crafting complaints

A couple of Sundays ago I finally got around to visiting a local crafts show that takes place around here twice a year. I'm not what I would consider to be a real craftsperson by any stretch of the imagination but anyone who's looked at phantysythat these past few years will be well aware I do occasionally fall into the habit of putting things together that weren't there before. This is one of those things. I went to the craft show, didn't see any little silk beaded boxes, and thought I'd make another. Naturally, the first thing I did was to forget totally how long it took me to make the first one. I think it was a week. The new one took four days so I guess that's an improvement.

It turns out that just about any time I decide to work on something there will always be an element that must be purchased before I can get on with the project. This time I needed some embroidery thread and had to look online for a local place that sells this now quaint item. What struck me then (as it has before) when I looked through the listings is just how many people use Yelp to complain about businesses. Most of us will either not notice or not be bothered by a salesperson who isn't completely attuned to our needs during a transaction. Some people, though, will take umbrage at anything they consider a slight or an insult to their self image. These people will rush home to their computers or smart devices and immediately sign in to Yelp to write a furious complaint. Years later that record of temporary grievance remains even after most everyone involved is long gone. I'm reminded of those people who give one star reviews of books they've purchased from Amazon because a page was bent. Cretins.

All this reminded me of a television program made for the BBC by Adam Curtis in 2002 called The Century of the Self. Sigmund Freud may have invented the Self, full of unspoken dreams and desires, in 1900, but it was his American nephew, Edward Bernays, who packaged it and put it on to the market. Suddenly, everyone wanted one. And, of course, no one wanted one that was quite the same as anyone else's. Bernays's great genius was to first sell Uncle Siggy's ideas of the unruly subconscious to the American public and to American business. You no longer had to offer people what they needed; by linking your brand with their deeper hopes and fears, you could persuade them to buy what they dreamt of. Equipped with our subconscious wish-lists, we could go shopping for the life we had seen portrayed in the advertisements.

In Bernays's future, you didn't buy a new car because the old one had burnt out; you bought a more modern one to increase your Self-esteem, or a more low slung one to enhance your sense of your sex-appeal. You didn't choose a pair of running shoes for comfort or practicality; you did so because somewhere deep inside you, you felt they might liberate you to 'Just Do It'. And you didn't vote for a political party out of duty, or because you believed it had the best policies to advance the common good; you did so because of a secret feeling that it offered you the most likely opportunity to promote and express your Self. 'Our people,' said Herbert Hoover, 'have been transformed into constantly moving happiness machines.' Century of the Self is a truly great series that happily is available to watch free online if you've never seen it.

In case you don't have time right now to watch a four part, four hour documentary, I'll attach a short film that pretty much gets the point across:

Shave it from 3DAR on Vimeo.


By the way, I had to order the embroidery thread online. Thank goodness for the benefits of the internet. 
♡

making things for no reason

How time flies. Every so often I need to get away from the paper, pencils, pens, and paints but that rarely means I don't do anything. It would appear I have a compulsive personality. I know you probably already guessed that. Continuing with my recent interest in making small containers I spent the better part of a week working on this little thing - and it is little at 3½ inches in diameter and a bit more than 2 inches tall when looked at from the side.

Several weeks before we left Portland I realized I had to deal with the silk dyes I'd mixed for painting since they were all stored in glass jars and bottles that couldn't be packed for the move. I also had a lot of extra white silk pieces. So jar by jar and bottle by bottle I used up all the mixed colors. I wish now I'd taken a picture of my living room floor covered in newspaper, plastic sheets, and everything I could find to use as clotheslines to dry all the bits. It's pretty funny in retrospect. Once they'd all been dried, steamed, washed, dried again and ironed I ended up with a large number of brightly hued scraps for future projects. So here is one of them - cut, stitched, padded, beaded, and every inch was a puzzle to ponder. The inside top is the opposite side of the flower on the front. The inside bottom is padded thick red silk.

I did happen to learn about someone far more motivated than me. Have you ever heard of Baldassare Forestierre? In 1906 he bought land near Fresno CA where he hoped to start a farm. Unfortunately, the land was too dry but rather than give up the idea he began digging. Over the course of the next 40 years he carefully carved out 10,000 square feet of underground living space that included living rooms, studies, bedrooms, a chapel, a fish pond, and a network of gardens, trees and trellises all by hand and without architectural training. He'd been a subway digger in New York. The caverns are supported by Roman arches, columns and domes - many of which are capped by skylights to let in the light. He used only a pick and a shovel and worked at it in his spare time. Now that's what I call true dedication.

I've moved too many times to manage that particular devotion but I appreciate the hearts of those whose happiness lies in making the world just a little more beautiful for no particular reason at all.


Why not?
♡

Q-birds walk

I hope you'll excuse my laziness but a couple of days ago when Gfid posted a couple of pictures of a loom I found myself writing a very long comment where I reminisced about a weaver:

I have pleasant memories of warping but it's been a long time since I last touched a heddle or enjoyed the thrill of beating against multiple shafts. The language of weaving is oddly erotic, isn't it? I've looked at the loom a number of times now but can't tell if it's a Leclerc or something European.

One of my closest friends was a master weaver from Sweden when we first met in Montreal. She'd trained for seven years before coming to Canada with the equivalent of a doctorate to design and oversee the upholstery and other fabrics that were to be woven for the newly refurbished CNR trains. Once the project was over she stayed. She taught me to card, spin, dye and weave over the course of the 5 or 6 years we lived in close proximity. We both designed and made clothes but I was in charge of the sewing :-) She even had lace making pillows and some very old patterns so I got to try that too - a dozen pairs of bobbins to make lace just an inch wide was a pretty intense experience. One of my favorites of her stories was the year she spent planting a field of flax, harvesting, soaking, beating, spinning and weaving her former field into a damask tablecloth and napkins. You don't see a lot of that anymore.

She had two Canadian Leclerc looms for teaching on but the one she used was something like an antique Glimakra counterbalance loom that was huge - almost like a small cottage to look at and touch with an eight foot beam and 16 shafts and treadles. No metal anywhere either - it was all carved wood and had strings for heddles. Weaving on it was similar to learning how to play a full size pipe organ and reason enough to plan on staying in the same place for a long time.

She taught me how to look at hand made carpets from the middle east and to know by the subtle bends at the edges how many seasons it had taken to make by how often it had been cut down from a loom and restrung when the nomads moved from summer to winter lands and back. I learned about identifying carpets by the shades of the natural dyes they used and the design elements specific to certain tribes. It's amazing what you could learn from looking at a rug. We both despaired the loss of hand-made traditions long before most people were noticing.

I still have several of her pieces but the neatest ones are very small - two little bird bags she wove for me. Maybe it's time to take their pictures and do a post so I can show you.

So here are the two little bird bags as promised, opened to show the larger design. The fibers (wool, linen and chenille) were dyed using vegetable and flower essences. Inside each bag is a silk lining - pink for the pink bird and dark red for the other, both carefully hand stitched. The art schools taught me to draw but it was my friend who taught me to see and to take the same wild gambles with color that nature does. She is still around and is still my friend but lives in Philadelphia as a full-time Sufi practitioner and teacher. The weaver died un-mourned long ago.

Don't let your flying shuttles get out of hand.