Search results for: art still has meaning

Starting Over, Again

31 Thursday Oct 2019

Posted by in Clothing, Living History, Making Things, personal, Research

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Autumn is my favorite time of year, a time for fresh starts and new beginnings. Surely for many, that season would be spring, but for me, after summer’s dreary end, when the world seems stale, flat, and unprofitable, autumn is something else again.

This year, it was the time when my Kickstarter campaign succeeded, I quit a job I hated and stumbled into another that paid twice as much for fewer hours and was situated completely within my competencies. All of that was unexpected and probably hinged almost completely on taking the leap to quit a thing I hated doing.* The most successful moments– the most satisfying ones– come when I start something entirely new that scares me completely and for which I have no script. Those are dramatic and risky: big gestures, where failing will be public and painful.

There are other ways to change, smaller, incremental, but still meaningful, and sometimes still painful. Failure is always an option.** So this fall, in addition to the big changes, I took on some small ones.

I signed up for a Burnley & Trowbridge workshop, An Introduction to Mantua-making. When I signed up, I knew I would need to quit the job I had in order to take the workshop– and I had zero regrets. (There was no way to take three days off that included non-negotiable Sundays). I also knew I would be making a dress in miniature rather than a full-size gown, and I was thrilled: I do not need another gown.

What I wanted from the workshop was a skills reboot. I’ve been sewing and fitting clothing off-and-on since I was in middle school, and after a few years making my own clothes, toys and quilts for my son, and exhibition props for work, I took up historical costuming. Along the way, I took some workshops, did a lot of research, and developed habits both good and bad. What I wanted from the workshop was to unlearn my bad habits and acquire new skills, and Brooke Welborn delivered. I understand construction in ways I didn’t before, and now that I’m back home, my sewing is fast again (thank goodness!).

The joy of taking a basic workshop when you’re experienced is that you have a higher likelihood of completing the project, and you get to see a technique laid bare, broken down, and simplified. Sometimes we forget how important a regular, fast, backstitch can be– and how lovely it can be.

Ballet dancers take classes at all levels: they are always working on technique. Apollo or Coppelia: both are built on basic steps repeated endlessly unless perfect and apparently effortless. There’s always something to refine, perfect, polish, re-examine, or an old habit to break. Dancers also take classes in different genres: jazz, modern, ballroom, hip-hop: these require movement and gestures very different from classical ballet, but help expand a dancer’s abilities and understanding. And to that end, I took up something new as well.

I signed up for a new-to-me event at Fort Dobbs, the military timeline. Muskets and guns really aren’t my thing anymore, but the possibility of embarking on a new time period, and a character full of laments, appealed: the Lost Colony of Roanoke. This requires a new realm of research and new garments to make.***

Attributed to Abel Grimmer, The Marketplace in Bergen op Zoom, Flemish, c. 1570 – 1618/1619, probably 1590 and 1597, oil on panel, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Earl H. Look

Working in the 16th-century aesthetic is pretty different from my usual comfort zone of the last half of the 18th century. Bodied petticoats or kirtles instead of stays; smocks with square neck openings or even collars instead of the more open shift neck; transitioning silhouettes; waistcoats and doublets as well as gowns; coifs and forehead cloths instead of caps: all pretty different. But all helpful in thinking about how fashion evolves, how we get from loose gowns to bodies to mantuas to open robed gowns to chemise gowns. Looking back can help us see the present more clearly, and so it is with fashion.

Detail, Attributed to Abel Grimmer, The Marketplace in Bergen op Zoom, Flemish, c. 1570 – 1618/1619, probably 1590 and 1597, oil on panel, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Earl H. Look

It has also been an interesting look at the effect of climate on economy, society, and dress. In addition to reading about Roanoke and the archaeology of early English settlements in North Carolina and Virginia, I picked up Nature’s Mutiny from the Library. All the wool and layers make more sense in a period when temperatures were 2℃ colder than they are now. Blom’s arguments began to tire for me (the Times review is fair), but overall, thinking about the push of lower harvests on European exploration of the “new” world was a helpful angle to consider.

Riverside, Jan Brueghel (I) (copy after), 1600-1650.oil on copper. SK-A-68, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Finishing all the pieces I need to be a sad shopkeepers wife who wishes she’d never set foot on the Lion is a challenge, but the effort has definitely been worth it for all the things I’ve learned along the way.

*Retail was hard the first time I did it of necessity, and several decades in public service made it only slightly easier.

**I am a big Adam Savage fan, and if you’re a maker or just enjoy my blog, I recommend Every Tool’s a Hammer. It was a birthday present this year, but you can likely find it at your local library. Short version? Keep learning, be adaptable, and put your tools away.

***Yes, an entire 1585 wardrobe at the same time I am working on patterns, researching the Lost Colony, finishing commissions, starting commissions, and starting a new short-term contract untangling collections. This kind of load is not new and is a habit that needs unlearning.

Fitful Friday: Art Still Has Truth

20 Friday Jan 2017

Posted by in Clothing, Fail, Frivolous Friday, Historical Sew Fortnightly, Making Things, personal, Philosophy

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Pitt and Napoleon carve up the world.

Pitt and Napoleon carve up the world.

It’s been one of those weeks, hasn’t it? Up and down, emotionally, as we all prepare for change. Whig or Tory, these are turbulent times.

I’ve been surprised by recent fabric arrivals in the mail, disappointed when I waited a day too long to register for a dance, and now I’m at loose ends. What comes next?

Last weekend I cut out a black wool Spencer to line in lettuce green silk because why not? And teeny tiny backstitches later, I have one sleeve finished. Focus is hard to come by of late.

I meant to join the Historical Sew Monthly to give my sewing life some structure, and I still can, though I cannot seem to settle down. Clearly, I have Firsts & Lasts that could be made (not always in the time remaining, mind you, so I would have to choose wisely).Re-Make, Re-Use, Re-Fashion? Probably much there as well– at least if one counts the quilted petticoat worn at Princeton, which was remade and altered from its original form.

Red. I do love red.
Delicious wool, tasty price.

July: Fashion Plate, could become the shawl gown I’ve dreamt of for years, since, as you can see above, I’ve found one that might work, lured by a fair price on a sizable piece of wool– but wherever shall I wear it? Why can I not get past utility? The Dreamstress’ Kashmiri shawl gown and her research are there to emulate, and explain.

Oh, I have projects and events to research and plan, housework to complete, and plans to execute. But they all seem abstract and unreal at the moment when we hang on the pivot point between the future and the past. It’s been a strange year in many ways and places, and constructive projects help focus.

Art Still Has Truth Take Refuge There

Art Still Has Truth Take Refuge There

Long ago, in the first turbulent times I was old enough to understand, I lived in St. Louis. Then, as now, I think the Art Museum’s motto holds, and reminds those of us who work in or appreciate sometimes frivolous-seeming fields and hobbies that all our actions have meaning. I’ve thought for a long time about the utility of sewing historic clothing, cataloging objects, and running around recreating the past.

Getting outside one’s own experience is incredibly hard; it’s hard to have an open heart, and to encourage openness to others. But that’s one of the most important roles museums and libraries play: we help people develop imagination and empathy. I know it’s part of why I do the work I do. I like to think that ultimately, helping illuminate the complexity of the past will help us all understand the present and make a better future.

A Digression on Joy

26 Tuesday Feb 2013

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dogleash

Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash- Albright-Knox, Buffalo, NY

I did not today have, or cause others to have, much joy. In fact, I was an actor in the kind of day that makes you want to take a second shower, get a haircut, sell your clothes, or move to another state (I considered each of these today).

No, I did not engage in any of the Deadly Sins. It was just a morning of the worst part of my job followed by an afternoon comprised in the majority of a part I don’t like, with an interlude in a smoke-filled house where I could hardly breathe. Fortunately, there was a lovely little West Highland Terrier in the house, and on my drive home I saw a small brown moppet-like dog on a leash, and smiled for the first time in hours.

This painting by Giacomo Balla is one of my favorites. It makes me laugh, my God, that’s what they look like! Watch–no, really, slow down and watch–a dog on a leash. That’s pure joy in motion, delight, movement, life.

It made me think about joy: there’s precious little of it going around, especially on a grey, gritty, dirty-snow-mound lined day when Rhode Island looks particularly poor (I was down in the residential neighborhoods by the airport). People are sad, people are worried: sequestration, budget cuts, global warming. It’s wretched, really, it is.

And then there’s the dog on the leash. From that swirling fur, I give you this:

Art still has meaning, take refuge there.

Art can be the art of dress, of dancing watched or performed; sewn or stewed, written or drawn. It can be silly, too.

I sat there for hours. It's about the lines and triangles.

St George Killing the Dragon

Growing up in Chicago, I used to slip out of school and go to the Art Institute. I loved the Thorne Rooms, St. George Killing the Dragon,  and Mao. It’s so Ferris Bueller, isn’t it? But I hated high school, and loved the museum. When all else fails, there is beauty and meaning in art. I suppose that’s why I work in a museum. Objects gave me great comfort in their objective beauty. They showed me a world beyond the quotidian mess, a world behind the curtain, beyond the physical.

I find great joy in sewing and writing: this isn’t meant to be a dirge. I had a yucky day, but a dog cheered me up. When your days are icky and sad and long, find your dog on a leash, your dragon, your bliss: art helps us see the world beyond ourselves, and, I hope, our better selves.

2020 Vision

01 Wednesday Jan 2020

Posted by in Clothing, Fail, Living History, Making Things, personal, Philosophy

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Rebecca Young at the Museum of the American Revolution. Always a good experience.

We made it: another turn around the sun, another year, a time of resolutions and reflection. 2019 was the year I had three jobs, invented a job, and qualified for Medicaid. It was a year I spent wondering who I was, and what my experience meant, if anything. I developed a new chronic condition (can you have too many?) and continued struggling to manage the old ones. I applied to, was waitlisted by, and ultimately rejected by a prestigious graduate program. I applied and interviewed for five jobs and got two. The one I have now, though a short-term contract, uses all the skills I honed over three decades working in museums. I expanded the repertoire of 18th-century women I represent, learned about flag making, and increased the number and accuracy of remedies in my medical box. I even journeyed further back in time to represent a Lost Colonist of Roanoke.

Together in multiple centuries, despite the bumps. Photo by Aaron Walker

Still, six months of working all weekend every weekend at job number two put me so far from my friends and habits that despite the pleasure of representing Rebecca Young and Elizabeth Weed, I still feel uncomfortable with living history and costuming. Those months certainly strained my relationship with Drunk Tailor, and with my own identity. Twenty nineteen is year I would revisit only in select details.

Mrs. Wainwright, Miss White and Miss Baker going into the Supreme Court to hear the decision on the Ohio ratification of the suffrage amendment, 1920.

For this coming year, I know only a few things. My contract expires at the end of March. I still love things and order, but I don’t know if I want to work full-time in a museum again. In a bit of perfection, I’m working as the de facto collections and project manager to transfer the library, archival, and object collections of the National Woman’s Party (NWP)  to the Library of Congress and the National Park Service, effectively closing the NWP as a cultural organization (the house is now preserved as a national monument).

I took this contract before my Kickstarter succeeded and admit I am ambivalent about it. Kitty Calash as a business is a little too small to sustain me with a kid in college, but museum work, aside from the work of establishing ownership and provenance, remains difficult for me. I wonder about the accumulations of objects, their meaning, and relevance for the future. I was a curator for a long time, but now I wonder what my role will be, in the evidence locker of history.

Like “curator,” “reenactor” no longer feels like it fits, even though I love history and clothes and dressing up. Perhaps this is too many weeks where dressing up was not an option, too many events missed, the habit lost. Perhaps it’s fear of succeeding, of striking out on my own and doing well, and instead of jumping, hesitating at precisely the wrong moment. Suddenly, it all seems so silly in the face of elections, climate change, and the instability of the gig economy.

Purveying ideas and goods as a milliner is a lot like being a curator.

I wrestled with this in 2017 and 2013,  winters when things seemed hopeless for reasons large and small. Three years ago, I found my refuge in art. Even a year ago, art and aesthetics felt like solace. This year, the New York Times’ Culture Therapist addressed a reader’s question, or problem, that echoed with my own sense of perturbation.

The core of the issue was this: “What happens when we no longer fit our own context?” The answers were varied, and to me, seemed like long shots (too many uncontrollable factors) but this struck me: It will require risking compassion to create an expanded and possibly destabilizing relationship to visual culture.

In 2019, I learned the key to most successful endeavors is vulnerability. I spent a lifetime building walls to protect myself that now box me in. Razing those walls is what I think of when I read “risking compassion,” though it’s hard to say exactly what a destabilizing relationship to visual culture (or history, or costume, or fashion) might be. It may be understanding how little one knows about the past, accepting new aesthetics, or trying something completely new. Even as I contemplate a possible grant-funded costumed interpretation program, clothes from 1919 don’t feel “new” enough to me; they are not different enough. I don’t know what will be, but I do know that unless I’m emotionally uncomfortable, I’m not learning.

On the way home
the view can be amazing

For all the angst and tears and anger of 2019, all the feelings I do not want to feel again, this year taught me to trust myself, to try, to fail, and to succeed. We learn as much from our failures as our successes, and while some of us more easily recall painful memories, it is worth remembering they can lead to our happiest moments. For this coming year, I will try to hold onto hope, that thing with feathers, and plan to learn new skills, improve the ones I have, and continue to find joy in the everyday.

Pilgrimage

13 Wednesday Feb 2019

Posted by in Art Rant, material culture, Museums

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Former President Barack Obama Oil on canvas by Kehinde Wiley, 2018. National Portrait Gallery (Washington, D.C.)

Note: This was written some weeks before the Kim Sajet’s piece in The Atlantic appeared. Upon reading that, I decided to publish this essay.

Kehinde Wiley’s official portrait of President Obama hangs on a partial wall fronted by a velvet rope. Stanchions create an approach to the portrait, and people are lined up as if they’re waiting for communion, waiting to approach an altar. Which they are. The portrait is more vivid, more alive, in person than in print or online. The line of people–still long, still rapt, months after the painting was installed– is as moving as the portrait itself.

I knew I would like the portrait because I like the artist. The first Wiley I saw was at the MFA Boston, John, 1st Baron Byron hangs in a long hallway of a gallery, the chinoiserie background red and vibrant, loud the way 18th century wallpaper could be. Tendrils wrap around the subject’s legs, flat against the navy blue chinos, and without regard to the light that reflects from his palm. It stopped me in my tracks.

John, 1st Baron Byron. oil on canvas by Kehinde Wiley. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.2013.633

Obama’s portrait pricked my eyes with tears, not only for what I missed– the cool intelligence, the restraint, the reasonable domestic policies–but for the line of supplicants. There was a crowd of people who were moved the way I was moved, by the representation of a person. They were moved because of what the painting stood for, and how it represented the embodiment of an idea.

Shepard Fairey’s “Hope” portrait collage captures the beginning of the idea, Wiley’s portrait the mature realization. A copy of Fairey’s 2008 poster hung in my Providence living room, flatter than the original collage, stylized to a near caricature. Wiley’s portrait would suffer as a poster, print rendering the floral background lifeless, draining it of the light that saturates the portrait in person. The portrait glows on the gallery wall: Wiley has captured “hope” in paint and made it feel alive.

HOPE, by Shepard Fairey. Screenprint, 2008.

That light and life captivate viewers and draw them to the painting; they respond not only to what they know it represents, but to how the idea and accomplishment are represented. Watching people get in line to see a painting– no other presidential portrait, no other portrait, captured people’s attention and interest this way– proves not the popularity of a past president but the power of an object.

Wiley’s portrait, suffused with light, may be a modern altarpiece to the cult of celebrity, drawing crowds to worship an idol created by the media. Or it may be the physical representation of quintessentially American ideals of equality and progress, depicting a god of the mythical post-racial present. Or perhaps it’s a superficial representation of a superficial success, thin paint to match a thin pre-presidential resume. How we interpret an object is colored by our biases, but our response is not: our response is intuitive and automatic. That’s what I see in the queue to view Wiley’s portrait: people responding instinctively to beauty.

Sometimes I forget that no matter how interpretation and meaning layer an object, the first response is instinctive. It may be so fast we (almost) miss it, an impulse leaping across a synapse, but it is often the most honest response; the one we need to pay attention to so we can better understand how an object is presented to us or the public. The power is intrinsic to the object, whether an inlaid table or a portrait: the maker speaks to us through the object. Wiley’s portrait and the crowd who came to see it reminded me of that basic truth: the power is in the object. A curator’s label and presentation are secondary to the immediate response of the viewer to the object. There’s nothing like the real thing.