25. LocoMotif

Hubcabs 1 led to Hubcaps 2 which led to Windshield Wipers (more on that later) which meant that I had a series going; LocoMotif is the fourth quilt in that series inspired by machine imagery. While visiting the New England Quilt Museum in Lowell, I had noticed a train engine in a nearby pocket park. Drawn to the sculpture of sinuous pipes, nuts, bolts, gears, and wheels, I wandered up close, took a photograph, and loved the resulting imagery so much I decided to translate it into fabric. And because there was a contest coming up featuring train and railroad themes, I decided to do it in one week, the end of which was scheduled to be a mini-getaway long weekend in New Hampshire for my husband and me. He gamely watched as I couldn't quite get it finished enough to photograph before leaving for vacation; he bravely suggested that I bring it with us to work on. I rolled up the full-size drawing and packed it along with fabrics, pins, needles, threads, and paints. I still can't believe I spent part of our vacation working on a quilt deadline, but in fact it was a most efficient way to work, because the only distractions were welcome ones: running on beautiful country roads, swimming on a lake, and eating out. Efficient, yes. Fun? It depends on who's answering the question. My husband's unflagging support qualifies him as a bona fide saint (that, by the way, doesn't make him any easier to live with, but I digress). I mailed the slides off only to be rejected because my entry didn't arrive in time (I had hoped it was a postmark deadline, but I was wrong). This is another of those experiences that taught me lessons: it's good to stay utterly focused, because you'll get a lot done in a short time; it's better not to do that while on vacation; and it's smart to pay attention to the fine print on the entry forms.

This quilt went on to gather additional rejections until it was discovered by someone who thought it belonged in our local museum as part of an exhibit called "Fuel for Thought." There, someone gave me a real gift by recognizing the engine depicted in the quilt. Then LocoMotif was discovered by my younger son. If you give one son a quilt for his 21st birthday, you must do the same for the second son, and the quilt is now his. However, come to think of it, it's still in my studio and it's still part of my traveling lecture/trunk show. Given that he's a married homeowner who just turned 30, it's probably time to let the quilt go home with its rightful owner. And it's time to come full circle and complete Number Five in the series, which has been accepted for a fall exhibit at--where else?--the New England Quilt Museum.

24. Neighbors

Throwing lots of fabrics up on a design wall to create new work is easy. Knowing what to take off the wall is really hard. Knowing when you are finished and ready to sew the piece together is harder still. These challenges are represented by "Neighbors," one of a category of quilts which in the mid-90s was something new for me, involving a more spontaneous design process. My quilts and wall-hangings up to this point usually had an idea, a concept, a plan--however "sketchy"--behind them. What I began to do now was much more improvisational.

This new approach was born of a need to work fast, which in turn had arisen from a decision to use high-end craft venues to move small works quickly. I needed a lot of work to send out to galleries and also to take with me to several large craft fairs which were an experimental part of my business plan. Small works were either wall-hangings like the one pictured here or pillow covers. Both initially represented a way of working which let me try out ideas and techniques on a small scale; they were like fabric sketches.

It wasn't until I had put up a few pieces of fabric (probably retrieved from a scrap basket or even more probably from scraps piled in a heap on the floor) that I began to think I was creating a city of sorts, a city of strange juxtapositions. I didn't try to understand why I liked these combinations (maybe some things are better left unexplored!); I just kept auditioning pieces of fabric to see what the piece would become, and at some point--the sky fabric came last, I think--it felt like enough.

In sewing it together, I had to plan ahead, because the order in which I sewed pieces could box me into corners or create nice, easy-to-sew straight lines. Though designing "Neighbors" was like creating a collage, I couldn't simply superimpose one piece of fabric over another if I were going to piece the work together without making a mess of it. This spurred thoughts about how construction techniques dictated some of the "look" of the piece and raised questions for future work: Would I limit what I represented in fabric to what could be neatly constructed, or would I design with abandon and then figure out how on earth to sew it into some form or other?

I'll answer that: yes. Yes, I would. Both. I'm still working it out.

Let me sum up: as usual, the results of working on a succession of pieces like "Neighbors" followed the laws of unintended consequences. I learned to work fast and with less plodding because I needed to sell more work: a good thing. I chose craft shows to try to do that: a not-so-good thing. I learned more about the limits and possibilities of my chosen medium and was pushed in new directions: good. Though the craft shows were not worth the effort from a business point of view, the "preview open-house sale with friends and students" the week before the show developed into a successful tradition for me for a number of years: good. From where I sit now: it's all good.

23. Fiesta Log Cabin

Though the title says "Fiesta," the quilt looks Asian-inspired to me...and it is, having been conceived as a solution to the problem of how to use 18 samples of Japanese yukata fabrics, each of which was a small and pricey rectangle sporting one ginormous (it's in the dictionary now, so I can use it) flower motif. I had bought the super-sized swatches because they were so unusual--almost garish, with a strong statement of their own to make. It was a challenge to get them to cooperate with other fabrics.

The setting features the flower fabrics as the centers of "courthouse steps" log cabin blocks, surrounded by strips of equally strong but less bold fabrics. These blocks alternate with large squares composed of four half-log cabin blocks joined together. The whole idea came from a sketch I did on a napkin at a restaurant where the pattern of the table surface had given me the idea. Though at first glance the blocks with the floral centers appear to be smaller than the adjoining blocks, they are actually the same size. This optical illusion was a surprise to me--and I love it when that happens. (Sometimes it would be nice to know exactly what the quilt I've designed in my head will look like, but I almost never do). The colors in the stripes reminded me of old-fashioned Fiestaware, which--together with the fact that the quilt had a lot of visual energy and I had a lot of fun making it--led to the title.

As part of my renewed enthusiasm to "make a go" of my quilting career, I had begun to put out a regular newsletter announcing the classes I'd be teaching and shows I'd be in. In one of the issues I announced that I would give away this quilt to the person/organization who could come up with the best proposal for using it to raise money for a good cause. It was an experiment in launching a quilt to do some good in the community without actually having to sell the tickets myself. I thought I might get a bit of publicity out of it, too (which, by the way, I did not--oh, well). Out of several proposals, I selected one which would benefit an alternative school for kids who'd gotten themselves into trouble. I spent a bit of time visiting at the school when I dropped the quilt off. The quilt had had its day in the sun at a few quilt shows; it was a quilt with lots of good energy in it, and I felt happy to look at it. And that was that.

People often ask me how I can bring myself to give my quilts away or sell them. Except when a bit of nostalgia hits and I feel a brief wave of desire to see a quilt again, I'm well-rewarded as I work through the creative process, and when the product is done--well...it's over. Of course I love it when someone is willing to buy a quilt from me, because then I can be reasonably certain that it won't immediately end up as a dog bed or a furniture moving pad. But once it's out of my sight...I'm already looking forward to the next quilt.

22. A.K. Remembered

Half way through creating this quilt in the early 90's, I ran out of the blue "sky" fabric and couldn't find any more anywhere. Attempting to create my own version of the blue flowered print, I took the plunge and for the first time tried fabric paints. The pieces are small enough and the quilt is busy enough that the old and new blues worked together just fine, and I acquired another set of skills that I have put to good use over time. But that isn't why this quilt's story is told here.

Most steps along the way are not giant leaps, and not every quilt is major. This one is a short story: a small quilt, a small tribute to someone who in a small way helped me along my path. Someone who happened to have the experience and wisdom to recognize where I was and who happened to do the exact thing I needed at just the right time.

"A.K." was the mother of a friend. She was also a quilter, one whom I saw regularly for a relatively short period of time whenever my friends and I met for our run at the house where she was living with her daughter's family. At a time when I was deeply mired in doubt about whether quilting would be a career or be relegated to hobby status, when outer and inner voices were pushing me to commit wholeheartedly to a focused working life, she commissioned me to make a birthday present for her daughter. It was to be in part a quilt of autumn in New England. I completed the commission, and I think she was pleased to be able to give my work to her daughter. It wasn't the quilt pictured here.

Not too long afterwards, she died. Some time later I found myself making yet another autumn quilt (it's clearly in my blood) and remembering this generous and wise woman, and I gave the quilt its name. She had made a relatively minor decision in choosing a birthday gift for her daughter. But her choice, added to other voices and other small gestures of support over time, helped me to believe that I wasn't put on earth to keep a spotless house nor to turn the world around or upside down. On my own I had finally figured out that I wasn't put here to teach in the public schools, either.

So I sat down and set about creating a real business plan. Having committed to my life's work, now I committed wholeheartedly to exploring all aspects of it--including the question of whether I could support myself. The business plan didn't last long in its original form, but the career has endured and the explorations have taken me in directions I never could have predicted. Meanwhile, the quilt has hung in art galleries and on dormitory walls, holding its own as a reminder to be grateful for fine people and small works.

21. Hubcaps 2: Color Wheel

Back in ninth grade, I taught myself how to play the guitar so I could become a brown-haired version of Mary Travers. (I tried to iron my hair straight also, which worked about as well as my folksinging career.) The guitar was retired shortly after college when I realized I'd have to take some lessons and practice a lot in order to be satisfied with the sounds I was making. I had gone as far as I could without formal training.

I reached a similar stage in quiltmaking, but this time I committed to doing whatever it took to improve. Taking an introductory art class gave me a chance to work in a variety of media while honing my ability to see and to figure out what I saw. The quilt pictured here was made around this time and became the subject of an article in American Quilter Magazine about the experience of taking an art class and its effects on this quilt.

Hubcaps 2 continued a series in which I have enjoyed exploring machine imagery. Here I used only one of the nine patterns--in color this time--that I had drafted for "Hubcaps." Immediately faced with a compositional challenge, I struggled with the design, because no matter what I did I ended up with a bulls-eye in the center. Having pieced lots of gray prints together for a background (just as I had pieced colored strips together in my first hubcap quilt), I had dwarfed the single circle within too much background. Here's where taking the art class made a difference: I had learned to trust that if my efforts didn't look right to me, the design problem wasn't solved. Instead of strong-arming a pre-conceived solution into place, I had become willing to allow time for chance and random thoughts to assist me in coming up with satisfying answers. The quilt came together for me when I decided to view things from a different angle (oh, the metaphorical implications here!). I took the section of gray strips and tipped it in a diagonal orientation: much more satisfying to me, but still too overwhelming for the center circle. Superimposing a light-colored frame composed of pastel striped fabric (changing to brightly colored stripes where the frame crossed over the gray fabrics) reduced the sea of gray prints and was a solution which continues to delight me when I see this quilt. It would have been gratifying to get this effect on purpose, but here's how it really works: pile of rejected fabric on floor + quilt forming on wall + eyes wandering back and forth between the two = many possibilities, including some right ones. Benefitting from chance, though, has taught me to wait patiently for the lucky moments--and then learn how the effect can be achieved on purpose the next time. Working in series extends such lessons by letting me build upon previous problems and solutions.

There was now empty space to be filled within the light colored frame, and serendipity played a role here also. Before beginning the quilt, I had experimented with silkscreening. A small advertising picture of a hubcap design became my test screen, printed on gray and unbleached muslin fabrics. These printings were really supposed to be a trial run, but I liked the way they turned out and never printed any more. When placed together in a checkerboard arrangement, they echoed the central "color wheel/hubcap" image. I used exactly as many as I had, and I had exactly as many as I wanted, even though nothing had been pre-planned. A final border of darker grays and blacks re-introduced accents of color and curved lines drawn from the center.

While I still remember well what I did to design this quilt, I can't remember exactly how the inspirations for the design solutions came about: they are just "magic" moments. I do know it's a magic that can only come when I am in a prepared state of mind. The preparation in this case was patience and an open mind, fostered in part by the art class I took. The satisfaction I felt in my solutions was validated when "Hubcaps 2" was selected for inclusion in the Fiber Arts Design Book V by Lark Press.

I gave this quilt to my older son on the occasion of his 21st birthday, because I had read about an old tradition of "freedom quilts" presented to sons when they reach adulthood. Many of the flashes of color and contrast accenting this quilt came from two wonderfully graphic cotton shirts he wore through his middle school years, so the gift seemed appropriate. Once again I am struck by the power of a quilt as symbol and metaphor: I loved this quilt but "let it go" across the country with him, where it remains.

20. November Unfolded

A flowered fabric in unusual colors and a take-out food box led to "November Unfolded." The pattern idea was simple enough; I had already done two small wall-hangings using an unfolded box as template and felt I could do more--I wanted to integrate the curved "tab" of the box into the design.

The color was another story; I was drawn to a very light floral fabric with an unusual palette: creamy white background with yellow, rust, green, and black flowers. (This fabric is used in the patches which represent the base of the unfolded box.) I struggled with the colors in this quilt; I was fairly certain the fabrics I saw on my design wall wouldn't be on anyone's list of favorites any time soon, but I was compelled by them. A couple of weeks into the process I realized that these are the colors that show up on a rainy November day along a New England roadside: the rusts and dark wine colors of the oak leaves that hang on after the brighter leaves have long since fallen... the bittersweet, with its bright orange berries and hint of golden yellow husks... the pines whose needles have gotten a bit more yellow-green as the year has aged... the bright red-orange winterberry... the black of wet tree trunks after a downpour... and the ever-pervasive gray of the sky just before winter sets in. Not the best-loved landscape of our region, but home nonetheless.

By this time I had come to understand that any quilt worth my time and effort would have to please me. But when you send work out into the "quilt show" world for the express purpose of its being seen, you really hope a few other people will love it, too. And I had a bad feeling about that. My feeling was confirmed at a "show and tell" event with two local quilt guilds. A ripple went through the crowd when I showed the quilt, but it was because I tripped as I went up the stairs to hold it up for display. The actual showing yielded the dreaded "hmm...interesting" reaction.

I had wanted a jury to like it enough to select it for a show whose deadline was coming up in January. It was not to be. Though I completed the quilt in record time (two days early!), it was not accepted into the AQS show. Here was a moment against which I had been steeling myself, but even so I was not prepared for the strength of my anger and hurt when I got the rejection letter that set off a series of internal struggles which of course had been there all along just waiting to be faced. Again I looked for answers about the value of putting so much time and effort into making quilts, and again I found myself in utter confusion about how to best get my favorite work "out there", and blah blah blah. In the heat of the moment it was difficult to sort out the issues, and I didn't have the time. I now found myself in a public school classroom two or three days a week, with other days and evenings taken up with quilt classes or my part-time job for the Conservation Commission. And that didn't count the huge energy cost inherent in not doing things, especially when you factor in the internal agitation resulting from the things not getting done but constantly shoved to the bottom of endless lists. If I were to do a word count in my journal entries for that year, the highest number would go to the word "tired." Resilience and sense of humor are early victims of fatigue, and yet they are the most sorely-needed traits while contemplating life decisions. Something had to give, and this 93-94 school year would help me to decide what was worth pursuing and what had to go.

Twenty years had passed between my first quilt and November Unfolded. Back then, I was already an "old hand". But fourteen more have passed since then, and I've learned I was really just beginning the journey. I'm still not happy my quilt was rejected. I am still happy I made the quilt I loved. I did find those "few people" who also loved this quilt: one wrote about it in an article called "Strange and Wonderful" and another invited me to include it in a show called "New England Seen" at the New England Quilt Museum. And that's enough for now.

19. Nocturne

Circles have kept coming round in my quilts. Sailboats, also. Nocturne is an example of both, in a quilt begun shortly after I had worked long and hard on a very large, very pink and white traditional quilt. I longed to work with bright colors again. A magazine ad featuring a sailboat weathervane provided inspiration; it featured a background divided into sunny sky on one side and rainy sky on the other. I placed my version of the boat in a circle, half day and half night. The patchwork forming the border is a variation of the traditional "Ocean Waves" block, quilted with a "clamshell" pattern. The night/day interior is quilted with wave-like shapes in metallic threads. I tried out a number of techniques and materials and ideas with results that satisfied me, and yet somehow--though I enjoyed making it--I didn't feel emotionally connected to the piece. I'm no sailor. I find I can describe the quilt perfectly accurately from my memories, but I don't remember why I wanted to make it, and so I think of it as a "study". It's definitely too small to function as a quilt, and viewing it as decorative art raised the question of how I felt about making quilts that weren't...quilts. To this day, I continue to explore that particular issue and have come up with a very large number of (sometimes circular) thoughts about--not to mention attempts to resolve--that stubbornly abiding question.

It wasn't until much later--when the piece appeared in a magazine--that I discovered that the pieced border in the top right side of the quilt has a red/blue half-square triangle unit that somehow got rotated a quarter turn while I was sewing the block; it's just plain wrong. This was another in a long line of mistakes which help to give my quilts their unique voice, and really the one thing which finally linked me to the quilt and gave it some "personality." This particular work made me happiest when I found someone who really did connect with it, enough to purchase it.

Themes come round again in life, also. As I've mentioned, my first son was off to college, with the second not that far from following him out of the nest, and I was once again faced with the question of where I wanted to put my energy--not to mention the responsibility of sharing those giant tuition bills. Keeping home running smoothly could always eat up time, but I was devilishly clever at finding ways to do the "homemaking" I wanted to do and avoid the parts I didn't like, and it had become clear to me--and to my husband--that I always would. I knew I had a passion for quilting. But did I want to keep it as a hobby, untainted by the need to please anyone but myself--or did I want to throw myself into it full force and make it a career? It was time to make some difficult choices. And then, against all reason and just as my quilting voice was beginning to be heard in a larger world than my own town, I decided to give teaching in public schools one more try. I signed up to substitute teach in a local school system, to see what it would be like. Thus began a year of soul-searching and, finally, a commitment to my work.