Fiber art -- this proves it

I wrote several weeks ago about my new knotted cord constructions that are looking a lot like sculptures.  But I didn't realize how much until I showed one to my artist pal Keith Kleespies.  He snatched it away, zipped into the other room and brought it back in a minute.  An hour later, I found this in my mailbox:

I guess this is a validation that I need to be working bigger.

But that's MY design....

Two interesting discussions on my email lists last week about quilters who were hurt, angry and/or confused about how other people responded to their work.

Quilter A wrote that she published a pattern for a quilt design that she has made several times; it's been selling well on Craftsy.  But a local quilt shop advertised her design as its block of the month, mentioning that they got the photo from Pinterest and made their own pattern from it "based on a quilt made by Quilter A in 2002."

Quilter A contacted the shop owner, said there is indeed a pattern, and would they please have their students buy the pattern if they want to make the block.  The shop owner refused and things got ugly.

Quilter B wrote that she just got an email from somebody who saw a photo of her quilt on Pinterest and fell in love with it.  What kind of fabric did she use?  "I intend to make it and would find it helpful if I had a starting point in my quest for the fabric."

Quilter B didn't know what to do next.  "I can't decide if I should laugh? be angry? or feel honored that she likes it that much?  I am at a loss for words."  A complicating factor: the Pinterest photo has been pinned and repinned many times over the last several years, usually identified as having been made by somebody other than Quilter B.

I was struck by the two unrelated tales and realized there is a wide gulf in expectations and understanding between people who make original designs and people who generally work from other people's designs.  And there's also a gulf among the people who make original designs!  Some of those people want to monetize their designs and techniques, through patterns, workshops, books, etc.  Some are happy to share their designs and techniques, even without getting money for it.  But other people are jealous of their designs and techniques, getting upset and offended if somebody wants to make copies or attempt the same technique or even take a picture.

Now think of the other group -- people who don't make original designs.  How are they to know which kind of person they're dealing with when they see a quilt they like?  Is this a quilt they're allowed and encouraged to copy, or one they mustn't touch with a ten-foot pole?  The presence of a dollar sign and the word "pattern" or "kit" is a clue, but not always.  And some people may not even realize that a quiltmaker regards her work as original art, rather than just a nice piece of handmade decor.  They may not even realize there is a certain etiquette regarding original designs, let alone understand the nuances of that etiquette.

Of course, the unindicted co-conspirator in both these stories is Pinterest, but we might equally blame Google images.  I bet we have all found our own work pinned to somebody else's board, or popping up when we google some other artist.  Often the work is not identified (it should be a felony to post photos with the remark "oh I forgot to note who made this") or is wrongly identified.  The only absolutely certain way to maintain control over the images of your work is to never photograph it yourself or take it out in public.

Since I am one of those people who am happy to share, and am not trying to make a living from my art, I am not qualified to chime in on Quilter A's dilemma above.  But I do have strong opinions about Quilter B's.  Some of the email list folks suggested that she ignore the request, or respond with some degree of asperity.  But I think it's better to be as gracious as possible.  I suggested that Quilter B say I can't remember what fabrics I used, it's been so long, and there's no pattern, since it's an original design, but you can certainly experiment with the concept, and good luck with it!

When faced with people who apparently don't understand the rules of etiquette that you and your pals live by, I think the best approach is to give them the benefit of the doubt, respond cheerfully, BUT ALSO educate them about that etiquette.  So Quilter B can tactfully mention in passing things like "this is an original design" and "I'd appreciate it if you would mention my name as inspiration."

For quilt artists who actively post their own work on blogs or Pinterest or other social media, I think it's also a good idea to be clear about your expectations.  If you truly don't want anybody to copy or riff on your designs, then you can watermark your photos and slap copyright notices and nasty language all over the place.  (Not that it's going to stop everybody, but your lawyer might be glad for the additional evidence if you end up in court.)  But if you are willing to share, then say so prominently and frequently.  When I did corporate communication for a living, all my publications had a note at the end reading "Copyright MY COMPANY.  You are welcome to reprint short quotations or extracts from this material with credit given to MY COMPANY."

I don't have a similar note on my blog, but I have said many times in describing my designs and techniques that I am happy to have you use my ideas and suggestions.  Go ahead and make a quilt that uses my techniques or looks like my quilt (just don't enter it in a big show as your own original design), but I hope you will make it three times, because by then it will stop looking like a Kathy quilt and start looking like  your quilt.  Mention my name as your inspiration if you are so inclined; send me a picture so I can see what you did and I can be proud of you.

Here's a bunch of quilts from a workshop I just taught in Boston.  They all sort of look like "Kathy quilts" but already they have moved on to reflect their maker's personality.

Photo suite 160 -- in the airport

Killing time between flights is always a drag, even if you have a great book and a decent snack.  But you can amuse yourself for quite a while finding things to photograph.  On a recent trip, I looked for abstraction:

IHQ 2 -- really sloppy work

What I'm finding as I go through the "International Honor Quilt" boxes is fascinating, so I'll share some of it with you as I work.  My first observation is that much of the handwork is truly bad.

I wasn't aware of the IHQ project in the 1980s but I would have imagined it to be a magnet for accomplished needlewomen to show off their skills while honoring somebody they admire.  And there were obviously many people like that; I'll show you lots of examples if you stay tuned.  But there were also a lot of women whose desire to participate far outran their sewing skills -- and that didn't stop them.

Which I find admirable, in a way.

So often needlework is judged solely on its technical quality -- look at all those dull, boring and artistically empty works that win blue ribbons at the state fair because they were quilted at 24 stitches per inch or knitted on size 0 needles -- and many people think their goal is simply to get better at the stitches, rather than getting better at the aesthetics.  Many people, for instance, have been sewing or knitting or whatever for decades and it has never crossed their minds to work without using somebody else's patterns.

So I might have imagined that women without excellent sewing skills would have shied away from the project, embarrassed to submit work that wasn't up to Quilt Police standards.  But clearly I was wrong.

If I were feeling pessimistic I might take this as bad news, another nail in the coffin of needlework as fine art; if needlework displayed in a museum or gallery looks like amateur hour doesn't it make it harder for us serious artists to be taken seriously?

If I were feeling cynical I might make comparisons to the postmodern practice of sloppy craft, in which Famous Artists are free to do slapdash work, but I don't believe that these panels are in the same ballpark.  The Famous Artists are trying mightily to Make Art, whereas these ladies were just trying to make a statement about somebody they admire.

I've always been a snob about craftsmanship, practicing it myself and admiring it when I see it on others' work.  So I'm conflicted about the occasional lousy craft I'm finding in the IHQ panels. And the fact that these panels are so obviously earnest and sincere somehow makes it worse (apparently my thinking has been corrupted by the pervasive irony that hadn't quite taken hold when the IHQ was made).

I hashed this out at great length last week during a road trip with my art buddy Marti Plager (we've done a lot of good art thinking on more than a decade of road trips).  After much back and forth, Marti said, "Well, Kathy, this is just something you're going to have to come to terms with."  And she is so right.

What do you think?

Sign of the week

IHQ 1 -- Ana Lupas

I've written about my new volunteer gig, helping to catalog the "International Honor Quilt" collection of panels that were made to accompany Judy Chicago's Dinner Party installation.  What I'm finding as I go through the boxes is fascinating, so I'll share some of it with you as I work.

My favorite piece in the first 200 panels I've catalogued is this one, by Ana Lupas:

Yes, at first glance it looks pretty awful, a mess of raggedy interfacing and loose thread ends.  But as you look more closely, you notice the intricate machine-stitched gridwork in the center:

Why did this piece call out to me so loudly?  I love grids, and I love dense machine stitching, and I love old-fashioned typewriters like the one used to type Lupas' name and address on the interfacing.  But what I really admire is the supreme confidence of an artist who can put such humble materials together -- the edges are secured with staples! -- and make them stand up straight and proud.

The panel stood out from the others -- not pretty, not earnest, not awkward or amateurish, despite its seemingly haphazard construction.  It's the only one I've seen so far that strikes me as art rather than as decoration.

I had never heard of Ana Lupas, but some research reveals her to be 75 years old, living in Cluj, Romania, where she was born.  She started her art career as a tapestry weaver and was exhibited in all the major shows, including several times at the the Lodz Triennial, where she won Gold and Silver medals in 1979.

She expanded her work to installations and happenings, especially outdoors where she was among the earliest Land Art practitioners and strongly influenced many of her fellow artists in Eastern Europe.  She would enlist people from villages to construct wreaths, towers and other forms from straw, then leave them outside for years to weather and disintegrate.  Predating Christo's Running Fence, she had 100 women help her cover an entire hill with clotheslines of wet linens.

Ana Lupas, Humid Installation, 1970

I was unable to find more information about Lupas and her recent work, even by painfully reading Google translations of art criticism from the Hungarian. Likewise, I found an artist statement that somebody else had translated into English, but it left most of its meaning behind.  She talks about art having "to contribute, to shape, and to give new dimensions to the social existential universe," whatever that means.  She has no website, and I could find no images of her early tapestry work, predating the internet.

I'm afraid she will remain a mystery to me; her work calls out to me across the years but leaves me hungry for more.


This is cross-posted to Ragged Cloth Cafe, a blog about art.