their ways of life – their unique lives, living on country. It amazes me to think how far back in time these stories originated, passed down through sixty millennia of generations caring for the seas, land and its creatures. I first came across these stunning hand printed fabrics five or more years ago while browsing in Spotlight and was immediately taken by their simple boldness of the repeated impressions, carved into lino and screen printed onto very strong cotton backing colours. I have chosen one piece from my stash as a background for the five-star formation. The one used here is a fish trap, created by Deborah Wurrkidj, a dark earthy colour, reminding me of our shared origins: the Great Mother. (Others with the brighter backgrounds have been used in a lap-sized quilt, with a more modern take.) There are five florets, one in the centre and four at each corner. Those at the four corners of course relate to the directions of North, South, East and West – the directions called when we sit in the sacred circle, for each to bring their powers – fire, water, air and earth into our circle. They support each other through their colour-ways, and although being positioned at corners they are not oppositional. On the contrary, they connect with the centre as well as moving into the wider circle, albeit being housed by a square. How does that happen you might ask…?

What happens when there is a deliberate intention, a conscious, focussed act of listening, hearing. Getting what another is saying without applying ideologies, rules, analysis or personal judgement. In spiritual circles, that occurs where the centre circle sits – the circle that contains the truth of another, absorbs it and takes it as a reality for the one speaking – without the judgment of others sitting in the circle being passed, or advice being offered. It is the power of the union of shared experiences is shared as they circle around, with each other’s experience being acknowledged through listening. In hearing the story of the other an ‘autochthonic’, indigenous (both words meaning from and belonging to earth) self-induced revelation is allowed, given space to emerge. It’s the power of ‘deep listening’ to Earth and other that comes from the heart. It makes a spiritual connection, one that is non-judgmental as so often happens when listening from a particular interest blocks the other. 

The practice in women’s spirituality circles is to call the four cardinal directions, NSEW, represented here in the four corners of the image. They also represent the four elements of air, earth, fire and water. As they relate to the travel of Earth’s circuit around Sun in Southern Hemisphere from where I live, on the East Coast of Australia, Fire is a northern aspect, while water is in the south; air comes from the eastern horizon, and earth is directly western. I’ve explored these conventions in my PhD, and the ritual for creating safe space in a circle. Another source for considering the power of the circle is a small book by Jean Shinoda Bolen “The millionth circle”, in which she explores the power of circular gatherings to inspire and spark the critical number needed for both integration and realising the need for change, and the essential guide to women’s circles. At the end of a gathering, we are invited to remember that ‘the circle is open, but not broken.’ There is always possibility arising from within a circle.

Koala or kookaburra?

I have made two cot quilts for our beautiful boy, Zain. Given the number of koalas coming his way in various shapes and forms, from toys to motifs on his tiny outfits (- can’t think of the right word), his totem may be the koala. Leo and Mel are lucky enough to have koalas in their backyard – in the nearby bush reserve that is part of their wider ‘backyard’. The koala features strongly in my quilts, together with a wee possum and a feisty kookaburra – which might give the koala a bit of competition, given that Leo has a strong connection with kookies. We’ll see how it turns out.

Vanishing points

Over the years I have enjoyed collecting hand-dyed fabrics. I’ve also dyed my own fabrics, including over-dying commercially printed cottons. They can be very beautiful in their own right, but usually require a leap of faith for a possible use in future creations. They are just glorious temptations in their own right, and were collected as such. I have recently resurrected the beginnings of an earlier ‘idea’ for a bed quilt, which formed as a way to use some of these gorgeous fabrics without too much structure. The cut strips had been stored away in a plastic tub for many years, marked ‘Universe Story’. The colours seemed to elicit such a grand concept. I am now involved in using them to create a wall quilted hanging for my son and Mel. But before I report on the new journey those hand-dyes are setting out on, there is another I want to share, one made from hand-dyed blues by Leo over ten years ago. Constructed using a fusing technique, the small quilt was named ‘Vanishing points’, hand quilted using a running stitch and an envelope or pillow case method to contain the three layers. I seem to remember the inspiration for the hand stitching arose from the formation formed by ducks as they swim through water, leaving an expanding V trail behind, a formation they also use in the air. There is something about this piece that overlays the many meeting points and horizons in our lives. It seems an appropriate time to reflect on such points, arising from ‘nothingness’, vanishing and returning as we welcome Leo and Mel’s beautiful boy Zain into our lives, born on 11 June. What lies behind him is fascinating. What lies ahead remains a Mystery.

In the meantime...

I have made little progress making use of the cut out and overlayed fused circles that began to take form at the beginning of Covid19 lockdowns in 2020.They were intended to be used in the construction of two thin vertical panels, celebrating the fractals of created by the intricacy of the petals that flower together so rhythmically in the heads of blooms, and linked together on a shared stem (see archive December 2021). In fact, I have totally digressed, drawn to other smaller projects, those that are less complicated, more straightforward, and have an end in sight. Less of a commitment to my usual mindful creativity, than desiring to have a practical outcome you could say. More of a pursuit to get something finished off, living in times when nothing seems to be coming to an end. The unrelenting rains being released on many parts of the east coast are being referred to as a ‘once-in-five-hundred-years’ occurrence – probably only the fifth since Noah by that count – but the second flood disaster within two months. The overcast, dull grey and often black skies have blocked out summer sun, unleashing violent lightening storms at a whim, while leaving behind virulent weeds, persistent leeches and garden bugs that bite ferociously into even covered flesh. Then there are the non-stop mutations of a global virus that we are now realising may never go away, that will be on our doorstep for some time to come. The pandemic is not over. We continue to live with it, and climate change weather events, and our own burgeoning fears from not knowing what lies ahead. So, the tablemats, put together from furnishing swatches gleaned nearly thirty years ago were simply cut into easy sized squares, then embellished with the remaining length of the gorgeous turquoise polka-dotted black ribbon. In general, they are18x18 inch squares approximately, machine pieced and quilted, sturdy and washable.

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.