"How long did THAT take you?!"

Agnes Martin, The Sea, 2003. Acrylic and graphite on canvas. 60"x60"

"How long did THAT take you?!" is a question that I as a weaver am sometimes asked about my work. The topic came up during a recent meeting with my advising faculty as we were discussing a 4' x 8' woven piece that I had just completed. This particular question, when asked by a viewer in place of a reflective comment, can be a sign that your audience is having a very hard time getting beyond the obviously time consuming and laborious processes that created the object of interest. The point was up for discussion, however: rather than simply not having anything better to say, this type of inquiry might also be an expression of wonderment and an attempt to understand an unfamiliar process through something familiar and quantifiable like time. The difference in meaning lies in the quality of the work's treatment, between a surface which is overworked and one which reflects a quiet presence of hand. When I am asked how long it took to make a finished piece, I hope the question is in response to characteristics of the latter . As someone who spends an embarrassing amount of time on processes intended to be unnoticeable in a finished piece, I can recognize the thin line which separates the two reactions. I stitched over 40 feet of cloth together (twice) and touched a glue-dotted pin point to 1900 individual threads in Quietly, Quietly. These labors are completely in service of the final appearance of the piece, and somehow personally satisfying (notice that I myself was curious to quantify my actions...I would be loath to reveal such nerdy statistics to a viewer), but they add to the work only through their invisibility. When someone's imagination draws them deep into the physicality of the piece, prompting them to inquire into some measurement of your labor, you've tapped into the magic of a process which melts into the concept, enhances the idea and stands back for the in-depth investigation rather than jumping forward and announcing the labor first. I believe in slow discovery, in rewarding the viewer who looks longer and gets up close and intimate with the piece. Here process can add another layer to the experience. It's a chance to round out a concept with a subtle history of the mark making. A record of hours will never translate directly, but the fact that all those hours are somehow contained in the work can add a few lines of poetry to the piece. This is my philosophy, my justification (beyond personal compulsion and enjoyment) for the tedious actions, hidden and visible, in my work.

"Weaver as collector?"

In response to my Numbers post from a few weeks back, my Fiber studio mate Aaron left a wonderful comment that's had me thinking:

"The validity of repetition is definitely something to ponder. Knowing your work, it is a good thing for you to ponder. Your first complete work in grad school was all about some repetition, and now your second big project is all about the discreet object. Or is it? Weaving is an accumulation and organization of hundreds, thousands even, of strings of yarn. Even though they are mostly one long connected strand of yarn, their treatment is as individual threads (weft variations). Rhythm, the flow of individual parts put together, is integral to weaving. Weaver as collector?" (Aaron McIntosh)

There are so many aspects of weaving that I enjoy, the process rich in metaphor and symbolic content. My loom is a meditative space, where action is slow and rhythmic. I go there with purpose: to create a cloth structure which captures my idea or contains the qualities I desire for further manipulation off the loom. I have woven a lot of cloth. I have sat at my loom for hours at a time passing thread back and forth through the opening in the warp. The low shimmering hiss of steel, wood tapping wood, a soft friction of threads moving against each other: these sounds create the familiar score which plays each time I work. With this as my backdrop, I have had a lot of time to contemplate the significance in the action and product of my labor. It is so important to me that the woven aspect of my work is necessary to the concept, and I feel that the themes of my work in general are very much related to the metaphors I see in weaving. My work is introspective, evocative in some way of a human presence. I reference the body, figure, or spirit, playing between senses of sadness, loss, quiet strength, and hope. As I weave, I believe I infuse these elements into cloth: each pass of the shuttle records the action of my imperfect hand. Time builds cloth, thread by thread, row by row. Collecting. Time. My handwoven material becomes the collection of moments, meditations, the warp and weft like an undecipherable text, a secret, something to be sensed but not necessarily understood. If I could look at all the different cloths I have woven, would their variations tell a story? Though I have ventured off on a romantic tangent here, and do not require that these thoughts occur in the mind of someone viewing my work, they are the fuel which drives me to weave and occupies my imagination as the thread occupies my hands. A careful record, taken down slowly: weaver as collector.

(Un)Establishing some rules

Having made it over half-way through the first semester of graduate school, I am really beginning to understand a few things about myself and my artistic processes through the eyes of my peers and professors. OK, I'm not to the point of understanding, but I am developing a deeper self-awareness that goes beyond my studio practice. The concept of "rules" has come up recently, as in rules that I set for myself when I am making something. There is my process, the thoughtful procedure I develop in order to turn an idea into a work, and then there is the process of my process, the subconscious barriers that keep me thinking along specific lines, following specific patterns as I make. I really thought I had some things figured out when I started school. RULE: there must always be a set direction and plan. I thought I was ready to make make make, be an artist, produce work, etc. RULE: once a path has been established, it must be followed to the end. But I feel like I'm starting from scratch, redefining what I thought I knew, creating foundations more than work. It is very uncomfortable: I don't really feel like I've made a resolved piece yet! RULE: everything I make must be a finished and successful piece of art. But I am learning a lot, discovering many questions and NO answers. How did I let these rules establish themselves to the point where I don't even see them anymore, only feel discomfort when I push away from them? RULE: the rules cannot be broken. You ARE your rules. How deep might they go? How are they affecting my work? Which are fundamentally important and which are holding me back? This goes much deeper than artwork, unfortunately. I am a carefully constructed and regulated being. And yet, as scary as it might be to allow myself to swim out into the unprotected waters beyond my understanding, it is also very exciting. I have a feeling that the only way I will truly succeed is to just go for it, really put myself out there. First rule to break: failure is not an option.