Embroideries of Colonial Boston

Chair seats, Bradstreet family, mid-18th century.

On Wednesday, May 9, DH and I had a double treat. We attended an enthralling lecture/discussion featuring Hal Prince, legendary Broadway producer, complete with live musical medleys. After the lecture we viewed the third installment in a series of exhibitions highlighting needlework of colonial Boston, staying until we were kicked out of the museum.

Apron, Ruth Eliot, mid-18th century.

According to family lore, Ms. Eliot made the decorative apron above, and a matching stomacher, and wore them to her wedding to Reverend Jeremy Belknap on June 15, 1767.  How proud she must have been, wearing her own handiwork on her special day.  This piece was created at a time of great economic and political turmoil, but Ms. Eliot was evidently determined to have a beautiful wedding ensemble equal to that of any English bride. Her husband, Reverend Belknap, became a pastor in Dover, New Hampshire, and was quite active in the Revolutionary War.  Reverend Belknap was often away from home, leaving Ruth Eliot Belknap with their family, which eventually included six children.

One wonders if Mrs. Belknap ever had time for embroidery while raising their children, and this delicate and charming piece was an expression of the artistry she may never have had a chance to exercise again. No wonder she took so much evident time and care.

Apron, detail, Ruth Eliot.

Bed clothes and fashion accessories on view.

Curator Pamela Parmal reiterated the point that textiles, time-consuming and costly to prepare or import, were considered moveable wealth in colonial America. In addition, with our modern emphasis on bricks, mortar and a misguided perception of permanence, we've forgotten what children know when they prop a blanket over two chairs, making a "fort" - that a piece of special fabric can create a still, quiet place within its drapes. A nomad's tent, a Jewish ceremonial chuppah, Japanese noren curtains: all offer degrees of shelter and spatial definition.

The furnishings of the bedroom also telegraph wealth, rank, and status. Before modern hospitals, many lifecycle events took place in the bed.  Learn more about the design history of the bed in Going to Bed, by Eileen Harris, from the Victoria and Albert Museum's The Arts and Living series, ISBN 0112902871.

In bed we laugh, in bed we cry;
And, born in bed, in bed we die.
The near approach a bed may show
Of human bliss to human woe.
-- Isaac de Benserade (1612-1691)

Wide bed curtain, signed "A. P," 1674

Large scale works such as bed curtains were wonderful canvasses for bold, large-scale designs like this exuberant feathery motif.  This panel is worked in blue-green wool on twill-weave fustian. Fustian is a somewhat coarse, sturdy cloth composed of a  linen warp (lengthwise threads) and cotton weft (crosswise threads.)

Detail, wide bed curtain.

Detail, Fichu, Rachel Leonard, mid-18th century.

From the large scale to the minute - the above image is a detail of a triangular scarf called a fichu (FEE-shoo) typically tied around the shoulders. The fichu is made of muslin fabric embroidered with linen thread, in a style called Dresden work, which imitates lace. Do click on the image to enlarge it, and enjoy the almost microscopic detail of this masterpiece of craftsmanship.

The image below is from the website of Colonial Williamsburg; the fichu is tied with a brown bow.

Image source http://www.history.org/history/museums/clothingexhibit/museum_learn.cfm#accessories

Christening blanket, detail, Mary Fifield Adams, before 1713.

Mary's twelve children were christened in this blanket, including her son Samuel Adams, signer of the Declaration of Independence.  Sam Adams joined his family trade of fermenting malt, an essential ingredient for beer. Today there is a modern and quite successful beer company named after him.

Detail, Petticoat border, maker unknown, mid-18th c.

The border from which my detail image was taken is well over six feet long, which gives some idea of the circumference of those voluminous petticoats!

Art in Bloom at the Museum of Fine Arts

Flowers galore.

On April 29, DH and I enjoyed Members' Night at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts Art in Bloom celebration. This wildly popular annual event, in its 36th year, features three days of floral-themed activities. Over fifty Garden Clubs from around New England created floral arrangements as a response to specific works of art. I think my DH and I saw all fifty arrangements; due to the crush of people - the museum was packed - it was impossible for me to note the title of each artwork and each Garden Club, so please forgive my lack of attribution. Just enjoy the colors.

Top: Fancy clock, Noh costume, console table legs. Bottom: floral interpretations.

Spikey flowers mimic cock's comb and tail feathers.

Neo-classical sculpture; calla lilies seem to be eavesdropping.

The artwork selected ranged from Pre-Columbian gold work and weaving to a portrait by Chuck Close, so we hiked all over the museum; this event is a great way to get patrons to trek to galleries they may otherwise seldom visit.

Modigliani meets palm fronds.

A perfect pairing of painting and posies.

Sometimes the response seemed limited to highlighting the colors of the artwork, but generally the arrangements addressed form and texture as well.  

Delicate roses and baby's breath, and detail of lacy sleeve of portrait subject.

Art in Bloom is an engaging form of community involvement in the arts.  Although apparently light-hearted, conceptually this event springs from a very fundamental premise - that across cultural and temporal divides, much art has been inspired by nature.  In addition, everyone likes flowers, and, moreover, by this time of year New Englanders are more than ready to leap into the vernal season.

Sideboard and bouquet.

Cheery sunflowers, in life and in wood.

Maritime painting, with white orchids recalling sails.

Not all the flowers were on pedestals.

Rags and stitches

"Boro jewelry" - raw-edge cloth, sashiko, and antique buttons.

As I need many small gifts for a trip I'm taking later this spring, I've gone into mass production of these small pins. Boro, by the way, is a Japanese term that roughly translates to rags, or scraps of cloth. Cotton was at one time a luxury fabric in Japan, as it was imported, and every scrap was saved and reused. See examples of boro at this blog.

Three fabric scraps, hand-dyed pearl cotton and antique buttons.

Something every quilter has is lots of fabric scraps.  After some experimentation, I hit upon pleasing proportions for my little textile "sandwich:"

1) Bottom square, 2 1/4"
2) Middle square, 2"
3) Top square, 1 3/4"

Of course, the shapes can be irregular, and should be!  Using my trusty sashiko needle, I stitched the three layers together using sashiko thread, as well as some wonderful pearl cotton hand-dyed by Elin Noble.  It is difficult to force the needle and thread through all the layers, and I recommend loosely woven scraps as easiest to handle. Many of my pins use Kaffe Fassett's shot cotton for the top and bottom layers, with some kind of coordinating print in the middle.

Rows of stitching marked, or just "eyeball."

I spaced the rows of stitching about 7 - 8 mm apart,  a scant 3/8" or so. Next came the antique button, and finally I stitched a 1" pinback to the reverse of the "sandwich," just through the back layer. After all the stitching, I did a final trim of the thread ends.

Back and front of boro pin.

Pin on lapel.

I got the idea for these pins from this wonderful blog, which features Mai's hand-made creations: http://mairuru.blogspot.com/2008/09/my-boom-sashiko-hand-stitch.html

Maggie Weiss Thermofax workshop

Fabric printed with Thermofax screen.

In February, I attended a workshop led by Maggie Weiss and sponsored by my quilt guild.  We learned to print fabric using screens made by Maggie on her thermofax machine. A thermofax machine has nothing to do with contemporary faxing, or fascimile transmission, but was an early form of photocopying, predating the process perfected by Xerox.  

Every public school used to have a thermofax machine, as they were used to make transparencies for overhead projectors.  Today, textile and printmaking artists buy used machines and create screens. A high-contrast image, such as an ink toner photocopy, is run through the machine with a piece of Riso film.  Riso film is a Japanese product composed of an emulsion bonded to a screen mesh. As the image and film are heated in the thermofax machine, the carbon-based ink of the image fuses to the emulsion of the Riso film.   When the paper image is removed, the emulsion is peeled off, exposing the mesh.  The film is mounted in a frame and then fabric paint can be applied with a squeegee.  The image width is limited to 8 1/2", but the only limitation on length is manageability.

Maggie, who creates art textiles and quilts,  has been using this process for some time, and has an instructive video about it on her website (click on the thermofax menu option.)  Maggie will also make screens from your images.

Ad for ThermoFax machine, from ebay.

 

My workstation.

For the workshop, we needed to bring:
Fat quarters of plain fabric
Dishpan and rags
Spray bottle of water
High-contrast images
2 Styrofoam trays (supermarket type)
Scissors
Fat quarter-size felt
Plastic spoons
Fabric paint (I used opaque paints from Pro-Chem and Joann's)

Maggie provided:
Useful handout on image suitability
Duct tape
Double-sided tape
More fabric paint
Plastic frames
Squeegees - auto body scrapers from Home Depot!

Needless to say, Maggie couldn't very well lug her Thermofax machine from suburban Chicago, so she had a selection of New England-themed, pre-made screens from which we could choose.  The first screen was free and additional screens were available for purchase. Her prices are very reasonable.  I chose a brig design, below. You can see the rippling where the black ink has bonded to the film after being processed in the thermofax machine.

 

 

 

 

Brig thermofax screen, ready to frame for printing.

The first step is to bind the edges with duct tape.

Duct tape, thermofax and white plastic frame.

Duct tape binding, ready to be trimmed.

Taped screen next to black and white original.

You can faintly see the image of the brig in the thermofax, now that the paper original has been removed, taking the emulsion with it.  Next, we prepared our frames.

Plastic frame, with double-sided tape at opening.

The plastic frame has double-sided tape at the openings. This doesn't have to be perfect, just good enough to hold the duct-taped screen in place. We reserved the tape liner strips - put them back on, over the tape, when storing the frames.

Tape should overlap opening just a bit.

Screen, with duct tape adhered to frame - ready to print!

Next, we make a layered sandwich: dropcloth, felt, fabric and screen on top. I couldn't pull a print, and take a photo simultaneously (only two hands.)

From top: screen, fabric, felt and dropcloth.

Maggie pulling a squeegee across the inked screen.

In the image above, Maggie has spooned a line of purple fabric paint across the top of the screen, just below the duct tape. Holding the scraper/squeegee at a roughly 45 degree angle, she pulls the paint over the screen, then make a return pass.

Purple paint spread over screen, while rapt audience looks on.

My screen, printed and waiting in dishpan to be rinsed.

 

 

 

 

 

The screen needs to be gently washed after every use.  There was often a line at the sink in the workroom, so the dishpans came in handy while we waited our turn.  With care, screens can last quite a while.

Fabric with two impressions of brig design.

By whatever process the screen is made, whether by more tradition serigraph processes or by thermofax, some of the challenges remain the same. It takes practice to use the correct amount of paint, and to squeegee it with the right amount of pressure while holding the squeegee at the correct angle.

Paint station.

Using the  thermofax machine, though, greatly simplifies the process of making a screen, when compared to making a traditional photo-silkscreen, and it's excellent for detailed images such as text.

Ideal method for text.

Would have purchased this screen in a moment!

Children's workshop product - delightful!

Maggie is a very good teacher and speaker. Once the screen is made, the printing process is very accessible to artists of all ages and experience levels, making it a good approach for children's workshops and community projects, such as the pillowcases in the image above.

Gretchen's printing at the workshop.

Everyone in our workshop seemed to be having fun and getting interesting results.

Chickadee screen ready to be printed.

 

Chickadee, with remnants of Jacquard-brand paint.

Another advantage of the thermofax process is that, unlike linoleum printing, it's a direct positive image - no reversal of the original design. In addition, it's easy to flip the screen for a mirror image. I printed both brigs and chickadees facing in two directions.  I have leftover paint, so hope to experiment more with this process, now that I've had this excellent workshop on the basics.
 

Fabrics printed with thermofax screens.

Pat Hickman: Traces of Time

When we think of traditional artists' materials, we usually consider plump tubes of acrylic paint and tautly-stretched canvas, anticipating the brush.  Or we envision arrayed pans of watercolors and tablets of creamy Arches paper. Artist Pat Hickman's materials and pigments are not made by Winsor and Newton, but by time and nature, including parts of trees and animals (more on this last below.)  The ubiquitous pigment in this exhibit is not burnt umber but actual rust.

Detail, Silent.

The images in this post are from Pat Hickman: Traces of Time, an exhibit at the University Art Gallery of U-Mass Dartmouth's College of Visual and Performing Arts. The exhibit ran from December 8, 2011 to January 27, 2012; my husband and I viewed the show at the end, so this post is a document rather than a current event. However, explore Ms Hickman's website for more images and for her schedule.

Ms. Hickman, a Colorado native, has traveled extensively and studied contemporary and ancient textiles from Alaska to Turkey. She does not copy ethnographic textiles or techniques, but her work reflects an attitude toward process and materials which is shaped by her study and observation of traditional techniques.

Overview of gallery exhibit.

During her studies, Ms. Hickman learned that Native Alaskans traditionally used the intestinal membranes of marine mammals, as well as fish skin, to waterproof outerwear.  Before we say "ugh," any Westerner who has ever eaten a "natural casing" sausage has eaten the processed intestinal tract of farmed animals.  By using gut, which she obtained first from delicatessens which made their own sausage, Ms Hickman displays her alchemy, transforming a material, nowhere to be found in the catalog of traditional fine art tools, into art.  In these works, there is emphatically no relation between the worth of the piece and the inherent value of the materials - the significance is all in the concept as realized by Ms. Hickman, in her choices and in the skill of her hands.

Silent, animal gut and nails.

In Silent, Ms. Hickman worked with the animal gut in a wet form, and as the material dried, time and moisture oxidized the nails placed within the layers of gut. The casing material also became translucent, with a slight sheen, when dry. The rows and rows of nails, following the convention of vertical tally marks and diagonal slashes,  evoke the most basic ways of counting and of marking time.

Downriver Ravages. 

 Layers of wet animal gut pressed over old door. Photo credit: Ned Harris.

The image above shows Ms. Hickman working on Downriver Ravages.  She formed animal gut over a rusty elevator door in an old former calico cloth factory.  The textures and rust from the industrial artifact transferred to the animal membrane as the membrane dried and contracted, forming a memory, like a shed skin, of the door.


I'm interested in both structure and skin. The contraction of gut when drying, the pulling power of those membranes, changes the shape of a structure, finally achieving a balance, a resolution of the separate materials. - Pat Hickman, Pat Hickman: Traces of Time exhibition brochure.

Detail, Downriver Ravages.

Time and decay are not just her themes, but also her allies, harnessed by Ms. Hickman in the installation River Teeth.  When trees die and fall in the woods the soft pith decays, but the crotch wood - where a branch intersects the trunk - is denser, and persists. According to Ms. Hickman, these tough remnants are called "river teeth," named by sailors who imagined tooth-like shapes left by trees which had fallen and decayed, not in woods, but in water.  Ms. Hickman collects and organizes these modern fossils.

Detail, River Teeth.

River Teeth.

Foreground: Tumbleweed. Background: Mnemonics.

Detail, Mnemonics. Mahogany-dyed casings.

Concentration.

Garlic.

Ms. Hickman also twists, splices and bends wire, netting and reeds.  She stitches,  molds and burnishes dessicated palm sheaths.  Some of her animal gut works have been recast in bronze, transmuting the gossamer and lightweight into something metallic, rigid and almost indestructible.  While silent, Pat Hickman's work prompts unending conversations about fragility and strength, permanence and change, worth and value.

Gone. Cast bronze of animal gut sculpture.