Ghoulies and Ghosties

This perfect Halloween piece was picked up at a thrift shop awhile back for a few dollars, framed in a simple frame. It amuses me and I display it during October. This year I decided to do a bit of research. There are a number of these lithographs around, and they are described as “an early [Cornish/English/Scottish] Litany”, done with water colors by Nancy Wilds in the 1960s.  I noted the three different locations simply because the descriptions on the web vary tremendously as to where the “original” litany was from.

First things first: the artist, Nancy Wilds, is from Aikens, South Carolina, and is still alive at age 98. When she was a teen, she attended a service at a friend’s church, Trinity Cathedral in Little Rock, Arkansas. She fell in love with the stained-glass artwork, and continued to attend the Episcopal Church in town instead of the family’s Presbyterian one. She wanted to become a glass artist, and her parents agreed, though not until she got a traditional education. She studied at The University of Chicago, then went on to study at the Ringling School in Sarasota and a stained-glass school in Memphis. After marrying her twin brother’s Yale college friend, she moved to the remarkable family estate in Aikens, SC called Rose Hill. In 1967, with the support of the family and 5 other local artists, she created an Arts Center in the unused stables on the property. That nonprofit is still running, Aiken Center for the Arts (https://aikencenterforthearts.org/).

Her stained-glass work is remarkable, and often depicts the history of religion around the world.  She says “I’m trying to convey the yearning for religion that is in all of us, and it comes out in different ways”. In describing one series of 6 windows, called Gods in Glass, she says “they’re not just for decoration…They tie together. It’s like reading a book.” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ouw5DeVFxq8). Her lithograph piece was an early work, done around the time the Art Center was started.

Now, the mystery about the “early” Litany. “Litanies are sets of prayers arranged in the form of a list of petitions, usually sung or chanted [during a church service] by cantors, to which others provide responses” (https://darklanecreative.com/ghoulies-ghosties-and-long-leggety-beasties-2/).  It seems the “early litany” aspect of this particular prayer is essentially a marketing gimmick.

Research done by Susan Hack-Lane, debunks the idea that the work was from the 14th or 15th century. The first written version of the litany showed up in 1905, in a story written by Hugo Warrand, calling the poem “a quaint old Litany” (http://www.yorktownmuseum.org/PostCardImages/A-New-Look-at-the-Old-Cornish-Litany.pdf). In addition, Hack-Lane discovered that a small Cornish town, Polperro, began a tourism industry in 1923, describing their best-selling item, a series of postcards, as depicting  a “Cornish Litany”. The artist of these “Cornish Litany” postcards, 21-year-old Arthur Wragg, received free room and board at the publisher’s home in exchange for his artwork. So, as Hack-Lane notes, “while the Cornish Litany may well be a quaint old litany handed down through generations of superstitious participants or a later day creation, it was found in print in 1905…enriched by creative minds and their artful pens, and given full fanfare by the Cornish tourism bureau’s 1920’s campaign to entice visitors with their clever little ditties”.

And so it seems history does repeat itself, as my fun version done in the 1960s by Nancy Wilds, was also a best-selling item, used to support a newly created arts center. The saying, quaint though it is, is a good reminder to be wary of everything you read on the World Wide Web – there are certainly ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties out there.

Cat Lady

The recent political chatter about ‘cat ladies’ brought to mind this photograph I took in 1980. My eldest sister lived on West 71st Street in New York City, and I often visited her while I was in high school. Using a manual camera, I photographed her cat, Tolbert, in front of the apartment’s windows. The name Tolbert inspired these musings.

Cats started in human history being revered, both by ancient Egyptians as well as religious orders throughout the Middle Ages. Their hunting of vermin, and thus protecting stores of food, was much appreciated. Unlike dogs, they were not completely domesticated, often remaining aloof, but helpful. Somewhere along the way, the cat became associated with evil women, and having a cat, especially a black one, was a sign the accused woman was a witch. (I discuss this a bit in a prior blog: ericas-heirloom-treasures/weird-women). The first documented trial of a woman accused of witchcraft was in 1566 in England. Elizabeth Francis owned a cat called “Sathan”, an old English version of “Satan”. While that may be a poor choice for a cat’s name, I can relate. My children had a cat we called “Evil Puddy” - he was a semi-feral feline with very little lovey-dovey instincts. We called him Puddy for the most part, except when he would capture animals and deposit them in the house as presents, sometimes live and sometimes in pieces. While Elizabeth survived her trial in 1566, her sister, Agnes Waterhouse who inherited Sathan later, did not.

My sister’s cat, Tolbert, had a vaguely familiar name, and I asked another sister recently why. Back in the 1960s, my parents hosted foreign students living in NYC to come for weekend visits to our home in Chappaqua. I imagine this was through some organization, but I have no idea about the logistics. They hosted a number of students, though I only recall a young Japanese man, Chit Chon, who came a few times, bearing gifts for the children. What an experience that must have been for a young man to land in a suburban American home with 6 or 7 children running about! Around that time, my mother named our Siamese kitten Chit Chon, which is somewhat cringe-worthy now that I think of it.

I still have a few child-sized kimonos and obi sashes Chit Chon gave my parents. There were 4 originally, three floral ones for my older sisters and 1 gray elephant kimono for a brother. The obis are works of art. The silk was hand dyed using “shibori” handwork. The technique involves wrapping the fabric around a nail (called Arashi), tying it in place, then dying the silk. The compressed area resists the dye, and creates unique patterns. When unwrapped, a wonderful textural pattern will remain. I wore the pink obi as a scarf over the years, and the raised texture has faded. Absolutely you cannot wash these as the entire textural design will disappear! https://www.wanderingsilk.org/shibori-history-meaning. This photo shows the two sashes I still have (I also have two kimonos). The yellow obi was not used over the past 60 years, and thus you can see the fabulous textural handwork more clearly.

According to my sister, another student who visited our family was Victoria Tolbert, though likely when I was an infant. Victoria made an impression on my older sister, who was 7 or 8, as she recalls Victoria was a stunning and regal young woman. A number of years ago my sister looked to see what became of Victoria. It was a sad story. Victoria was from Liberia, and educated in the United States. She was studying at Pace Business College in 1962-3 which was when she visited our home. She married Adolph Yancy, also educated in the United States, who was the senior economist for the Bank of Monrovia. The couple had two children, but Victoria died in 1971 at the age 30 after emergency surgery. (No details but I cannot help but suspect it was a pregnancy gone wrong given her age). Her father, William Tolbert, was President of the Republic of Liberia for 19 years, and was assassinated in a bloody coup in 1980, as was his son. His living daughters were imprisoned without their children, and his widow – who watched his murder – was locked in a bare jail cell for a month, then allowed to flee Liberia for the United States. Thus began a brutal 15-year military dictatorship lead by Sam Doe.

It certainly gave me pause to think about the sweet house cat, Tolbert, and the political history of the family who inspired his name.

Connecting Threads

I intend to write about a different quilt today, a charming 1930s butterfly one, as I have an epilogue to share. Since it is already featured in a prior blog, I needed a different image for this post (ericas-heirloom-treasures/feedsack-friendships). Deciding that dragonflies are not a far cry from butterflies, I landed on this quilt. Other than “fly”, it turns out they are not vaguely related. Dragonflies are in the order of Odonata, do not undergo metamorphosis, and their wings are transparent. Butterflies are in the order of Lepidopter, metamorphize, and have colorful wings. Forgive my stretch. Back to my quilt.

The quilt was an experiment I tried during the Covid lockdown. I was inspired by a quilt I saw at a WI quilt show, created this way with a guitar image. I loved the idea, but not the guitar theme. My children always associated my mother, Barbara F. Humphrey (1928-2021) their ‘Mimi’, with dragonflies, though I cannot recall why that started. This became a gift theme for many years, with a few ‘handmade’ treasures, including this charming pillow handmade by one of my sons. Being remarkably unsentimental, my mother asked me at one point to please stop the dragonfly gifts. Fortunately, I snagged my son’s handiwork before it was discarded.

Choosing the dragonfly theme, as my mother had just died, I had no directions, and worked through a myriad of snafus. The strips are all ½”, and the two swaths of fabric – one lights and one brights – turned out to not be sufficient. Cutting all the strips, aligning all the rows, and appliquéing the dragonfly sections is not a process I’d likely undertake again. There is a reverse image quilt top made of the leftovers, which someday I should quilt and finish off. But, as this one has sat on a shelf for four years, I haven’t been motivated. In the meantime, I’ve move on to other projects. Like writing a blog for the heck of it. The art I find, the tidbits of info I uncover, and the connections to wonderful people has been a priceless reward.

Moving from dragonfly to butterfly, this quilt was purchased by my daughter’s friend at an estate sale and I cleaned and repaired it for her. Now, however, there is an epilogue to write. When I posted a blog this week about lamp treasures (ericas-heirloom-treasures/my-love-affair-with-calder), I forwarded the link to Trent, from whom I’d purchased them. He wrote a charming note on the blog, appreciating my post, which I shared with my daughter. She mentioned she hoped Trent would see my prior blog written about this butterfly quilt as it had been his grandmother’s. Wait. What?! Yes, she said, her friend had purchased the quilt from his June estate sale. When the friend was paying, Trent told a relative that his grandmother’s quilt was going to a new home. I had no idea the quilt’s history was known! Being a rather avid historical artifact junky, this was too good to pass up. I sent Trent another text, apologizing for pestering him, and forwarded the “Feedsack Friendship” blog link about his grandmother’s quilt.

The vast majority of quilts – especially vintage ones – are unsigned and their history is lost. These treasures were made by real women, with the purpose of keeping their family warm. Using whatever means they had to create something charming to do so. Knowing who did the work keeps that history alive, and I am rabid about trying to tie artwork, quilts, etc to the original maker (thus most of my blog posts). I have even tracked down people whose parents had created the art work I found and returned it to them (ericas-heirloom-treasures/american-dream).

Trent’s reply about the quilt blog was charming:

“Wow! This choked me up a bit. Thank you so much for taking care of it and seeing the beauty of what my Grandmother created. All the butterflies were material from castoff clothing from my Mother’s family. They used everything they could because they had nothing. The new binding or border trim looks so beautiful! This is a testimony that you should pass things along to those who understand and love them. I would have never been able to give it its second life and breathe new life into it. I always felt guilty moving these things along but now I feel like I have done the right thing.”

When I realized I could document the quilt with the maker’s information, I asked for his Grandmother’s name so I could create a label for the quilt. Trent replied with a photograph of his maternal grandparents, as well as a note.

“That would be amazing. Her name was Ora Alder. My Grandfather, when he was younger, was a coal miner and died early in life due to black lung from the coal mines and my Grandmother worked at Delco, a factory in Kokomo, Indiana.  My Grandfather never learned how to read because during the depression he was made to go to work to support his parents and could not go to school. They died with almost a half a million dollars in the bank. They worked hard and saved and lived simply in the face of a lot of adversity. They were good people. Hoosiers.

I was unable to track down any birth or death dates for Ora and her husband Frank, though a recent death of one of their daughter’s told me Ora’s maiden name was Messer. I also learned the couple had four children, born in the 1930s during the Great Depression. Likely Frank and Ora would have been born around 1910, setting up house during the depression. Thus, Ora was making quilts out of scraps to keep her children warm. These quilts were well used, as quilts should be. Her daughter saved this one, passing it on to her son.

While Trent appreciated the quilt, there does come a time when all of us have to part with “stuff” – either due to excessive accumulation (uh hum, lamps…) or the sale of larger homes and downsizing. Some people just need to part with “stuff” for emotional reasons. Or philosophical ideas. What I love is the idea of the stories these treasures have, the joy of finding connections, both through research and through new friendships, and the ability to let handmade creations speak for history.

My Love Affair With Calder

Someday  I will need to do a “Parade of Lamps” as I seem to have developed a serious fetish of late. I blame some of this on a fabulous designer who has been downsizing in a town nearby, holding tent sales over this year. Trent has incredible – and expensive – taste and confessed to me he adores lamps and shoes. There is a table set up with “project lamps”  at his sales – things he’s picked up but not gotten around to rewiring and using. These are all $20 and it is a bit like being a kid in a candy store. I have purchased other lamps at prior sales, and wrote a blog about one (see ericas-heirloom-treasures/wiring-not-included). This last weekend I purchased two lamps – neither of which I actually need mind you – because they were fabulous. And the one I truly coveted, but did not buy at first, was over $400.

While one of the lamps is also ceramic and amazing, this ceramic lamp is the one I want to discuss. It has not been rewired, nor does it have a shade at present. When I mentioned to Trent I coveted another expensive “Mondrian” style lamp he was selling, he told me that the white ceramic one is also a “Mondrian”, though done in pastel colors. He picked up both while living in Amsterdam back in the 1980s, and he understood they were “authorized” by Mondrian. How could I not bring this beauty home with me?! And pine for the pricier one.

Peit Mondrian was born in 1872 in the Netherlands. He studied art from a young age, and while his early works are impressionist in nature, his later works are the source of his fame. He wrote extensively about art theory, and created a number of art movements, including De Stijl (Style) and Neoplasticism. The purpose of De Stijl was to create visual harmony that could restore order and balance to everyday life after WWI, and was for all types items not just artwork. It is likely the lamp was a result of this movement, though as yet I do not have any verifiable evidence.

However, it was Neoplasticism that informed his work with primary colors and lines. The movement, started by him in 1917, was a philosophy where naturalistic representation in art was renunciatd in favor of stripped-down art composed of lines, rectangular planes and primary colors. ( https://www.moma.org/collection/terms/neo-plasticism) These are the works we all instantly recognize. Mondrian moved to New York City in 1942 and died in 1944.

One reason I have always loved Mondrian is his connection to Alexander Calder. Calder visited Mondrian in Amsterdam in 1930. Mondrian was a very “type A” artist, with a small section of his tidy apartment set up with an easel where he produced his work. Calder is the exact opposite – his studio was a cavernous space filled to the brim with bits and bobs. Calder noted after his visit that Mondrian’s studio “was a very exciting room…there were experimental stunts with coloured rectangles of cardboard tacked on…I suggested to Mondrian that perhaps it would be fun to make these rectangles oscillate. And he, with a very serious countenance, said ‘No, it is not necessary, my painting is already very fast…’ This one visit gave me a shock that started things”. And thus Calder began work inventing the mobile as he wanted to see all those blocks of color move!

So back to my estate sale visit. As I could not afford the pricier lamp, I was carrying the white ceramic one when my daughter arrived. I told her that the piece was a Mondrian (style) lamp and she looked at me blankly, stating she didn’t know who that was. I explained to her she did – he was one of the artists taught in the elementary art program I had created called Famous Artists. Still not ringing any bells on her part. As we walked through the sale, we came across the lamp I coveted and she perked up and said – oh I know that artist! Yup, I said, it’s Mondrian.

Needless to say, I went back on Saturday to see if the lamp might be reduced in price. Trent kindly offered it to me for a reasonable price and I happily carted it home. It needs a better shade so I will need to head to a remarkable lamp shade store near here( https://www.thelampshader.com/) where I suspect I will spend a ridiculous amount on a silk shade. As hubby reads these posts, I likely won’t be able to sneak that one in, but he will forgive me as he enjoys my finds. The Mondrian lamp now sits quite appropriately next to my Calder lithograph and it is astonishing how well they complement each other. As they should.

Polkadots Amid The Dross

This artwork suits my mood today. It is a rainy Fall day, overcast and cold. We had been in a false Summer season but last night the winds changed and now Fall is here. My head is pounding – unclear if that is due to some wine last night (possible) or the change in weather. Or just typical aches and pains as I recover from a week of being a busy grandmother to a newborn and 3-year-old. Running around with a 3-year-old is such a joy, but yikes, my stamina is not what it used to be. I have a lot to do today, and starting with a headache is making me grumpy. That said, I do like to wear bright colors, armor of cheerfulness when my interior might not be so upbeat. Much like this collaged woman facing down a black cloud.

The artwork was picked up in 2020 (pre Covid) at my local thrift shop, though poorly framed. I spent a bit of money to have a new mat cut for the work and picked up a standard frame to display it. There was a note on the back, indicating the work came from the “Ragdale Foundation December 2007” and was titled “Polka Dot Figures VI” done by Hedwig Brouckaert.

The Ragdale Foundation is a nonprofit artist community in Lake Forest on the former estate of Howard Van Doren Shaw (architect) and Frances Wells Shaw (playwright). The foundation was started by their granddaughter, Alice Judson Hayes, in 1976. The property, originally the “summer home” for the Shaws, was built in 1897. The family added the Ragdale Ring in 1912; an outdoor theatre for the production of Frances Shaw’s plays. Alice inherited the house in 1976 and began the foundation, initially managing the entire enterprise. She wrote: 

“I am grateful to my mother, Sylvia Shaw Judson, who gave me the house, to the ancestors, relatives and ghosts with whom I communed when I came back to live there in 1976, to all the artists and writers who by their creativity have validated the idea of the Ragdale Foundation, and to the many people who have helped make the Foundation work. Finally, I am grateful to the house itself for its smell and taste and texture and for the views out of its windows and for its nurturing spirit.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ragdal. 

The organization runs nearly 150 residencies and fellowships annually to creative professionals of all types, with the artists staying on the property to enjoy creative work space and uninterrupted time. The artist of my piece, Hedwig Brouckaert, was a resident of the Foundation in 2007, and her piece was one of a series she created at that time. The work was contributed to a holiday fundraiser, purchased by someone in the community, and eventually made its way to the thrift shop.

Brouckaert is from Belgium, and moved to New York in 2010, where she is active in the art world, and is currently the Bronx Museum’s 2024 Aim Fellow. Her main interest is with “mass media imagery to create introspective and tactile works, which range from drawings and sculptures to site-specific installations.” (https://caferoyalculturalfoundation.org/hedwig-brouckaert) I was actually able to reach Ms. Brouckaert by email, and she described the work as a “mixed media” work – part of a series she did while at Ragdale. She explained the process:

“The ground was East Indian black ink, with drawing using black carbon paper on top and then archival felt tip pens for the dot patterns. I transferred images from magazines, in this case only figures and I would put the heads always on the same spot. That’s why there is the black enter where there were a lot of layers of lines. I was, and still am, interested to work with mass media imagery as s source material because it is so omnipresent and such an important part of our landscape.”

To be honest, I really cannot translate that process! Suffice it to say it is a layered work, spun from a magazine image of a woman. The how of it still escapes me. But that is the beauty of creativity – sometimes the “how” doesn’t matter as much as the impact the piece has. This woman always makes me think of Fall, storms – both internal and external – and the use of bright colors to fend off the onslaught. Dross is a term used to describe things that are worthless or rubbish – much like our overabundance of mass media imagery. And yet beauty can be found among the dross, both in our personal demons and the demons that play out around us in our ever-present media.

Stick With What You Know

Last night, as I sat mumbling to myself over a crochet project, hubby mentioned I was doing “full on Grandma”. There I was in a rocking chair, reading glasses perched on my nose, bright light shining over my shoulder, my mother’s needlepoint footstool under my feet, and her knitting basket full of yarn. Yup. Full on Granny! The reality is I had made a ridiculous decision and now am suffering the consequences.

I had taught myself to crochet a few years back, and managed to whip up a few fun “amigurumi” gifts for family and friends. Amigurumi is a Japanese term which combines the words for “knitting” and “stuffed doll”, though the projects are not knitted, nor always a doll. The designs are worked in circles, and involve a basic crochet stitch and lots of counting. The projects tend to be small and cute, though the Pokémon characters I made were neither, as well as a tad complicated.

When our second grandchild was expected, hubby and I picked up a charming Steiff toy while in Belgium. At the time we did not know the gender, so went with a lovely brown bunny. Eventually the kids found out a little girl was going to join their family, and I happily found a crochet pattern for a bunny blanket. Of course, that pattern was in very boring cream and tan, so I blithely decided to pick up (expensive) wool yarn in pink and brown, and figured I could crochet the blanket in time for her  birth.

Ah, the joys of overestimating your talents. Who the heck knew crocheting a blanket involves a much harder set of techniques than my cute amigurumi Charmander dragon?! Just what the heck is a half treble crochet stitch?! How the hell do you carry two yarns, switching between them as you crochet? And why in God’s name did I keep losing stitches? It soon became clear that dark brown was not going to work for the bunnies – since you carry it throughout the pattern, the darn brown showed between the pink stitches. Back to the yarn shop. $40 later I now have a cream yarn for said bunnies, and am back at the beginning.

Not that I’m under the gun or anything, but lovely granddaughter was born on Wednesday, and I am heading back to spend a week playing with 3-year-old sister and getting as much infant snuggles as possible. With better yarn in hand, I sat in my usual “project” armchair in our bedroom and spent SIX HOURS trying to figure the damn pattern out. Lots of YouTube videos. In the end, I made ONE block (of 16) and managed to pinch a nerve in my leg, rendering my foot completely useless for walking. Good grief.

Yesterday I decided to mimic my mother, who always did her needlework while sitting in a small rocking chair. My entire life Mom used a rocking chair, and while her specific one is gone, I had begun “collecting” rockers during Covid. Odd choice, I admit, but the large loft in our barn was a perfect location for friends to meet “outdoors”, but under a roof, during the lockdown, and the local thrift shop sold rocking chairs for ridiculously cheap prices. Varying girlfriends would pick among the dozen or so chairs, and over the year or so we would meet for coffee and celebrations, rocking away our worries. One chair, a 1960s Danish Modern teak one created by Hans Olsen, cost me $10. It was so comfortable, and actually worth well over $2000, that I put it in our sitting room. After my foot recovered (but is still tender), I decided to set up production in Hans Olsen’s chair, complete with my mother’s very old needlepointed foot stool with the charming strawberries and her antique floor lamp.

I have managed to get my production down to 1.5 hours a block…and now have 4 complete. I am not optimistic that I will crank out 12 more before tomorrow’s trip back to the kids. So Mom’s wicker basket, filled with all the necessary yarns and tools, will come with. Hubby did ask last night why the heck I didn’t just make a quilt? Very good question.

Awaiting A Grandchild

A brief blog post to celebrate a new life. My second granddaughter is expected to arrive today, and I am on my way to meet her. Praying mother and child do well through the delivery, and I know the little one will be welcomed with a great deal of love from her parents and both grandparents.

In case anyone is curious, the artwork is an etching I picked up at an estate sale a few months back. It is titled “Human Touch” and is an “artist proof”. The artist, Walter Moskow (1931-2013) studied at the School of the Art Institute and lived in Illinois.

The Garden That Never Withers

I spotted this etching at an estate sale this past weekend, after I had paid for a collection of treasures. I certainly did not NEED another piece of art, but it spoke to me. The young man reduced the price to $40 – a tad high for my thrift store sensibilities, but I decided to splurge. I am glad I did. As I have been mulling all week what I wanted to post for my 100th blog post, this artwork offered some interesting thoughts.

The artist, Gross Arnold, was born in Romania in 1929, and died in 2015. While studying art, he fled to Hungary in 1947 when Romania was taken over by Communist Russia. He is considered a “graphic artist” and is well known in Hungary for his copper plate etchings. This particular artwork, titled “The Garden That Never Withers”, depicts a sunflower field and is dated 1962. I actually hadn’t noticed the date until I enlarged a section to show the details! It is dated and initialed on a small rock.

The work is remarkably detailed, especially if you realize the artist carved the image into a copper plate, printed it onto paper and then hand colored the image. Each one is unique, and thus there is not the edition numbering often seen on prints (i.e. 179 out of 250 would show as “179/250”). Arnold has depicted the sunflowers as unique faces, and filled the foreground with a large array of fairies, birds, bugs and quirky creatures. The overall vibe is a surreal, fantasy environment, with a child-like sensibility.

I suspect some viewers will feel the work is ‘creepy’. I think this comes from the minimalist tree and vast, mostly empty sky. These create a striking backdrop to the over-filled sunflower field. The colors are also muted, though that may have more to do with the work being painted over 60 years ago, with the watercolor paint fading with age. The ability to create “atmosphere” with a copper plate etching is limited to lines, so I sense Arnold added the smiling ‘man in the moon’ and a few faint fairies darting about to offset the ominous blank sky. The sky was simply a background for Arnold, as he spent all his energies filling the curved earth with details.

And oh my gosh did he enjoy creating a community of flowers. Each one is unique, with quirky facial expressions, some clearly feminine and others masculine. Some young, some old. The petal ‘hairdo’, the ‘leaf’ outfits, and the flowers tilting this way and that. There are a few female flowers with long flowing hair with ‘ribbons’ of leaves atop their heads. Note the gentleman on the far left with a bowtie! There are numerous fairies scattered about in the field as well a pair of ‘bee’ folk. A dark crow on the far left, as well as numerous ducklings climbing over the rock.  

One of the books I loved as a child was the large Grimm’s Fairytale collection my parents had, with its gory stories and illustrations. The history of fairytales is fascinating, as they reflect old folklore, morals and human fears. My parents also had books on mythology, and all those ancient Greek tales fed right into my enjoyment of human foibles translated into stories. Arnold’s garden of delights does not seem to be ‘saying’ anything particularly, but the one young boy sitting at the front of the image seems to be Pinocchio, with his much-desired human heart, but slightly elongated nose.

When I began researching Arnold I came across a number of quotes which summed up my enjoyment of his art. He wrote “we are surrounded in the world with so much trouble and horror, they should not be allowed into the art” (https://www.kollergaleria.hu/kiallitas/arnold_gross). He was often referred to as an “eternal child”, filling his art with childlike wonder and joy. Having lived through WWII as a child, escaping Communist Russia’s invasion as a young man, and settling in a foreign country might make someone bitter and sad. He chose to play with his art instead.

The sunny colors of sunflowers tend to make us all smile, with their bright hues and oversized charm. It is hard to be sad in the face of such charm. Arnold’s artwork reminded me of a daughter-in-law as her favorite flower is the sunflower. As a wedding gift, I created a quilt to reflect the couple’s Colorado home, with a field of unique sunflowers, pieced and appliquéd over the mountains. (For those interested, the sunflowers were created using a technique designed by Robin Ruth for mariner’s compass blocks https://www.robinruthdesign.com/)

While I did not create ‘faces’ on my sunflowers, I did hide a few secret images to reflect me and my love for the couple. Having children, building relationships, creating art and love is truly work. But it is the best of life’s ‘work’, and as I come across vintage artwork, I am always inspired by the artist, and the impact the art has on my emotions. I found an (unattributed) quote about Arnold’s work which sums up its appeal to me:  his work is “fed by the joy of play, the enjoyment of nature, the appreciation of loving human relationships and the respect for the values of classic art and literature”. That is really all there is for me - a garden of love that never withers.

Houston, We Have A Problem

To be fair, Jack Swigert actually said “Okay, Houston, we’ve had a problem here” on 4/14/1970 aboard Apollo 13, but who’s worrying about literary misquotes at this point? The basic fact remains that I now have a serious problem. Having ventured to the ridiculous ‘Bins’ thrift store with a friend again, I acquired yet another quilt. I don’t, in fact, collect large quilts (haven’t as yet discussed my doll quilt collection stored under a bed). As I didn’t need another quilt, I was unsure about purchasing it, but my girlfriend insisted I rescue it. Based on weight, it likely cost me $10. It seems I have a fondness for charming, unloved 1970s crazy quilts.

When at the Bins, most folks are in search of specific things (clothes to resell mainly) and old quilts do not hold much appeal. There’s even one “shopper” with an online following who sets up a video space in a corner and “sells” items online before she’s even purchased them! You literally have no idea what you will come across, and while much is a tad yucky, sometimes cool things are uncovered. My friend found a vintage French gold pen (worth over $150!) inside the pocket of a sport coat she was assessing. Bought that coat! There are now a myriad of for-profit “Thrift Stores” open, some in our area, which “stock” their stores with the things culled at Bins. Mind you, not everyone washes the items before reselling so I will leave that idea for you to mull over. YUCK.

My problem is it seems women in southern Wisconsin back in the 1970s were making crazy quilts. Contemporary families, emptying out elder relatives’ homes, do not appreciate the charm of these items and the quilts are donated to thrift stores. It makes me sad that someone’s handiwork is unappreciated, and the fantastic array of vintage fabrics is off-putting to the current “everything is gray” generation. So I am stuck with yet another quilt to restore because I cannot leave these treasures behind.

Thus far my quilt finds have no notation of maker, location or date. I would love to explore who made this piece but alas that is not going to happen. Other than the fabrics dating to the 1960s and early 1970s, and being found in Wisconsin, I have little to go on. Unlike my prior Bins crazy quilt (see blog post:  https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/wisconsin-crazy), these fabrics are mostly cottons and a bit more rural “farm” vibe. The quilt has a sweet “make do” vibe, and the overall sense I have is it was made c.1970. Tackling the “cleaning” of the quilt evolved into quite a project.

First up was a bathtub rinse. Yikes, the pea green water had me washing it twice. Then it dried in the sun. The interior of the quilt (what would be known as the batting) was oddly lumpy so I decided to disassemble the piece and clean up the batting. Oh dear - that was a huge mess! Turns out whatever was used (no clue!) by the quilter as “batting” basically crumbled into messy loose lumps and was all over the top and backing. And my sewing room! What a mess. I ended up taking the pieces outside and shaking them to loosen the stuffing. Hubby actually swept the patio as he thought it was some odd plant pollen. Oopps.

At this point I decided the darn thing had to go through a washer and dryer. The backing was so full of this odd stuff it was the only way to get it removed. The top also, though I confess to being a tad nervous about it surviving the machines. It seems the original maker had used “foundation” pieces of old well-worn wool blankets for constructing the blocks, and they held up remarkably well. The odd fluff was removed and the top and back were quite clean. This crazy quilt was reasonably well constructed, and I mended some of the stitching on the blocks. Thankfully not a huge number as sitting down and doing embroidery had not been on my short “to do” list! After completing the repairs, I squared up the original backing and then tacked the quilt down on the floor, laying the backing on top. Pinned in place all the way around, sewn together, flipped right side out and pressed well with an iron. Now I have a fun early 1970s crazy quilt to decide what the heck to do with!

So, Houston, how the heck am I going to manage this new craze?

Wiring Not Included

This little guy came home with hubby and me the other evening from a “presale” at a local collector’s sale. I had been to prior sales and his things are wonderful, often handmade, unique and quirky - a vibe hubby and I have always loved. I wanted hubby to see the current sale as we hadn’t been ‘antiquing’ together in a long while. Years ago we would scour antique fairs and stores together, but eventually hubby couldn’t stomach going as he found the markets depressing – piles of old things with people just waiting for a sale. As the recent sale was from a man with very expensive taste – and the money to indulge – I wasn’t surprised hubby loved many things, and we marveled over quite a few. I spotted this little wooden man and decided he needed a home. Hubby fell in love with a lamp, but that’s a later story.

I asked the owner what he knew about the wooden guy’s history. He said he’d picked him up in New England at a sale awhile back, but I didn’t pry for more information (shocking, I know). He is hand carved out bits of wood. His top hat, face (with small screw for a nose) and body are all one piece. I suspect it’s from an old porch rail; the curves and indents remind me of the farmhouse porch we built on our first home in Libertyville.

The arms are carved from a single piece of wood, ‘bent’ at the elbows, with shoulder joints made from metal screws. (Dang what I wouldn’t give for a ‘metal screw’ for a shoulder these days: climbing is tough with old bones and joints.) My wooden fellow’s legs are made of two pieces, hinged at the knee and hip with old screws as well. While he moves and is adorable, his bottom is not exactly flat, so he tends to tilt to the side when seated.

I wish I knew more of his actual history. He is considered a ‘folk art’ sculpture, and I am guessing he was made in the early 1900s. In a rural community, likely in upstate New York or possibly Pennsylvania. Those areas were significantly more ‘rural’ back in that era, and he seems a toy made for a child. He has been handled, his wood is smooth and worn a bit, and his joints are loose. But I sensed he would enjoy a sojourn in our family room with Calder’s circus master and circus theme. Thankfully he did not need any surgery and promptly was placed on a ledge. Unlike hubby’s lamp treasure which is now on my “to do” list.

The lamp was on a ‘project’ table, full of cool old lamps needing wiring or shades or both. Hubby loved it, and I thought the lightness of the glass was cool. As it was wired, I blithely hoped it only needed a shade. The owner gave me detailed specifications as to what shape and size shade I would need. Oddly, I had a silk lamp shade up in the attic closet that fit perfectly. Funny enough I cannot recall what lamp it came off of, but I have a pile of old silk shades stored in that closet as you never know when you’ll find a super cool lamp that needs a shade. If you have never priced well-made silk shades, I promise you would be shocked at how expensive they are. My go to ‘store’ for lamp shades is, not surprising, the local thrift store. In any case, with the shade and some “Edison” lightbulbs in hand I plugged it in. Blew a fuse, with an odd fizzing sound. Uh oh. Now I have to re-wire the darn thing as it clearly has a wiring issue. I am slightly nervous to do so as the lamp has numerous handblown glass pieces, and I am scared to death I will drop something. I will likely set up surgery on a sofa just to be safe.

I wish I could say something about the light, but sadly I cannot find any information about it. It is unmarked, but seems to be ‘Hollywood Regency’ style, probably 1940s, based on the switch and the up-facing light bulbs. Lamps are one of those things people really don’t pay much attention to, so resale of vintage lamps is a limited market. I would mention, however, that lamps can also be stunning pieces of artwork in their own right, as this one clearly falls into the “way cool” handmade aesthetic. Our house is filled with unusual lamps, and now I have to work on hubby’s treasure, which will brighten the dining table where I sit writing. Each time I see it I will remember our fun outing, my charming folk art man, and the dangers of vintage sales – wiring not included!

A Childhood of Books

My childhood was filled with books. Our houses always had a room dedicated to books – the den, the library, the study, the office. Someplace with a lot of shelves and treasured books. The Darien house had a “den”, with built in bookshelves and a quirky 1940s “corner” fireplace. One area contained children’s books, but nothing was off limits. I would climb the cabinets to reach books, and, while many were of no interest whatsoever, others were fascinating. These antique “family” books were on the shelves, and I recall flipping through the blue book Wee Wee Songs for Our Little Pets (1864). While the poems are dry as toast and full of 1860s childhood lessons, it had pictures! Some were even colored in by a childish hand, which amused me to wonder what ancestor had been so naughty.

The books came down from my paternal grandfather’s family. As there are three “Watts S. Humphreys” to contend with – my father, grandfather and great grandfather – discussing who owned what is an exercise in annoyance. The oldest book, dated 1757, is in very poor shape – both covers have fallen off. I will need to hunt down a book restorer (likely an expensive process). The book, Mr. Hoyle’s Games, was gifted to WSH, undated but clearly written in fountain pen so I am guessing it was to my great grandfather WSH (1844-1910). I did look up the gentleman who gifted the book, Colonel d’Autremont, Jr (1855-1919). He was an attorney as well as mayor of Duluth, MN so likely he and my great grandfather knew each other through their legal work. And possibly they liked to play card games!

The 1838 book, The Laws of Etiquette, does not have any inscription. It may have been picked up later, but given the family’s tendency to save heirlooms, I suspect it came down from my great great grandfather Thomas Humphrey (1802-1839) who immigrated to the United States from England. My wistful vision of Thomas bringing it with him on the boat from England was promptly dispelled as the book was published in Philadelphia. Drat. Thomas did not live a long life, but what struck me is the clear error in the dates on the family tree. Thomas could not have fathered WSH in 1844 if he died in 1839! That will require some detective work as it clearly needs revising.

The children’s book I remember from my childhood, Wee Wee Songs for Our Little Pets (1864), likely belonged to Carolyn Magofflin (1861-1946), my great grandmother. She was the second wife of WSH (1844-1910). As she was 17 when engaged to the much older widower, her family sent her to a “finishing school” in Canada for a year so she would be 18 when they married. My hunch is the book was hers, saved by her youngest son WSH (1890-1968) and passed down through our family.

While books are important to my family, I struggled to read as a child. As I was a “naughty” child, my parents thought I was being obstinate, and had me repeat 2nd grade. My father was diagnosed as “dyslexic” in the 1930s. Unfortunately in the 1960s I was not. The root problem with dyslexic children is their difficulty learning to read (and spell for that matter). And while I had all the telltale signs, back in the 1960s dyslexia was considered to only affect boys. I should note the term is no longer used, falling under the umbrella of “learning disabilities” now.  And it is only recently that girls are diagnosed similarly to boys.

I was in college when I realized I was “dyslexic”, though no medical doctor has diagnosed me. Even I could not make heads or tails of my college class notes, with all the flipped around letters and truncated words! I was lucky the Darien schools utilized phonics to teach all children during the 1960s and 1970s, so I was taught in the way still recommended for teaching dyslexics to read. Of 7 children, I was the only one who struggled with academics, and spelling was a lifelong annoyance. When I would ask my mother how to spell certain words, she would always say “look it up in the dictionary”. How, pray tell, is someone to look something up when they can’t spell it in the first place?! In high school I would write long papers, leaving blanks when I did not know how to spell the word I wanted to use (a curse for someone who reads a great deal but can’t spell worth a damn). Amusingly, I recall sometimes forgetting to revise the “blanks” with actual words, and one inspiring teacher wrote me a review saying he liked the paper, and gave me a “----” on it - he left the grade blank! Ok, fine, I learned my lesson, but it remains a challenge to spell.

One of my sons is “dyslexic”, we got him help throughout his school years, and he became an engineer. One nephew similarly struggled and also became an engineer. My father was a successful engineer, so I wonder about a correlation between dyslexic brains and the need to organize things logically. I studied literature, art and history in college, but landed in banking which was a rather rude left turn. I caught on, but never enjoyed the work. I realize now that my dyslexia created a strong need to “organize”, and thus quilting suits me perfectly! And the idea of using visual images to spin stories also fits my nature to find meaning and make sense of things. While my father wrote over a dozen books, I promise they are mind numbing unless you enjoy software engineering. Possibly someday I will add a book to the family archives, but as yet undecided. And for those of you worrying, the owl was a thrift store find that I could not leave behind. He is a heavy clay sculpture and keeps his eyes on me as I sit typing. Owls symbolize wisdom, intelligence and protection. I’ve decided his 1970s vibe and huge eyes wanting to understand things around him reflect my childhood, and thus I will name him Humphrey.

Weïrd Women

I picked this sculpture up at a quilt guild garage sale event recently. The work is considered a “soft sculpture”, made of cloth, clay and yarn, with each figure embellished with various fabrics, ribbons and fantastic flyaway hair. Boy can I relate to that crazy hair! It seems the older I get, the more weird my hair becomes. The artwork is signed by Gretchen Lima and dated 1998.

Ms. Lima has been making doll sculptures for over 35 years. She explains on her website how these works come to be (https://www.gretchenlima.com/pages/about.html). Her pieces begin with a sketch, then a rough prototype is cut out of muslin. Using Sculpey clay she creates the faces, and often hand knits or hand dyes the clothing. She states: “My work is not only an expression of what I see, but of what I feel. I create the messages and give a voice to a girl inside who has patiently waited to be heard…Artwork is a process of discovery, for the artist as well as the observer. What you discover is in harmony with where you are on your voyage of life”.

There is something that drew both me and my quilting friend to the sculpture. My friend picked up the work at an art fair back in 1998. She noted she is one of three sisters, though these do not reflect her sisters specifically. While I do have three sisters, that was not what came to mind when I saw the work. I loved the details, the handmade quirkiness, and the slightly creepy sense the three females evoke. While a group of three women can refer to the Three Graces, the dark colors and weird hair of these made me think of Shakespeare, and his three witches.

The Sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,

Thus do go about, about,
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine

And thrice again, to make up nine. MacBeth (Act 1 scene 3)

The play, written in 1605, was based on an earlier work by Raphael Holinshed “Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland”. In that work, the 3 females are not called witches but are “weird sisters”, or goddesses of destiny. Much earlier in England, your fortune was considered the workings of “wyrd”, a mysterious force. Over time, the term became “weird” and was more associated with destiny, similar to the ancient Greek idea of the female “Fates” who decided your life’s journey.

A search on Google landed me at the Shakespeare Globe Theater website, which provided a bit of these tidbits (https://www.shakespearesglobe.com/discover/the-history-of-the-witches-in-macbeth/). I also learned that in his First Folio, Shakespeare referred to the 3 women in MacBeth as “wayward” (also spelled “weyward” and “weyard”) instead of “weird”. The early audiences understood “wayward” as a term applied to women “who were perceived to be outspoken or quarrelsome (cardinal sins according to the misogynistic theories of Shakespeare’s England). Women who asserted their wisdom and knowledge…[were] castigated as “wayward”.  By combining the ideas of “wyrd” and “wayward”, Shakespeare created the concept of powerful women but also dangerous and marginalized women. Thus was born the familiar stereotype of  “poor, disregarded and insulted old women whose wisdom, if acknowledged at all, could be understood only as witchcraft” and thus were dangerous.

It should be noted that the horrific witch trials in England were at their crazed peak in the 1600s. Roughly 500 people were killed as witches in England, 90% of which were women. King James VI, crowned in 1603, changed the English Witchcraft Act which created “witch hunters”. Their favorite target? Old women with cats.

All I have to say is thank god I did not live in the 1600s in England – I would have been WAYWARD in a bold, capital letter kind of way. While Ms. Lima feels her inner child waits patiently to be heard – and created – I confess I’m not quite so passive. And thankfully no cats around at this point in my life. These three women make me realize the complex, rather patriarchal attacks against women have been the underpinnings of our society for centuries. Cat ladies indeed.

Whimsical Window

As I sat here this evening, I felt as though I had not spent much time of late writing. Usually I have 6 or so essays I have spun out of my thoughts, and saved in a folder on my computer. Some blog posts are created one night, reworked slightly and posted the next day. Others spend a bit of time being mulled, either researching ideas that percolate, or doing draconic editing. The sentences get parsed, snipped, rearranged. I whittle my thought down to a written version that has no fat (ha! If only I could say that about the rest of me). As a long-ago college professor insisted, a sentence isn’t finished until there is virtually nothing in it that can be removed.

Of late, though, my well of “to work on” essays has dwindled. When I sat down tonight I felt uninspired by the “works in process” staring back at me from my computer screen. So, I hunted through my photos looking for inspiration, and landed on this one. I took it a number of weeks ago, as I loved the rosy pink tint coming in the antique window from the late afternoon sun. I love the blocks of colors – red, blue green, and the foliage of the ancient Basswood tree through the window. The charming elephant  catches your eye – I mean quite literally, it is as though that black bullseye snags your attention. And then the ideas began to flow.

The very large green vase has sat on this window for a while now. It replaced a much loved TJMax Christmas gift from my children – a ridiculously large glass chicken on spring legs. My children would go with hubby before Christmas to do their “mom” shopping, and often a chicken would be found, mostly as a long-standing joke. Sadly, the chicken sank as it aged, and eventually needed to be retired when the springs gave out. The green vase resembles the chicken in size and coloring, actually, so I snagged it at a thrift shop for a few dollars.  It is hand blown, with a pontil mark on the bottom. The black organic vines are a raised design twining along its surface. Even more interesting are the free form red shapes which are imbedded in the glass. I do not have a clue how any of this is done. But the thing weighs nearly 14 pounds, which I cannot imagine is easy for a glass blower to manipulate at the end of a very long rod. I am rather disappointed I cannot find a thing about it online – nor are there markings to help identify. For all I know it was purchased at TJMaxx and made in China recently. However, given the absolute lack of anything similar in a google search I am guessing not.

The piece sat alone for a long while, but eventually this adorable child’s toy joined it on the window ledge. Also a thrift store find, and just too bright and fun to pass up – well, at least for a woman who decorates her family room with circus and elephant images. Oddly, my next oldest sister collected elephant statues for years, back in the 1970s (there were 7 of us, she is 3rd in the lineup and I’m 6th). I have absolutely no idea why, but she had shelves of them in her room, which was connected to mine via a “Jack and Jill” bathroom. I loved playing with them, as she was away all year at a boarding school and then college. Unfortunately, my relationship with that sister was badly damaged after my father’s death in 2010. But elephants always make me think of her, and our connected lives and rooms during my childhood.

This elephant is a toy made by a French toy company, Djeco, which was started in 1954 and is still in operation (https://www.djeco.com/en/games-toys). I considered reselling it as their toys are fairly expensive, beautifully designed and well made. But I couldn’t part with my treasure – the jaunty bird on the tail, the zany details and fun colors are too dang cute to pass along. I love the idea of a grandchild spotting it, a treasure made just for them amid all the art. I have always felt antiques and treasures – even special quilts! – should be used and enjoyed, creating a visceral connection. Sometimes thing break, but I would rather that than have a sterile collection to be “seen” but not touched. And we can all appreciate a bit of whimsy in our lives.

“E” Is For Erica

I found this pencil in my father’s desk sometime between 1980-1988. Don’t recall specific details, but I was in search of a pencil, and his desk drawer was always the place to find one. What turned up was this Cross mechanical pencil, emblazoned with a large “E”. My Dad always had a collection of “professional” writing implements in his desk, gifts from myriad businesses that he worked with over the years, though I never did think to ask him what the E was for.

The pencil most certainly came home with me. I have had it on my desk ever since, and my kids know of it as “mom’s pencil”. It does not migrate. At all. It is basically an unwritten rule in our family, and the irony is not lost on me given I assisted in “migrating” the pencil from my dad.

Time passed, and the pencil languished unused for a long while. When I dug it out a few years back, I could not get the darn thing to work. The lead wouldn’t turn. The eraser was shot, and I couldn’t locate ones that would fit correctly. And the top would not nest onto the base. It was, in short, a mess. Where the heck would I take a mechanical pencil from the 1970s to be repaired?! I was stumped - not a single idea surfaced. I considered my clock repair guy, but eventually I googled the Cross Company to see what my options might be. Low and behold Cross has a lifetime warranty on any of their devices. Who knew?! I called a few times but was unable to reach a person via phone. I dutifully printed off the company’s repair form, added a check for $20 processing fee and mailed it off.

Seriously, modern society says, just order some pencils from Amazon. Would cost a lot less than $20 plus shipping. But truthfully this pencil has become more than just a desk item. It connects me to my father. He had a long, productive career, literally working until the week  he died at 83. His work rewarded him with money, travel, and awards. He deserved what he earned but unfortunately, I had not taken much interest in his many projects. He was a lot. Very focused. Very driven. Caring but not at all emotionally aware. Inflexible in his routines (dear lord, the time I ate his last Dutch Apple yogurt for lunch one visit – when that was HIS lunch). But my father had a kind soul with a small boy at heart. He wanted to please, and in his childhood world, that meant capturing his father’s attention. Dad’s early elementary school in Bronxville felt Dad was “slow”, and my grandfather angrily moved his family to Litchfield CT where his 3 boys all attend the local private school. That school, The Forman School, is now famous for its work with dyslexic children.

The school diagnosed Dad as “dyslexic”, and that is actually how Dad met my mother. He was taking graduate classes at night at MIT while starting a career at General Electric in Boston. As he was incapable of spelling his way out of a paper bag, he hired a tutor to help him with his papers. Which was my mother. Dad ended up at IBM, and he and Mom raised 7 children. He started a second career in his mid 50s working at Carnegie Mellon’s Software Institute, which flew him all over the world. He received a Presidential Medal of Science in 2003. Somewhere along that trail Dad was gifted this Cross pencil, which I adopted.

After the sad pencil was mailed off the Cross, I received a quick email saying it was received. I would guess this was June of 2023. Sometime about December I called Cross, and finally got a young woman. I learned a heck of a lot more about the inner workings (or not so much) of the Cross company in NYC. She was new. Pencil was here - yeah, the 10K gold one. Wait. WHAT?! The pencil is actually SOLID GOLD. Gulp. She informed me, again TMI, that the old repair guy retired and they don’t have a new one, and that my old pencil needed a pro to fix it. She could mail it back unrepaired or they could hold on to it to see when someone can attend to it. Ok, I requested they keep it.

And then last week – end of August 2024, a small package shows up in the mail box. Not a clue what it could be so I check the return address. Cross in NYC! And thus my dad’s “E” pencil is good as new. Perky pink eraser (with a few extra thrown in). Lead works like a charm. I was using it this evening when I realized I really should polish the thing. Took out a polishing cloth and began wiping it. Suddenly I noticed very faint writing along the shank. My father’s initials “WSH” are engraved in lovely old script. I have had the thing for low on 40 years and I only now see he is here too.

I have yet to figure out what the “E” represented for my father. A company name? An organization? I literally have no idea – I suspect something in late 1970s or early 1980s. Which meant dad was still at IBM, which had him travelling all over the world, but basically for IBM. I can’t say he didn’t meet with another company – one that starts in an “E” – but I will never know. I have loved having it – with the mysterious “E”, the unexpected glitter of gold. And the faint shadow of my Dad resting under my finger.

The Warmth of Clay

This little girl came home with me the other day from the thrift store. As she was priced $2.00 I did not “look her up” on Google Image Search as I didn’t care. She was charming, I could tell she was vintage, and knew she would fit right in on my bedroom fireplace mantel. Once I got her home, I noticed the bottom was signed “Johan Krukmakaren”.

Unfortunately, as a “signature” this is fairly worthless. “Johan” is John in Swedish. And Krukmakaren simply means “potter”. John Potter is not much to go on. Might as well be “Mary Painter” for all the good it will do. While there are a myriad of similar pieces for sale all over the internet, they’re all claimed to be made by “Johan Krukmakaren” as though that was his name, and with no detailed information about our potter Johan. After a great deal of searching, I learned quite a bit about Swedish potters in the 1960s and 1970s, a boom time for art pottery in Sweden (see prior blog:  https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/letting-go). Unfortunately, I was unable to locate a Johan whose work resembled this little girl. She is made of dark brown clay, fired at a high temperature, making her a “stoneware” piece. The artist then added color glazing for the child’s blond hair and orange teddy bear. She has scuffed knees, but being a little girl who quite often had cuts on her knees, I could relate. She has a charming button nose, slight indents for eyes and adorable naked bottom.

That evening I put ointment on my sore hands (climbing) and picked her up to show her off to hubby. As I did, I began rubbing her, and discovered the joy of holding an item made of unglazed clay. It is warm! And the process of “oiling” her with my hands covered in cream seemed to bring her to life. She had been charming, but when warm and imbued with oil from my hands, she fairly glowed. To be honest, it was also remarkably soothing to rub the charming sculpture in my hands. Holding a small curved clay figure that fits nicely in your hand is a novel sensation. Much art we don’t “touch” as we worry about fragility and damage etc. But I suspect she was meant to be enjoyed through touch.

As there are a number of other old sculptures on my mantel, I decided to “oil” them as a comparative exercise. The young girl and goose statue (see blog post: ericas-heirloom-treasures/composing-in-triangles) was carved of wood circa 1930, and while rather dusty, it did perk up quite a bit when I added some “oil” to it. Honestly it did not “feel” quite as soft and comforting as my clay girl, but the wood looked much better after its spa treatment. Nearby is the cast metal sculpture of a woman by Paul Herzel, and I confess it was most jarring. While the statue seemed happier to have a bit of oil shine it up, it most certainly was not sensual – more anti-sensual if there is such a thing. Harsh, cold, and very unforgiving. In this case, the tactile sensation of holding a warm and rounded item made me recognize that potters must enjoy the warmth of clay as they create. I heard the local community college offers pottery classes – might be in my future!

Glass From The Past

I have become weirdly attracted to vintage art glass of late. I say “weirdly” because if someone had told me 20 years ago I would find the art form of glass intriguing, I would have thought them nuts. To me, glass was a “functional” thing – windows, vases, jars; practical and necessary items in our everyday lives. But, much like quilts, just because something is used for practical purposes, does not mean it cannot also be a form of art. And this is an artform of which I have virtually no knowledge.

As I often do when curious, I turn to The Oracle and hunt for information. There is naturally formed glass, and these have names depending on their creation. Volcanic molten rock turned into glass is called “obsidian” (or “volcanic glass”). Meteoritic impacts on the earth millions of years ago created “tektites” (also called Libyan Desert Glass – I’m guessing that’s where they first were found). When lightning strikes sand, “fulgurites” are created – brittle tubes of melted sand. Oddly, some marine creatures have silica skeletons which are also a form of natural glass. (https://whatson.cmog.org/exhibitions-galleries/glass-nature).

Humans began making glass objects around 4000 years ago, and there is debate as to whether that began in ancient Egypt or Near East (near modern Iraq). This may be due to the dry conditions in Egypt, near perfect for preservation, which allowed ancient glass items to survive. The prone to flooding regions of Near East degraded ancient glass, leaving a flaky powder which was often overlooked by early archeologic explorers.  I will allow you to research to your heart’s content, as it is fascinating but not pertinent to my thoughts this morning (https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/a-brief-scientific-history-of-glass).

I think my favorite line in the research was learning what exactly glass is. Crystalline quartz, which seems similar to glass in many ways, is composed of silica atoms that are regularly spaced in a repeating pattern. Glass, however, uses the same material, but the atoms “are arranged topsy-turvy” (see prior Smithsonian article). Topsy-turvy! What artist cannot be attracted to topsy-turvy?! The idea of using a basic item, atoms of silica, and stirring it all up to create something wonderful and new lays at the heart of creative expression. Glass making adds the rather dangerous element of fire, making my frequently nicked fingers from rotary cutters used for quilting seem rather childish.

This vase, a recent thrift store find costing a few dollars, spoke to me immediately. The thing is 12” tall and weighs nearly 6 pounds. It is not signed, but has a pontil mark on the bottom (see prior blog for explanation: https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/primary-colors ). It has a wonderful 1970s vibe, and the dark brown swirls set against an opaque white base appealed to me. I originally place it in a corner cabinet in our family room, but the piece fades to boring when set in a dark corner. I carried it around the house a few days back, and when I set it on this window sill, it lit up. So there it stayed. Even hubby noted how cool it looks with the sunlight behind it, and hubby noting anything “new” is noteworthy (I frequently say to him “if it ain’t naked, you don’t notice…”)

While my piece is unsigned, it looks strikingly like the work done at Mdina Glass, a company started in 1968 on the island of Malta by two British artists. It is still in operation (https://www.mdinaglass.com.mt/en/home.htm). An early pattern produced in the mid 1970s was “Earthtones”, later called “Earth”, and is made of a brown and sandy opaque Maltese glass. While the coloring is identical, none of the pieces I could find showed a spine design similar to mine. I have contacted the company to see if I can get a definitive yes or no, but I actually do not care all that much.

The piece is fun, offering a variety of interpretations due to its patterning. Its warm colors offer a feeling of grounding, as “Earth” might. And, given that it is a simple vase by design, I have come to realize that the human spirit likes to create beauty even for the most simple items in our lives. Much like a quilt, the utility of the object is only enhanced by the desire of the creator to offer a sparkle of design. I confess I am now rather attracted to the handmade glass items of yesterday. Likely more to follow.

Full Circle

This is a story about a personal heirloom - a Tiffany’s & Co Elsa Peretti 18k snake ring with a diamond tail. The ring was a gift from my husband, though honestly, neither of us can remember when exactly he gifted it to me. I think it was “early children”, in our first home in Libertyville. Hubby thinks it was earlier, in the apartment we rented for 2 years in Evanston. We had moved there from Cleveland right after our wedding. After selling the first house we owned for less than 6 months, we schlepped all our stuff and a 6-month-old golden puppy to a second-floor apartment while both unemployed. This was roughly 35 years ago, making the ring an early 1990s design.

I grew up with the understanding that gifts from Tiffany’s were “The” gift to receive. My father would gift my mother Tiffany jewelry, so that little blue box elicited a great deal of excitement. More importantly, my mother wore an antique Tiffany & Co. diamond engagement ring that was a family heirloom. The ring belonged to my grandmother’s mother, Margaret LeBoutillier (1874-1905) – her engagement diamond from my great grandfather Benjamin Strong (1872-1928) purchased in New York in the late 1890s. There is even a portrait of her wearing the ring – which is slightly odd, come to think of it, as she is surrounded by her parents and brothers but not her fiancé. Since she died while suffering postpartum depression, the ring was saved and my grandmother, Katharine Strong Humphrey (1904-1987) gave it to my father for his fiancé, Barbara Fallon, in 1954. Mom wore that ring until the 1980s, when she passed it on to my brother. At that point mom found two antique wedding bands – one ruby and one diamond – she wore until the day she died.

Here’s the tragedy, and I confess this one still makes me so dang verklempt. My mother gave the ring to my brother for his (first) fiancé, back in 1986 or so. That marriage went sideways fairly quickly, and I believe they divorced in 1991. After the young woman gave my brother back the Strong engagement ring, HE SOLD IT. Ok, I have vented. I simply cannot believe that ring left the family. Realistically it could be said to harbor negative karma – the first bride that wore it died tragically. The second bride – my mother – wore it and prospered for near 30+ years. However, bride #3 did not have a happy ending. I will get over it but not likely any time soon.

All of which circles me back to my Tiffany gift from hubby. I have loved the symbolism of snakes since college. I took classes on women’s history and the symbolism of mythology. The pre-Greco cultures thriving in early Europe. And the symbol that shows up most often in those studies was a snake. Modern culture immediately sees a snake as bad. The serpent in the garden of Eden is deeply embedded in many of our beliefs. And yet, originally, a snake was a symbol of rebirth, of the imagery of life continuing in a circle. It was a powerful metaphor for the female of the species. It is interesting that early Christian theology turned that symbol into a significant evil. And do not get me started on the early Christian attacks against female healers. In any case, I love the symbol of the snake but that is not to say I actually like living snakes.

For many years I wore my hubby’s beautiful gift on my right hand, as I had a very traditional “Tiffany setting” diamond engagement ring and simple gold band on my left ring finger (seriously traditional for someone so free thinking but this was 1986 so cut me some slack). Eventually I ended up with other wonderful rings, (see blog posts gums-gift-from-gumps and all-you-need-is-love), and the snake went into the jewelry box as I stopped wearing it. 

The problem with being a rock climber, especially a middle-aged rock climber, is it takes a toll on your hands. While I can give killer back massages and open most any stuck container, I can hardly get my rings on and off. I have had rings enlarged numerous times over the years, and recently gave up on wearing my wedding rings. Just a week or so ago I realized the snake ring is a perfect solution! As it is “open” it actually has some give to it. And I can get it on over my sadly large knuckles. I now wear it as my wedding band on my left hand. Seeing it reminds me of history, both cultural and personal. I suspect you will not be surprised to learn I studied a variety of topics in college: English Literature, Political Science, Mythology, Astronomy, Art History, European History and Women’s Studies. I wrote a thesis about the butterfly representing the psyche in both the poetry of Spenser’s Fairy Queen (which I studied in the original Old English while at Kings College London) and John Keats (Ode to Psyche). Odd choice, and nearly didn’t pull it off, but I loved the dive into those worlds. Now I get to wear a snake ring – fat knuckles, extra wrinkles, and larger worries be damned – that brings my life full circle.

On A Beach in Libertyville

One of the more difficult aspect of sharing my treasures is getting a picture – with an iPhone – to look halfway decent. These paintings, hung in a corner of a basement room, were a challenge. It is hard to grasp exactly how large they are as these images of them do not show the scale. I found them on Market Place in 2020 while I was trying to create a serene space to practice yoga at home during the Covid crisis. While they seemed a perfect solution for me, I really had not considered just how large they are. The canvases are 5 feet tall, with the larger one being 6 feet across. After driving to the woman’s home and realizing there was not a chance in hell they were going in a car, I was able to borrow a friend’s pick-up truck to schlep them home. Installing them in our not fancy cellar was another project, and they are certainly not moving any time soon.

Living in a house built in 1930 in Illinois does not include fancy high-ceiling entertainment areas in the basement. Truth is, we are lucky if it is dry, because the state of the art “sump pump” system available when the house was built was a trough around the perimeter. Inside.  With a few drain openings here and there. More “there” than “here” – meaning where the water ends up is not always anywhere near one of the damn holes. On top of that, the floor is a fairly thin coat of concrete over a much older sandy floor. This is noticeable where the ancient furnace was removed which was done when we first bought the property.

We knew the furnace was ghastly and would need to be replaced, but moving in May meant it wasn’t on our to do list immediately (and it was a heck of a long “to-do” list. And we had a baby and two young boys). Until it roared to life early one morning in September and scared the heck out of us. The whole house shook. It seemed there was no “off” switch. Removing that monstrosity took 5 men a full week. It was originally an oil burning beast and had been converted to gas at some point. Since it was red, I called it Marianne (children’s’ story…). The workmen said thing was older than the house, and the verdict was the house was built around it.  Quaker Oats had torn down a house on the site in 1930 to build our current home, so likely Marianne was a remnant of that building.

Quaker Oats hired a scientist named Dr. Kent to conduct the research for the chicken feed farm. He relocated his wife and young son, Junior, to Illinois in 1922 from Cornell in NY. For two years they lived in Lake Bluff, until QA purchased a property that would work for the new research facility: a 65-acre property in Libertyville, a mile from the train, with a huge barn and two houses. I suspect the two houses were key, as the farm foreman lived in the cottage, while the Browns were in the main house. How it transpired that Mrs. Kent pitched such a fit that QA agreed to remove a large farm house and replace it with a Colonial Revival per her demands I will never know. 

Very early on in our ownership of the property I had tracked down Junior. I only spoke with him once by phone. He answered a number of questions I had, and kept insisting he should dig through all the family papers in his basement. As I was exceedingly anxious to know what was in those papers, I tried to reach him again when I had not heard back. His phone was disconnected and I even went so far as to call the local police station. I don’t remember all the details, but the conclusion was Junior was likely demented and had either passed away, or had been placed in a care facility. I determined he was born in 1920 so he was in his 80s when I spoke with him. He is the one that told me about his mother, and her insistence the home be a New England Salt Box. I also learned she hailed from Michigan, his parents were first cousins, and for some odd reason sent Junior to Switzerland for boarding school. This was corroborated by a local newspaper (library microfiche!) article from some time in the 1940s about him coming home prior to the start of WWII.  

So back to my cellar. I have painted the walls and floors, trying to brighten the area and banish the myriad of creepy crawlers (my children have acquired a very specific dislike of massive centipedes. Interestingly they are actually a predator of spiders which is another bane of my house’s existence.). I hired a painter many years ago to spray paint the “ceiling” – all the floor joists and pipes and wires – a dark blue. He did – and when he came upstairs and took off his glasses I laughed hysterically. He literally was blue from hair to shoes with only the area of his glasses showing his skin. Needless-to-say I have never tried to “touch up” the ceiling paint.

And while I have had numerous decorations and large chalk boards on the walls for the kids when the space was a massive rec room, almost all those have moved on in the world. When Covid happened, hubby and I began to spend more time in the cellar, mainly for exercise options. Our children’s teen tv area became the streaming area for “in house” Covid exercise classes. But the space was depressing and dingy. A mirror helped, but I wanted a large piece of art to bright the area. Searching on Marketplace, I came across a woman selling  these two canvases of a beach scene. I figured they were vinyl or cloth, but for a super cheap price, I didn’t care.

I was a bit gob smacked that they were actual paintings, done by her uncle (no idea name or date). I recall someone in her family commissioned him to make them for an office room, and she ended up with them. As she didn’t want them, she sold them to me for $40. Both. Once I got them home, the realization that I couldn’t just tack a nail in the wall to hang them up became obvious. First, the walls are concrete. And the canvases are huge. Hubby and I ended up using chain and hooks and hanging them from the ceiling. They are lovely and peaceful and do an amazing job brightening a cellar. So, apologies for the terrible photograph, but as I sat doing some shoulder exercises tonight I couldn’t help but think how being by the ocean has resonated in my life.

As a child, my family lived in a town on Long Island Sound, and we spent days at the beach. As a teen, the beach was a hangout area much like malls were in my children’s teens. My parents retired to a beach town in Florida, living in a community with a private beach a short walk away. My children grew up vacationing there, running after gulls, watching dolphin, collecting shells, and playing in the waves. I am most certainly not a “sit on the beach” type but I made an effort to enjoy the beauty, find peace in the sound of the waves. None of us enjoyed 2020, and the impact of Covid. But having these painting brightening my online yoga classes most certainly helped. As being by an ocean -whether real or painted – does help calm the soul.

Grandmother’s Moniker

I have not decided if the IRS needs to know I received this quilt as “payment”. A thrifting girlfriend asked me recently if I could clean an old quilt she had found. Certainly, though I was a tad worried what a thrifted quilt purchased by the pound was going to look like. Honestly my heart stuttered a tad when I pulled this out of her bag. The quilt is pristine. Colors are bright. Binding was unfrayed. And while it needed to be washed to remove dust and brighten the yellowed tone of age, it was hardly used.

And no wonder. It is remarkable. The pattern is called Grandmother’s Flower Garden and is composed of hexagons. The pattern originated in England in the 1700s and was called “honeycomb” due to the design’s similarity to actual honeycomb. The yellow centers are a traditional choice, referring back to this origin. The pattern became popular in the United States in the 1930s during the Great Depression. As the pieces are quite small, this pattern helped utilize scraps of fabrics from clothing making. The entire quilt is hand done. Take a moment to look at the flowers. The artist used the traditional yellow piece in the center of every flower. The second “round” on each is done in a solid color fabric. And then she “fussy cut” fabrics to highlight an image and repeated that design around each flower’s third ring. It is hard to explain so here is a close up of two:

I have made virtually every type of quilt imaginable over the 35 years I have enjoyed quilting. But I have never tackled a crazy quilt (though now have 2 wonderful ones -see prior blog posts: https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/wisconsin-crazy and https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/jeannies-crazy-quilt). Nor have I tried to make a Grandmother’s Flower Garden. I am a grandmother now, but confess the idea of gardening is remarkably low on my to do list. Thus, my garden is not something to have as a moniker. Much more likely I would be “Grandmother’s Baking Treats”. Or “Grandmother’s Snuggly Quilts”. To say nothing of the daunting task of hand piecing a flower garden quilt. Each flower is composed of 19 pieces. On this quilt there are 248 blocks, meaning you need to cut and hand sew 4712 pieces to simply make the flowers. (Hubby wondered how I got that figure: math, dear lol). To say nothing of all the white “setting” blocks. I admire the perseverance. And in this case I also admire the workmanship.

As I lusted after the quilt, my girlfriend asked if I could repair another item she had that needed a hole darned. I joked that I could repair a pile of clothing (for her to resell) in exchange for the quilt. She thought that a fabulous idea!! So now I have a 1930s stunning Grandmother’s Flower Garden to admire while I nibble on chocolate chip cookies with my granddaughter.

Wisconsin Crazy

This quilt came home with me last week from a crazy thrift store outing in Wisconsin. A girlfriend invited me to go the “The Bins”, an “outlet” thrift store in a Wisconsin town north of us.  It is a vast warehouse where everything is sold by the pound. The cross section of people there is astonishing: women with young children; young men of every color trying to score vintage concert tee shirts; teen girls in packs looking for fun outfits; middle aged folks of all walks of life hunting for items to resell for profit. I can’t say I enjoyed the “thrifting” aspect as it was exhausting (and dirty!) digging through mounds of everything imaginable. After three hours of hoisting mounds of clothing my rotator cuff had enough and is still annoyed with me. My favorite part, though, was people watching with scoring a treasure a close second.

This quilt was in my friend’s cart and I was seriously covetous. When she sorted through all her “finds”, she decided the quilt had a hole, and handed it to me. The hole she noted was something I could easily repair, so I happily brought it home. Based on weight it probably cost $6.50. The process I then submitted the darn thing to made me think of the museum exhibits I attended years ago to see the Gees Bend quilts (https://www.arts.gov/stories/blog/2015/quilts-gees-bend-slideshow).

Those quilts, made by poor black women in rural (and isolated) Gees Bend, Alabama were showcased at national art museums in 2002, garnering the women and their community fame and opportunities. As artwork, I appreciated the talent of the women to create warm bedcoverings while also making art with what they had. As a quilter, the quilts were hard for me to appreciate as my very OCD brain just wanted to wash them, square them up, re bind them and generally change them entirely. Well, my recent quilt find wasn’t going in any museum so I was free to do as I desired!

The quilt I picked up is a crazy quilt, and boy was it dirty. I would guess it hadn’t been washed since it was made in the early 1970s. While the top was sturdy, with nice embroidery done on the patches, the finishing left a lot to be desired. The backing fabric was pulled to the front and tacked down, making the edges bunchy as well as wonky. After disassembling, I threw the backing fabric into the wash, washing it multiple times to stop the fabric from bleeding color. The front, being more fragile, went into the bathtub. I used shampoo to wash it a few times. One purple velvet fabric continually bled, so I eventually stopped when all I saw was red dye and not filth in the wash water. Drying the thing was an exercise – towels, sheets in the sun, drying rack, ironing.

Then began a complicated process of squaring up both the backing and the top. As the top did not have a square edge to be found, I used my kitchen floor boards as a level guide. After lots of crawling around on the ground, cutting and sewing -voila!- I reassembled the piece. In fact, it is slightly larger now as the originally sewer had turned under about 4” on all sides of the top when finishing it. The last step was mending  the few fabrics that had some damage. A red synthetic I was able to patch using cut off pieces of the same fabric. The green wool I backed in felt and darned in place. The out-of-place cotton calico I simply zig zagged frayed edges and left it alone. Now I have the quilt on the guest bed in my sewing room, and I find myself fondling it with a smile every time I walk past.

Hubby is also a fan, and neither of us can understand why our daughter doesn’t want to hang it on her vaulted walls! Sadly, I think this is a case of “parents being so weird”, but honestly this quilt is such a testament to the colors of our childhoods. It also speaks to the hard work of some woman to make a bright bedcover for a loved one during a very chaotic period – Vietnam, social unrest, huge economic changes. I do not know anything about the maker – what color, religion or social slant. I do know, however, that this was a Wisconsin woman who saved, made do, and tried to brighten up her home.

Believe it or not, the majority of these fabrics were from 1960s and early 1970s clothing. Hubby and I have joked that the quilt would survive a nuclear explosion as there is almost nothing natural on its surface. These fabrics were absolutely cutting edge: synthetics, rayon, nylons, and probably a few I can’t even identify. I absolutely can see bell bottom pants. Crop tops. Velvet blazers. Funky mini dresses. This was the vibe of society in the late 1960s, and this quilter has compiled a testament to that generation as told through her family’s clothing.

As a child, my mother often made items of clothing as gifts for us for birthdays and Christmas. Knit sweaters, dresses, jackets and skirts. These were not my favorite gifts to receive when I was little, and my family took up my comment “oh it’s a clo” as an amusing refrain. As an adult Mom would make whatever I requested: wedding dress, maternity business clothing, adorable baby outfits, stunning sweaters. I miss her and would give anything to have a quilt like this one composed of all the fabrics she used over the years to make wonderful clothing. But Mom was not a saver, and all those scraps and outfits are gone, other than a few memorialized in family photos (or saved in my closet). The Wisconsin woman who created this crazy quilt was someone who, like Mom, loved working with fabrics. And making treasures for her family. Sadly, the generation that came later either didn’t appreciate the quilt, or the story of its fabrics and family tale was lost. I for one appreciate it, loving the reminder of the 1970s’ crazy styles, and hope it doesn’t get thrown away again. Because, honestly, what’s not to love about it?!