Pink, White and Blue

Repairing commemorative quilts is a bit of an anxiety producing experience. Two women in my local quilt guild made quilts with a Veterans group in Lake County’s 19th Judicial Circuit. These quilts were composed of quilt squares signed by vets from many services, some of whom have since passed away. The quilts hung in the county office building for years, but about a year ago, there was a leak in the building, allowing water to saturate one of the quilts. As you can see from the “before” photo, the red fabric bled all over the top, making quite a mess. My friends asked if it was possible to restore it.

The story of the quilts’ creation is a powerful example of people coming together to assist those in need, especially our veterans. The women I know worked for the probation department of the Lake County courts. Under the direction of the late Judge Phillips, a veteran himself, the department created a special Veterans Court to assist veterans struggling through entanglements with the courts. The department offered the vets a process to clear their records, as well as “graduate” from the legal system. The court was considered a “problem solving” court, specifically aimed at aiding these vets as they struggled to right their paths. The process was so successful, many other counties began a similar program.

In addition, a Veterans History project was started in Lake County, to take down these individuals’ personal stories, and share them with the National Veterans History Project in D.C. (https://www.loc.gov/programs/veterans-history-project/about-this-program/). If the individual participated in the Veterans Court Special Process, upon graduation they would sign a quilt square and record their personal stories. My friends made 3 quilts in total through this work, with this being one of the three.

The women also connected with the Quilts of Valor project providing the graduates with a quilt of their own in thanks for their military service (https://www.qovf.org/). If you have an opportunity to participate in a QOV ceremony, I would highly recommend doing so. Honoring the vets with a quilt is a tangible example of the good of our society, the desire to show respect for those that fight for our country, and to acknowledge those vets’ sacrifices.

Back in 2019 I was able to honor a friend of my daughter’s with a quilt for Quilts of Valor. I had made the complicated quilt top as a gift for my mother years before when she moved into a care facility with a twin bed. Mom suffered a long bout of dementia, and apparently that affected her sense of color as she said she didn’t like the quilt since it was “brown”. I put the top away, not sure what to do with it, and only slightly verklempt that my mother rejected it. When my quilt guild sponsored a Quilt of Valor ceremony in 2019, I completed the top to gift to a deserving young woman. These quilts, as well as the 3 made for the Lake County vets, are important examples of the value of quilts, and the power that creating such a simple thing can have on the recipients.

So understand my trepidation at taking on the “fixing” of the Lake County Vet quilt! I discussed options with other quilters, many of whom have dealt with bleeding fabrics on finished quilts. While most dark colors can bleed, red is notorious for doing so, though I have dealt with purples and browns also bleeding. Any fabric used for constructing a quilt needs to be pre-washed using “color catchers” in the laundry. Some fabrics need to be washed multiple times, until the “catcher” no longer comes out full of color. But even that is not a guarantee the fabric wont bleed on the quilt, as this sad Veterans quilt proves.

After a bit of research, crossing of fingers for good luck, and the hope all would work out, I plunged right in. The quilt was washed in a machine, and, after the first wash, the darn thing turned an alarming shade of pink. Back in for a few more washes, though the pink remained and I became somewhat concerned it would forever be a Pink,White and Blue quilt. While I am a fan of pink, it did not strike me as the look the veterans would appreciate.

Realizing the machine was not helping my cause, I turned to chemicals and handwashing. I discovered a product, Restoration by Kofot, well loved by costume designers for removing stains from theater production costumes. Figured it was worth a shot, and ordered the product. After an overnight soak in the bath, the quilt was miraculously back to Red, White and Blue! Not a clue how it worked but I was not one to question success. After an ironing to spruce it up, the quilt was returned to my friends to be re-hung in the county building. Thankfully chemistry, and friendships restored the heartfelt work to be inspiration to other veterans as they work through the courts of Lake County.

Reality TV

This artwork feels like a commentary on society with the introduction of television. I sense the group of 5 couples are staring at a television screen, where we, as the art viewer, are actually the show they are watching. The adults are void of emotion and have little engagement among themselves. Only one man, his back to the television screen, is engaging with a child. Obviously, as art allows, I am interpreting the work, and have no clue what the artist’s original intention may have been. The piece is signed “La cobra” and is an etching print done on heavy paper, likely in the 1960s. In many cultures, the cobra snake symbolizes danger, cunning and transformation. So possibly I am not far off.

The modern television was a long-term invention, starting in 1872 when an English telegraph operator Joseph May discovered how to transform light into an electrical signal. By 1927, Philo Farnsworth “made a successful electronic television transmission and filed a patent for his system” (https://www.britannica.com/biography/Philo-Farnsworth). He was 22. Then followed a remarkable jockeying of corporations trying to undo his patents and eventually he suffered a nervous breakdown and died bankrupt. After World War II, the television became the primary source of information and entertainment in American homes, replacing the radio. By 1955 half of all homes had a television set, often a piece of furniture, encased in a wood display box, weighing between 50 to 200 pounds due to the cathode ray technology. Reception was aided with “rabbit ear” antennae, often wrapped in tinfoil. As a child I recall dashing up to the set to fiddle with the antennae when reception was wonky. Sometimes this required standing in a certain spot, or holding the darn things in a specific direction. Hubby and I had a large antennae in our first house in Libertyville in the 1990s, so really not that long ago antennae still worked to receive transmissions.

When I was growing up in the 1960s, my parents were concerned about the dangers of television, and we were restricted to only a few hours of watching a week (I believe 2 hours though I cannot recall how this was enforced). While my family had some televisions, they were tucked away. One hidden in a cabinet in the den, and one in our basement rec room, with its linoleum floors, spider infused cellar walls, and storage areas. I recall the rec room specifically as I would sneak down to the basement late at night when my parents were asleep and binge watch all sorts of old shows (so much for two hours).

Oddly, we had a “Pong” game console –likely a gift for one of my older brothers. I recall sitting on the floor in front of the television, playing the remarkably boring game with  my brothers. This was a process of placing a clingy film “board” onto the television screen, and using a console, attached by wires, to make the ball bounce back and forth across a net. I am sensing the beginning of my boredom with both video games and tennis style games. Likely it was a gift in 1975 as that was when Atari launched a “home” version of their hit arcade game, marketed through the Sears stores.

Our country enacted a Fairness Doctrine, enforced by the FCC, in 1949. “Lawmakers became concerned that the monopoly audience control of the three main networks, NBC, ABC and CBS, could misuse their broadcast licenses to set a biased public agenda. The Fairness Doctrine mandated broadcast networks devote time to contrasting views on issues of public importance. Congress backed the policy in 1954 and by the 1970s the FCC called the doctrine the ‘single most important requirement of operation in the public interest’” (https://www.reaganlibrary.gov/archives/topic-guide/fairness-doctrine).  

The Reagan administration worked to dismantle the Doctrine, and, in 1986, Judges Robert Bork and Antonin Scalia of the US Court of Appeals ruled the doctrine was not enforceable by the FCC. It was repealed by the Republican congress in 1987, and that same year Rush Limbaugh was signed to a nationwide syndication contract for ABC Radio.

So here we are in a country soon to be run by a Reality Television star. Picking cabinet members from a broadcasting company that lost a massive legal case against it for peddling lies to its audience (Dominion’s $787million settlement). I acknowledge there are likely other viewpoints, but our incoming administration seems to be focusing on entertainment and ego, not earned respect and capability. It seems the reality of television has migrated to politics. To sit and stare at our screens, to be entertained and not have to think, to allow others to provide you with facts, seems to be the way of the political leaning of a vast amount of our country. Besides the danger to our political structure, the underlying danger is the lack of independent thought. Without education, without open minded curiosity, without a reliance on what is fact or truth, our society is careening in a direction that worries me. I do hope I am wrong, but damn it, I seem to be participating in a Reality TV show I cannot turn off.

A Dangerous Box of Thoughts

This last week has been a challenging time for me. I was trying to be a bit of a Pollyanna, but things did not go as I hoped, and I am now feeling more like Pandora. It is all well and good to say there will be winners and losers in an election, but sadly, the real loser here is our country’s ability to be united. The upcoming administration will not be kind to many people, and the long-term ramifications may be dangerous to our sense of community as well as the global order. The incoming group of folks have agendas that support egos and financial interests, not the interests of our society as a whole. It makes me sad to realize this is the direction the majority of Americans desire. It also makes me want to crawl into a shell, pull in my head and wallow in sadness. Careening thoughts can be dangerous to mental health, and I am struggling to contain them in my life. 

This artwork speaks to my current chaos. I suspect some will find it “creepy”, but anxiety can be creepy, taking over a person’s health and well-being with an insidious creep. The artist (name unclear) titled the piece “Privacy”, with the box a metaphor for their brain storm. The work is a pen drawing, and spells out the artist’s worry:  “In this box are all the secrets and hopes of my life. Don’t look inside. Don’t peek. Mine mine mine.”

I do sense the artist was a man, though it is unclear why he felt his privacy was threatened, and unclear why he included the two birds. I am not as concerned about my privacy, but I do relate to the box metaphor. I remember as a child thinking of my brain as a file cabinet. I literally visualized a file box, and when I could not recall something, I would mull where I might have “filed” it. This explains my obsessive need to organize – a way of managing the chaos of life so I can function smoothly. I do think it is partly due to my dyslexia, as my siblings all were effortlessly intelligent and skilled at mastering things I could no more do than I could fly to the moon (foreign languages, musical instruments, standardized tests). I compensated by organizing my life, and when emotions became overwhelming, I would clean. Still do actually. So in case you are wondering, my house is currently undergoing a rather draconic purge.

When I was in college, my younger brother was residing at a school in Minnesota for various issues. Our family traveled to MN for a family meeting, with my journey rather involved as I was living in London at the time. The meeting was to support our brother, and discuss our family issues. I do not think it was a very successful project, sadly, as the issues in our family were too entrenched and all of us were rather “unevolved” at that time (1984). What I do remember is telling the therapist I felt each of us were trapped in a box, defined by our siblings as a certain way, and forced emotionally back into that box when we returned home. The therapist loved that visual, and actually used a long paper, drawing boxes on it where we each wrote our ideas about siblings. What I wouldn’t give to see that now! I do not have any recollection of what was written, but the visual of a person being hemmed in by other’s opinions of them resonates with my feelings today.

Pollyanna was a fictional character in a book written by Eleanor Porter in 1913. The girl, an orphan, has a positive attitude and sunny disposition. Moving in with her aunt challenges her as the woman is strict and dour. Pollyanna works to remain positive, and bring cheer to those around her. This book actually created the idea of the Pollyanna Principle, the idea of positive bias in people. Sadly, this can morph into the “Pollyanna syndrome” where folks are excessively positive and thus blind to the negative or real, seeing the past as much rosier than it actually was. Our current access to polarizing sources of information on the internet seems to only exacerbate this idea these days– we have become “tribes” that somehow are incapable of speaking to each other with any sense of understanding. The “boxes” of our political system have gotten out of hand, and the sweeping generalizations that result are dangerous, both to ourselves and our nation.

I look at my Privacy artwork and see the pink hair flying all around, and wonder what is to come. The pink hair, to me, seems charged with electricity, a sense of escaping tendrils that are reaching out from the safety of the box of thoughts. Is the hair holding the box together, or trying to escape? Unclear. But the birds also bring up thoughts that imply flight. Flights of fancy? Or harbingers of a future that currently feels unsafe?

And then of course we cannot forget Pandora, another patriarchal architype of female danger. If it isn’t Eve eating an apple, it’s Pandora unleashing pestilence on society. The box itself was a symbol of human desire for knowledge and curiosity, both of which can impact us for good or for evil. Opening the box, Pandora let loose violence, greed and disease which feels horribly apropos these days. However, she slammed the lid shut before Hope could escape. The evils are always with us, and it is up to all of us to contain them with hope, to overcome the nature of human beings to avarice and power. Religion was used for centuries to do so. Our current society relies on elections, and we are about to see how well that structure holds up. Hope is looking very flimsy at the moment.

Last night I came across a quote by Toni Morrison which offered me some peace. She was feeling despair after an election (in 2004 when the Supreme Court handed an election to G.W. Bush). A friend asked how she was and she replied:  “Not well. Not only am I depressed, I can’t seem to work, to write; it’s as though I am paralyzed, unable to write anything…” The friend chided her, saying “No! No, no, no! This is precisely the time when artists go to work – not when everything is fine, but in times of dread. That’s our job!” Morrison continues her thoughts:

“I felt foolish…especially when I recalled the artists who had done their work in gulags, prison cells, hospital beds; who did their work while hounded, exiled, reviled, pilloried. And those who were executed…This is precisely the time when artist go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal. I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge – even wisdom. Like art. https://www.themarginalian.org/2016/11/15/toni-morrison-art-despair/ 

And so I circle back to art. My words are nowhere near as powerful as Toni Morrison’s, yet I recognize the idea that art and language are tools to move forward. I will try. At least after I tame my hair.

Lucky Day

Yesterday was a remarkable day for luck, and I am optimistic this trend will continue through tomorrow. Especially as I always feel luck comes in threes, both good and bad runs. Today I found two treasures, the second being so astonishing that I still cannot believe it happened. Which leaves me feeling at peace, since my third remarkably wonderful thing has to top a thrifted LOUIS VUITTON purse, so it is bound to be ceiling shattering.

Yesterday should have started with yoga. I have been dreadfully remiss of late, and my aches and pains are acting up, so I do need to get back into class. However, my “bins” buddy asked if I could go with her this week, and Monday was the only day I could make work. By missing my yoga class. Bins trumped stretching, clearly. I enjoy the outings to this place. The people are interesting – both with what they are looking for, as well as their backgrounds and ages. I know a number by name and more by face. We chat and kvetch while digging through the huge bins. I pulled this remarkable crochet piece out of a pile, and realized it was vintage, well made, and in excellent condition. Based on weight, it likely cost me $3.

The crochet stitch used is well beyond my capabilities, and seems to use two yarns simultaneously, making one side brown and the other green. I have no clue how it was done, and, as a novice crocheter, i am awed by the design. I suspect it was built, much like a grandmother’s flower garden quilt, with hexagon blocks, then somehow put together to seem all one piece. The colors are so 1970s I actually smiled when I saw it. The yarn is not the modern synthetic you would find at big box stores these days, but not 100% wool either. I brought it home, threw it in the wash, and draped it over our family room sofa.

To be honest, I was happy to have something to replace a hand-woven blanket – with angora yarn which makes my skin crawl – that hubby adores. That blue blanket wouldn’t be so bad if someone hadn’t shrunk the darn thing by putting it through the laundry. It is now so dense it is only steps from being felted. For those unaware, wool felt is traditionally made by knitting or weaving a piece and then washing it multiple times to shrink it down. The mittens my mother made for my young boys were felted after years of use, which actually helps them keep little fingers warm. However, a handloomed full size blanket is NOT supposed to be felted! I’ve wanted to pitch the darn thing for a while, but every time I sneak something else in, it is only minutes before hubby notes “his” blue blanket is missing, and I have to put it back. This time, however, he was awed by the new treasure, and he only wanted to make sure I was “keeping” the blue one. I have learned, after 37 years of marriage, that I have to get permission to pitch anything he is fond of. So yes, I told him, it was in the guest room, though heaven only knows what we will do with it. Once he forgets about it, it may wander off, but to be determined (especially as hubby reads these blogs).

In turns out, my luck yesterday was only beginning to roll. The Bins sometimes “replenishes” the carts, having shoppers “line up behind a yellow line” until all the new carts are in place. It is an amusing experience for people watching, as 50 or so people of all ages line up shoulder to shoulder to “wait” for the ok to begin digging. Yesterday, the shoes and purses (well, really most any type of bag thing) were replenished which was a bit unusual. The employees took a remarkably long time bringing out the new bins, allowing me time to rest my shoulder, which often aches from all the hauling of piles. When the bins were finally ready, and we were allowed to shop, I found a charming Louis Vuitton clutch with PINK LINING! (The purse is on a remarkable piece of embroidered silk sari fabric also picked up yesterday at the Bins.)

The darn thing is real – it is part of the “Neverfull” line, and this particular style was introduced as a detachable pouch in 2013 for the larger bags. While this style is no longer available, it seems none of the Neverful products are readily available. According to Sothebys, if you are inclined to purchase an item from the Neverfull line, you have to put your name on a waitlist, and will likely take 2 to 3 months to fulfill. Once you are notified the item is available, you have 24 hours to pick it up at a store. If you are not able to, the bag will go to the next person on the waiting list and you have to start over. Talk about competitive shopping! (https://www.sothebys.com/en/articles/buying-a-classic-louis-vuitton-neverfull-just-got-a-lot-harder).

I have been fondling the bag in awe for hours now. Hubby said I have to sell it – his rationale is that I can only have one uber fancy French designer item sitting in my closet at a time. Cracks me up, and not a chance am I selling this or my Hermes silk scarf (see blog post ericas-heirloom-treasures/pretty-in-pink-hermes). Research shows this small bag sell between $313 to $495 secondhand online. Mine has a missing zipper pull, so likely not on the high end. That said, I am not selling it. I just cannot believe that in less than six months, I have managed to score both a Hermes silk scarf and a Vuitton purse for less than ONE DOLLAR each. I kid you not.

Besides, the Zen of happy luck I am floating in has me feeling hopeful tomorrow will bring more luck: that our country, our future and our lives will move in the right direction. So have faith, keep digging, and uncover some treasure to brighten your day. Tomorrow will be a good day.

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.