Virginia A. Spiegel

Boundary Waters 10

Really, it is a dilemma.  Do I go backwards (against all natural inclination) to go forward or go forward knowing a series still in motion will be unalterably changed?

Let’s start at the beginning.  In 2007, I painted 100 yards of 60″ white cotton fabric during two weeks of my residency at the Great Expectations Creativity Center in Texas.  I had a solo show coming up and, for once in my life, had a plan as time was short.

The series would be based on my experiences in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness and the palette would be green (from lime to forest), blue (from sky to indigo), orange (from yellow to copper), brown (from tan to chocolate), black, and white.

I loved the fabric I painted.  I was so inspired by it that I whipped out that solo show and just kept going. I’m in the #30s for the Boundary Waters series now and feel I still have a lot to say.

But about a month ago I could see I was running out of favorite fabrics.   I wanted to keep a record of the Boundary Waters’ palette, so I made this swatch book (made, but not yet assembled):

Boundary Waters’ Swatch Book - Front of pages

Boundary Waters’ Swatch Book - Back of pages

Boundary Waters’ Swatchbook - Detail. 

I was surprised how many fabrics were already used up, without even a 3″ square remaining. 

Two weeks ago I made a very “watery” artwork with the last little bits of my favorite screenprinted blue fabrics, then I started two Double Moon artworks with the last big pieces of fabric with any blue in them at all. 

Then it struck me.  This was it.  I have a couple of yards of pink/peach/orange/red, some ghastly muddy browns, two wire baskets full of scraps, and not much else from that original 100 yards.

I have never, ever, gone back and painted fabric to coordinate with a previous fabric “run.”  The act of painting is as much the act of creation for a series for me as sewing. They both involve experimenting; thinking; tentatively, and then more boldly, following threads of narrative.

Even having a plan and a palette, I was able in the painting of the 100 yards to follow with my heart and head where my hand wanted to go.  To go backwards now would be to attempt to recreate a moment that has ceased to exist. 

Or do I go forward and approach painting new fabric as a blank canvas and hope what appears will draw the Boundary Waters series forward in a new and positive way? 

I am working on many other things, but always in the back of my mind is THE question:  Does a series end when the fabric I painted for it runs out? There is no easy answer to this dilemma, but sooner or later I will have to take paint brush in hand and resolve it.

Tulip

What an honor and privilege to serve as a juror with Jeanne Williamson for Journal Quilt Project II.  I thank Karey Bresenhan, Director of International Quilt Festival, for this opportunity.

This was the first time the Journal Quilts have been juried and the first time a theme was stipulated (Elements: Earth, Water, Air and Fire). Members of the online group Quiltart were eligible to enter and many members entered their first juried show.  Congratulations to all entrants for your courage, your hard work and sharing your artwork.

Jeanne and I had 155 entries to consider and chose 48 artworks for the exhibit to premier at International Quilt Festival - Houston in November.   Jeanne has also posted about her experience as a juror on her blog today.

Preliminaries:

We were each sent, by the capable and organized Amanda Schlatre of Quilts, Inc., a CD with entry jpegs, a list of artworks by number and title and the entry forms with all identitifiers deleted.

I went through all the jpegs three times before making even a preliminary ranking.  The first time I just wanted to see the group as a whole.  The second time I read the statements of each work with the artwork on the screen.  The third time I considered the group as a whole, looking at the main jpeg and detail jpeg, keeping the artist statement in mind.

Thoughts for artists:  

Photography.  Hands, faces, furniture, clips.  We saw it all in the photos and it is distracting.  To enter a juried show, you need to submit jpegs that are in focus, of the piece only, the correct size, squared up and straight on. Because this was a first juried show for many, we didn’t eliminate artwork on this aspect alone. But most exhibits will just because of the sheer number of entries.  

Certainly a different selection may have been made if the actual work were in our hands. But this is not the way juried shows work in this digital age. Remember when you see the exhibit in person that the jurors had only two small photos viewed on a computer screen. We are forced to make judgments based purely on what is on the screen. Give jurors the best possible view of your artwork by submitting great photos that are truly representational of your artwork.

Detail shots:  You can make a juror take a second look with a good detail shot.  Show something exciting, unique, beautiful, or surprising in your detail shot.

Artist Statement: Each artist was requested to explain how the entry related to the theme. What an opportunity!  We may have been thinking, How does this fit the theme?  Then the artist would tell us and it would be an AHA moment.

Your artist statment is your opportunity to tell a juror why (not how) you came to create your artwork - what is your theme, what is the driving thought behind your work, what is unique about YOUR viewpoint.  

Tell us a story; tell us something specific; tell us through your statement that you thought about your artwork, did some research, and were inspired by something close to your heart.  

Voting:  Jeanne and I then ranked each piece as Accepted, Maybe, Release (don’t say the R-J-CT word because any two jurors are going to choose a completely different show).  If we both agreed on Accepted or Released, then we took one final look to be sure and moved on.  A surprising small number of works were Accepted or Released at this point.  Then we settled in to discuss over the telephone, over two days, every other piece in detail.

Jurying is an exciting and stimulating process and we, as all jurors, had to adjust to the work before us, compromise when needed and conduct a lively and interesting discussion.  Jurying is a subjective process, but we worked very hard to leave our personal design preferences by the wayside.  

Thoughts for artists:
For me art quilts are all about concept and content.  Materials and techniques are always subservient to these concerns.  That’s why they are ART quilts.

Of course, I did hold in mind that these were art QUILTS and looked to be sure there was stitching, that it was integrated into the piece and that the artwork in some way belonged to our very unique art form. And, of course, good workmanship is a given in any juried competition.

I saw many beautiful displays of technical proficiency that didn’t show me something new. Great technique is not enough; a beautifully constructed image I’ve seen before is not enough. Show me a square inch of a tree, show me trees from space, show me the inside of a tree, show me what a tree looks like through a woodpecker’s eyes.

Convince me that you, as an artist, thought about the theme long and hard. Show me in your artwork that you felt there was something you REALLY, REALLY had to say about the specific part of the theme you chose.  

Show me earth, wind, fire or air as I have never seen them before. Make me laugh, make me sigh, make me mad, make me curious, make me recoil, make me lust after your work. I’ve seen generic; I’ve seen obvious. Show me specific, show me your world, your point of view, your emotion. Use what is in your culture, your location, your space, your experience.  Your artwork will be unique and it will stand out.

Of course, no artwork will stand out from the crowd without good design.  Design principles can tell you that you had a great idea, but didn’t take it far enough.  It can tell you when you had a good idea, but took it too far and added unneeded elements to your composition. 

If you have never thought about some of the basic ways all artists draw attention to a piece, move the viewer’s eye around the artwork, provide coherence or other strategies of good design, take a beginning design course, do a little self-study, and look at artwork outside of the art quilt world. 

Final Thoughts:

If your artwork was released, try again!  In my second year of entering juried exhibitions, my artwork was released eleven (ELEVEN!) times in a row.  

Of course it hurt and it did make me seriously re-think quitting my “real” job, but it made me a better artist and a more careful entrant. I took it as a challenge to improve my artwork, to think more clearly and specifically about my goals and interests in art, and to spend MORE time making art.

Congratulations to ALL the artists and, again, thank you for the opportunity to see your artwork. It was a complete pleasure.

Balloon

Poetry, artwork. Artwork, poetry. To me, they are one and the same.

As many of you know I have been in a poetry drought since moving to Illinois three years ago. I am using the “pot” method to re-start the engine. I’m sure you have heard the story of the “pot” method.

Two pottery classes. One is told that their grade depends on how many pots they make. The other class is told their grade will be based on the one perfect pot they make during the semester. Which class makes the best pots? The class that makes lots and lots of pots. It’s by doing that we learn.

To that end, I write five haiku every morning while drinking my coffee. Why haiku? I could probably write sonnets if I put my mind to it, but for my purposes haiku are perfect.

Haiku are short (17 syllables) and traditionally they are about seeing, about being in the moment, focus, focus, focus. There is a traditional format to haiku (click here for the overwhelming wikipedia entry for the basics of traditional haiku), but I ignore that and require only that there be seventeen syllables.

Be in the same spot and write. So in 14 days of effort, I have 70 haiku. My view doesn’t change (except when I’m traveling - take the little notebook along), but sometimes there’s a new bird talking or I have a new mug, or a bagel instead of toast, or the mist is so thick that a wren takes an air bath in it. There is always something to see if you are looking.

Wednesday I will share a foolproof method to writing haiku. Find a nice little notebook, a pen (be bold!), and pick your haiku spot.

Grey cotton kimono worn to
Shreds at hem and sleeves
Morning comfort.

I added a new summer reading list/essay, Hunting and Gathering, to Art, Nature, Creativity, Life yesterday. If you’re a subscriber, I’m always happy to hear your comments.

Hunting and Gathering is an annotated book list with thoughts about being a foodie and why, the cascade effect of reading one good book on a topic, why it’s best sometimes not to read biographies of cultural heroes, my foray into growing heirloom tomatoes this year, and the au courant topic of being a locavore.

Here are some interesting summer websites, not included in the essay, related to Hunting and Gathering:

Where to find local products - Local Harvest

Join the hunt for bees! The Great Sunflower Project

10 Steps to Becoming a Locavore (PBS)

100 Mile Diet: Local Eating for Global Change

What makes a series work? This is quite a long essay as I explore, as a kind of post-mortem for the Third Thoughts series, this question.

I was so fired up about Third Thoughts, but thirty-some small artworks later I have lost interest. Normally I would be happy with a series with more than 30 pieces, but these are quite small pieces AND I hoping to keep going until I had somewhere between 50-100 artworks. There are some great pieces among the Third Thoughts artwork. But when I was done, I was done. Why?

And what did I turn back to? The Boundary Waters series - still interested, still lots to say.

So what, for me, makes a series work?

Passion. I come to this passion in three ways.

Sometimes I am struck, almost in a physical sense, by a moment, a color, a movement, a sort of stop-time event that grips me and won’t let me go until I do something with it. Those are the glory moments of being an artist and so infrequent as to be a miracle and a blessing when they happen.

Sometimes the passion begins with a tiny idea (for example, maybe I should raise bees) and then I start reading and the next thing I know the whole topic is out of hand and ripe for a series. Although not blatantly apparent in my artwork, I am a very “think-y” artist (OK, person). I like to research a topic (some would say obsessively), to ponder what interests me about a subject, to write about it, to distill tons of information and feelings into a series of artwork that says,”Here is what I think AND feel about this topic.”

And lastly, sometimes passion comes from living a topic. My landscape gardening, my canoeing, my wilderness journeys. I experience these topics as part of who I am and the way I structure my days and years. My library has huge section on the environment, nature, and the wilderness. I’m interested in an ongoing and very profound way.

I know when a series needs to be started as I feel an actual physical stirring inside of me. I think of it as the sap rising, the ideas and images percolating, percolating, just waiting to come out. And it’s not always the happy-side-of-the-street passion. Passion often slides along the dark edges I choose not to acknowledge in my daily life.

If I have to beat myself up to start or continue a series, I am going in the wrong direction. If I find myself cutting up completed work, adding more layers, endlessly tinkering - all not good signs.

But I know from the very beginning when an artwork is going to be passionate. For example, when I painted the fabric for Boundary Water #19, there was power in the brush strokes. I can close my eyes and be once again in that moment, the passion flowing out my arm and hand and on to the fabric. I cut up the fabric, I sewed it back together, I stitched it. It was heart, hand, mind - done! Oh, the joy of making art when that happens.

Did it come out of the blue? No, I had a photo from the Boundary Waters in my notebook of a Mother Log with little green pine trees growing out of the fallen and decayed log. What a beautiful, concrete example of the reality of life - that from death comes life, that the organic matter in all things, including we humans, recycles endlessly. It’s a big theme in a simple piece.

This doesn’t mean there aren’t false starts. No matter how prepared I am intellectually, when hand meets material, then the fur really flies! Start, stop, cut up, discard, start again.

And then, finally, I make a piece about the Boundary Waters that says here is freedom, peace, adventure, the smallness and brevity of humans, the greatness of an eternal nature. And that first piece, combined with the fabric I have already dialogued with in its painting, will start the series off. I go forward exploring, explaining, experimenting, feeling, thinking, pushing, narrating, and summarizing.

I want to develop series that are not JUST about what you see before you in terms of shape and color and structure, but what is behind the physical structure: the figure behind the screen, the archetypes lurking in the shadows, the emotion I’m holding close to my heart, and the philosophical and personal meaning I have attached to certain colors and images which may attract, intrigue or hold the viewer for entirely different reasons than the ones I attached in the making. That is real power, that is real art.

Third Thoughts ran out of gas as a series because I couldn’t find the intellectual or emotional thread that could tie the pieces together, that made my investment in time and energy worthwhile. I started without considering what exactly I was trying to say, what would pull me along to make more, to try more, to HAVE to create. I was seduced by thinking that my thinking was already done in the paper collages.

A series works when I am passionate about the topic, when I have something to say that is both personal and profound, that stirs my emotions, that tickles my brain, that makes me wrestle with myself or my materials, but, in every case, drives me to be in the studio and to try. Perhaps not always to succeed, but to try.