I've put the last of the hand stitching into Gates of Grace and I'm happy, for once, at how the machine stitching and hand work came together this time. Usually, it's an all or nothing proposition for me.
Now I have to give some thought about backing and finishing the edge. I was going to mount this one on a canvas but handling it all this time has given me second thoughts.
I don't even want to iron it because I don't want to lose the dimensional quality it's come by from layering six or more separate pieces of fabric.
There is a discussion going on the SAQA list at the moment about quilts that suffer from the wavies looking unprofessional.
I disagree.
No one asked me but when I've seen pieces like that on exhibition I'm reminded in a nice way that
a.these are quilts and
,
b. these are pieces of art made from cloth and
,
c.beating cloth into two dimensional submission is not part of what I'm looking for in fiber art, mine or anyone Else's.
You can block a piece until the cows take up the bagpipes but temperature, humidity and handling are going to have their way with textile to some degree unless you mummify it with plastic or nail it down to canvas and wood.
It's just cloth being true to it's reason for being. It was originally designed to live, breath, flex and conform to a three dimensional purpose. I like to let it be once I'm done fooling with it.
addendum - see the side bar for two auspicious and delicious cards I pulled to contemplate this day.
One of the fun things about visiting with distant families is getting into their hoard of old photos. Now that I've scanned these, I promise to get them on their way back to you Rob.
They are my Dad's parents, Charles Useted Sr. and Nellie Farrington Useted. If I have any art genes, they come from Gramma. She's the one who put the embroidery hoop in my hands and set me to bordering her entire closet full of pillowcases with cross stitching just to keep me out of her hair (and her sewing basket).
Here's my Mom and Dad back in the Swinging Sixties I think.
I was in high school when my Dad came to me and asked me for a recommendation on a "cool" place to go to in "THE VILLAGE". He meant Greenwich Village in Manhattan of course. I used to get on the train and be a tourist in the city so he thought I knew what was
happening. I did not. So I innocently picked up a copy of the East Village Other and found an ad for a joint featuring someone named Tiny Tim. The add looked innocuous enough so I made my recommendation. I can still see my Dad all decked out in his Fair Isle sweater and loafers. Boy, did I hear about that adventure the next day!
I'm fairly sure I know this fat little unhappy camper. They told me I could swim before I could walk because I was so chubby. Cousins, help me out here...do you recognize this baby? Ten bucks its Rosie behind the camera and me reaching for her with complaint, as usual.
Mom was a dish. Kitty looks just like her.
