"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.