The Battle of the Colours

Funny how even a shop called ‘Blue Earth’ turns all red.
Moodboard Fall 2017

This Fall the streets will turn red. Already the shops in the high street show clothes in all hues of red. It makes me happy. It’ll bring warmth and colour in those many grey days we have around here. If people dare to wear it, of course. For some people find red threatening. The power the colour carries also means that about the first advice about professional attire is not to wear red, out of fear to attract hostility and aggression. In fact, that colour interpretation relates to that other Fall. Confused? Read on, all will become clear.

According to my favourite colour expert, Michel Pastoureau, the history of colour is always the history of the society in which it features. In this sense colour – and indeed its manifestations in fashion – is not superficial at all: it offers elements to understand society better. And one of the reasons why I like Pastoureau so much is that he always includes illustrations of materiality and craftsmanship to make the point.

This booklet offers a good summary of all Pastoureau’s ‘colour books’.

Pastoureau’s work is complex and detailed. I can heartily recommend all his books: they’re full of fascinating stories and delightful insights. Let me share a few with you.

Nowadays about 75% of Westerners name blue as their favourite colour. To make us understand how remarkable this is, Pastoureau goes to great lengths to demonstrate that for most of human history it was red that was most preferred. The battle of the colours will take place later, let’s stay for a while with the supremacy of red. 

Think of the caverns of Altamira for instance: they’re Unesco heritage because of the 150 drawings they contain, estimated to be some 15.000 years old and mostly in reds. 

Also Unesco heritage: the amazing wall paintings in Pompeii (80BC) where the intense red greatly contributes to the powerful experience. Almost in passing Pastoureau points out that, contrary to what many think, the garments, the private houses but also the temples and the sculptures within were, in classical times, full of colour.

The first dyes were vegetal, including ochres, which turn colour when burnt, and the popular madder.  The latter is a plant that carries the pigment in its roots. Which begs the question how humans got the idea to go searching underground for tinctorial matter? 

Over the centuries animal colourings were added such as kermes and the New World cochineal, the story of which has been wonderfully written by the American historian Amy Butler GreenfieldIn the middle of the 18th century an estimated 350 ton per annum of cochineal was exported to Europe, providing Spain which had the monopoly, with a revenue which almost equalled that of silver. 

The New World cochineal lives on cacti, only the female yields the dye (1777).

It goes without saying that garments dyed with cochineal were very expensive and thus became a symbol of power and luxury.

Pastoureau gives the materiality of colour a great deal of attention: he tells the stories of the successive chemical and technological advances in the craftsmanship involved. And he offers, to our contemporary eyes, surprising illustrations of that materiality. 

For centuries brides at the countryside for instance would wear red, not of the cochineal variety of course – which was too expensive and also forbidden for ‘ordinary folk’, but the local dyers mastered the red vegetal and animal pigments the best. Red was in other words a good material choice for a radiating bride.

Dyeing was a labour-intensive, intricate activity (Barthélemy l’Anglais & Jean Corbechon, Le Livre des propriétés des choses, 1482). On the right both bride and groom wear red: their festive attire accentuates the significance of the sacrament of matrimony (detail Rogier van der Weyden, The Seven Sacraments Altarpiece, c.1470).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I also like the story of Louis XIV’s brother who allegedly introduced high heels at the 17th-century French court. The idea was to make up for the short posture of both brothers, which failed utterly because the new trend was taken up swiftly by all courtiers. Fascinatingly the heels were bright red – on the outside, which provides historical support to the failure of contemporary designer Christian Louboutin to obtain trademark protection for his signature red-lacquered soles.

Both at his marriage and when he was 63 and in full royal gear, Louis XIV sired red-heeled shoes (Antoine Dieu, Marriage of Louis of France and Marie-Adélaïde of Savoye, 1678; above right detail after Hyancinthe Rigaud).

In comparison, the Louboutin red seems conservative.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Much less light-minded is the Church’s use of colour. In fact, the original Bible hardly contains colour references. It’s only over the centuries and across translations, especially in the vernacular languages, that the Bible becomes increasingly more colourful – in itself an illustration of how colour testifies of changes in society.

These changes resulted in an ambitious colour symbolism that from the 5th century onwards exercized its influence in many domains of religious life (liturgy and costume for instance), social practises (garments, ceremonies, heraldic arms and insignia) and artistic and literary creation. And that for about a millenium. That’s powerful cultural heritage indeed.

With regard to the colour that concerns us here most, the Christian symbolism was founded on two principal references, namely blood and fire. And each was considered in both its good and bad aspects.

Blood in its positive connotation is of course the symbol of life. Even more specifically, it’s Christ giving his blood who has saved mankind, thereby warranting eternal life. In his footsteps followed the Church’s martyrs who accentuated the promise of salvation and the community of believers. This red sanctifies, fertilizes and unites. It’s also the colour of the very powerful Christian concept of caritas.

Both the so-called mystic press on the left and the Lamb of God above illustrate the growing symbolism attached to the blood of Christ (French miniature, 14th-15th century; detail Jan Van Eyck, The Ghent Altarpiece, 1427-9).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But inevitably blood is also associated with violence and impurity. That’s why crime, sin and above all revolt against God were depicted in reds. Hangmen and torturers often wore red garments which had, of course, the additional advantage that their ‘activities’ were not too visible. In more general terms red became the colour of control, inhibition and sanctioning: think of a “red list”, the red pen used to correct exams, the “red line” not to be crossed. Red thus became very much associated with power and authority – which is also why the colour became the exclusive privilege of society’s elites, religious, political and economic.

It’s no coincidence that the guilds’ coats of arms were predominantly red (Ghent, 1524). The power of heraldic red continues to play even now, with 75% of the current UN members having red in their flag.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beside blood, it’s fire that features prominently in the Church’s colour symbolism. Biblical divine interventions are often accompanied by fire, as in the case of God speaking through a burning bush to Abraham who’s about to sacrifice his son Isaac. The most powerful image in this respect are the fiery tongues of Pentecost. Here we have divine love that regenerates, purifies and fortifies. Hence also the association with more mundane manifestations of seduction and love, remember the wedding dresses. Alas, fire is not always benign. Undoubtedly the strongest reference in the medieval mind is Hell, with the Devil as the personalization of temptation and evil. In that sense it wasn’t surprising that heretics were burnt – with no hope for salvation.

The two dimensions of fire in Christian symbolism: on the left the fiery tongues bringing regeneration on Pentecost (Hunterian Psalter, c.1165-70), above eternal damnation for heretics (Chronicle From the Creation of the World until 1384).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In sum, these four interdependent dimensions constructed a powerful symbolism that coloured the High Middle Ages very red indeed. But things were about to change.

A first crack in the red supremacy came from an unexpected rival: blue. The Romans disliked it, interpreting it as the colour of the barbarians. In the medieval West, it hardly features socially or artistically and it carried no religious or symbolic connotations.

Note the same bright blue for the Virgin’s coat and the sky. Interestingly, the angels are both blue (on the earth) and red (circling God in heaven) (Nativity, in Les Très Riches Heures du duc de Berry, c.1415).

This raises the question whether the promotion of blue was prompted by technical advances, newly discovered pigments for instance or better ways of mastering the dyes. Pastoureau argues that the ideological mutations preceded the chemical ones: it was the association with the Virgin Mary that set kings, later all nobility, to adopt blue. 

Hitherto depicted in sombre colours, referring to her bereavement, Mary gradually sires a blue coat – which also becomes more bright and luminous. And that brighter blue, miniature artists use to paint the sky, which was black or golden before. This is also the period which saw the construction of the Gothic cathedrals with their famous blue stained windows.

The ideological promotion of blue through the Virgin, queen of the heavens, had some serious material consequences too. Blue upstarts so to speak broke through the dyeing guild’s monopoly and set up their own, rivalling organizations. Severely affected in their economic activities, the red dyers resorted to moral warfare to protect their position. Pastoureau tells of two instances where the red dyeing guild tried to convince their stained windows colleagues to represent the devil in blue – in an attempt to discredit the colour altogether. They failed.

I found one example with both red and blue devils. It’s probably not surprising that this Last Judgement (c.1500) adorns St Mary’s, Fairford. Being one of the so-called wool churches, it’s a testament to the wealth of the wool trade in the Cotswolds region. The stunning windows are 
the only surviving set of medieval stained glass in England. I think the blue devil above rather cute but that must be my wicked modern mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red’s downfall continued with new sumptuary laws and sartorial decrees that the civil authorities increasingly promulgated in the 14th and 15th centuries. The purpose was threefold: economic, moral and social. These laws and regulations fought against luxurious and thus unproductive spending. They also condemned new fashions which were considered frivolous, indecent, scandalous even. And above all they aimed to reinforce the boundaries between the different social classes so that all, in their appearance and ways of life, would remain in their stations.

The Reformation of the 16th century concluded the case. Not surprisingly in view of the powerful symbolism set out above, red to the Reformers represented the Papist Church against the many corruptions of which they so ardently fought. Red thus lost its positive connotations and became exclusively negative. Most particularly, red became associated with sin, pure and simple.

Being banned from Paradise was not a pleasant experience (Ulm Münster, 1461).

And this is where the other Fall comes into the picture. When Adam and Eve eat from the Tree of Wisdom, it’s the sanctioning red angel who expulses them from Paradise. But with original sin also originated the need for garments. The fact that we wear clothes, is a continued testimony of our inherent sinfulness. Fashion is not only superficial and frivolous, it’s proof that we humans are flawed. It’s therefore right and proper for clothes not to express status, let alone pride: they must contribute to our awareness that we need to be modest and humble. The Reformers had much less faith in salvation or charity, the perspectives were bleak. Hence a much muted down colour palette, if not dominantly black.

Compare these two Holy Families: on the left the Protestant Rembrandt
uses a very muted palette (1634), the Counter Reformation diplomat Rubens (above) paints his colours as bright as can be and even includes a frivolous parrot (c.1614).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although in reaction the Counter Reformation re-enforced red in all its splendour, in more ordinary circumstances the West has actually adopted the more neutral palette of the Reformation. The dark colours that are dominant in office surroundings for instance still refer to a work ethic that since Max Weber is related to Protestantism. Pastoureau concludes more generally that red has almost entirely been banned out of our daily lives, including the public sphere. 

This conclusion struck me to the point that I went out to test it in my home city. And indeed, there is surprisingly little red in Ghent (I’m discounting the reddish bricks and roofs, and publicity signs). And where it is present, it refers to the authority of the Church, and by extension to the old civic powers. Interestingly the positive connotations are in the majority: who wants to see it, finds evidence of divine and mundane love, charity and the power of the city. The references to violence and revolt are much more muted.

Without the truck you might miss the muted red in the roof windows of the Cathedral,
the Beguinage church tower is already somewhat more obvious,
in the Counter Reformation charity building there is no more holding back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bright red gate of the medieval belfry reminds us of the value of the city’s freedom.
 The so-called Dulle Griet (1431) was moved to Ghent to fight the Spanish. The impressive canon, stretching over 5 m and weighing more than 12 ton, now stars mostly and predictably in selfies. 
The fire reference in the streets is benign: in case of emergency the water supply will be easily found.

 

The least you can say is that the much-discussed circulation plan, recently introduced to give pedestrians and cyclists more space, brightens up the city centre.

The only modern exception, where red was relatively recently introduced in the public domain, are the sea, rail and land traffic systems. Here too though the reference is old, with the red indicating control and inhibition.
Why green was introduced, is unclear: the symbolic contrast red/green is unprecedented historically. Some (in the book unnamed) countries contrast red and blue – which is a surprising reference to the battle of the angels and the devils. In Japan they use green but call it blue.

A postbox in front of my favourite building in Ghent: the Castle of the Counts.

There is the material suggestion (also not in the book) that red is simply very striking to our eyes. This might explain why telephone boxes (now extinct on the Belgian streets) used to be red. We still have the red post boxes (but not in the author’s France).

Because Pastoureau pays so much attention to materiality, I don’t think he would disagree. But his conclusion is much more powerful: although red is no longer the preferred colour in the West, it remains the strongest colour symbolically. That’s why red still provokes such strong emotions. With reference to the historic symbolism we understand better why that is so. And it’s fun to adopt a different mindset and observe the battle of the colours.

Where once was the entrance to the red light district, the Ghent artist Jan Van Imschoot painted several scenes of the local history (2000).
Detail of the wall painting: seductive red stockings.

So, do wear red clothes this Fall and decide whether you’re creating your own private Counter Reformation, or simply want to add more blood and fire to your life – in the positive meaning of spirit, charity and love, obviously.

And on a wall very close to where I live, what should always be the final word.

Craft Agency

Everyone in Flanders knows Bokrijk: it’s a popular school destination from the 1970s onwards. And very boring I remember it too. The Provincial Open Air Museum presented a stilted version of the past, with old farms and chapels for instance transported from their original settings, and loads of old utensils and machines that breathed dust and irrelevance.

Something has changed between the traditional clog workshop and the Bokrijk 
presentation at the latest edition of the Interior Biënnale Kortijk (2016).

 

 

 

 

 

Textile is not very prominent in Bokrijk but Flemish fashion designer Tim Van Steenbergen will experiment next year on this restored loom (Photo Bart Dewaele).

It took some time, which is okay when we all want things to slow down, but Bokrijk is increasingly transforming into a social laboratory where the relevance of cultural heritage is clarified and where cross-pollination projects with a multitude of partners feature prominently. The Museum presents an ambitious programme that enables the past to say something relevant about today – and the future. Contemporary craftsmanship is at the core of this programme, with its capacity, among others, to make us think about mass production.

I’m delighted that craftsmanship gains an increasingly prominent position in societal discussions. There’s of course the danger that this is a hipster trend, soon to be obliterated by another. I think craftsmanship deserves better. To follow Bokrijk’s lead, to think about mass production equally means thinking about its effect on the climate, about the way we relate to objects and ultimately to one another. For if we define ourselves exclusively as consumers, there is no human connection, bar competition in the upcoming sales perhaps. Consumers don’t think about the circumstances in which objects are made, the often miserable lives of their makers and the total absence of appreciation for their expertise. Consumption itself is seldom fulfilling and it casually robs its practioners from their agency.

The question then becomes how we can anchor craftsmanship solidly into the debate about society and keep it sustainably relevant. And whether what we could call craft agents can help us think differently about objects, meaningful human (inter)action and the good life.

Craftspeople come in all shapes and sizes. I picked two radically different examples to explore the point: the students of the Master in Textile Design at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts (KASK, Ghent) and, first, a 19th-century Norfolk fisherman.

There’s nothing hip or trendy about John Craske (1881-1946). In fact, very little is known of his life. And it’s to the English biographer Julia Blackburn’s merit that she threads together what little she could find of what most would see as an ordinary, insignificant life.

Yet John Craske managed, it seems, to survive through his craftswork – literally. When he became ill in 1917 and was pronounced, in the subtle language of the time, “imbecile”, his sea life was over. Having been born into a poor, for generations seafaring family, this was a financial debacle. It also turned out to be a mental disaster: when he wasn’t in what he himself called ” a stuporous state”, Craske desperately longed for the sea. The family doctor recommended that Craske went to live by the water, because “only the sea can save him”. When that wasn’t possible, Craske created his own solution: he recreated the sea, painting on any surface he could find. Later, when he could no longer stand for any length of time, he took to embroidering seascapes, sea related scenes and ultimately, based on the reports on the wireless, the Evacuation of Dunkirk. 

  Postcard painting (The Duigan Collection)
A rare boot at rest: Craske mostly & most realistically depicted storms. And included prominently his signature.

 

 

 

 

 

Rescue at sea

& detailed embroideries of his former livelihood.

 

 

 

Craske’s death prevented him from finishing the Evacuation of Dunkirk (NUA Gallery, Norwich). The embroidery is over 3,3m wide & 64 cm high.
Detail of the action at Dunkirk.

Threads is a delicate book. While Blackburn rescues Craske’s life from obscurity, she also weaves through her own, very personal stories. There is little definition whether Craske’s work is art rather than craft, nor a conclusive judgment whether his life was ultimately meaningful through his work. If anything, the storytelling is kind and compassionate. 

The loose ends of the Dunkirk embroidery.

And by quoting from her notebooks and reporting searches that yielded nothing, Blackburn shows the messiness behind the biographer’s own craft. To expose such loose treads is to invite a slower pace and the acceptance that not all efforts yield result. Life is sometimes messy, as the reverse sides of Craske’s embroideries equally show. Interweaving his pictures with her writing, the story becomes a meditation on resilience and creativity. And how craftsmanship can pull us through illness, immobility and hardship. 

Put differently, we’re shown different types of agency, nothing with grand impact but powerful nonetheless. This can inspire us with regard to the power of the imagination in what is too easily seen as an ordinary life. This is about patience and mercy. About the consolation of art/craft. About attention to small detail and an open mind, ready to learn and apply unknown techniques to depict what’s in one’s eye’s mind. John Craske impacted immensely on his life because despite serious financial and mental hardship he refused to submit his agency. 

I very much hope the Textile Design students and alumni at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts (KASK, Ghent) don’t need to experience such hardship in order to master their craft. They have in any case the glorious space of the Ghent Design Museum where ‘Plain / Purl. 10 Years of Textile Design KASK’ now shows. The subtitle of the exhibition ‘Textile between Art and Design’ makes explicit the tension Blackburn mostly left unmentioned: it invites ideas of debate, controversy, dissent and contrast.

The accompanying catalogue explains that Textile Design in Ghent has very much at its core the students’ own investigation. They’re actively encouraged to research, experiment and practice through the varied textile landscape. This also implies that KASK puts a high value on maintaining a certain distance from the direct demands of the workplace and society. Its higher education programme is clearly envisaged as a sanctuary with ample space for theoretical contextualization, critical reflection and research. But it’s no ivory tower: interdisciplinary experiments and collaborations are very much encouraged, there is an acute awareness of textile’s climatic and social impact, contemporary questions summon innovative disruption.

Two untitled works by Louise Bourgeois (2008), presiding over Sophie Schreinemacher’s experiments with wood & rope (2016).

All this has found its expression in the exhibition. Functional design and visual art join side by side, in a non-hierarchical way, as are the young, experienced, student and internationally known makers. Visitors are encouraged to touch some of the works and thus get connected and engaged themselves.

But the most telling aspect of the exhibition is the fact that many of the works on display are not finished products. They’re experiments, encounters at the crossing of different disciplines, illustrations of a particular stage in the research process.

They’re presented in a collage or in a row, not so much to suggest uniform design but rather a shared philosophy of an open mind. Of agency to impact on materials and techniques. On objects, people and society.

These are clearly other craft agents than was John Craske. Yet they also practice creativity to deal with life. With its messiness perhaps. With the fact that there’s too little mercy, too little attention to detail or circumstances. That pressing societal questions need an answer but also time – so as to cut loose superficial trends and embroider a real, sustained alliance with so-called ordinary lives. To find, with patience and resilience, the right perspective on meaningfulness. 

Fien Embrechts, Embroidery on latex (2008)
Britt De Groot, Research Laser Cutting (2011)
Bettie Boersma, Finding Form for Perspectives (2016)
Hella Jongerius & Jongeriuslab Bovist, Vitra (2016)

This seat with Alice and the rabit running late, sits at the heart of the Design museum, now transformed into a place of time slowing down, of encounter and exploration. The core of textile craftsmanship has in the exhibition become an open space to connect and feel the fabrics.

Textile is very much alive. Its crafts agents featured here show us how it’s embedded a myriad of concepts, values and practices that remain powerful and relevant today. If we manage to feature craftsmanship more prominently into the debates and practices of society, we may not find a hipster Wonderland but contribute to the co-creation of the good life. 

 

This is the Craske’s smallest surviving painting: the ship’s red sail is a single brush stroke. Who would argue that Craske’s aspiring to peace of mind and fullfilment can no longer inspire?

Crafty Globalization

I must start this post with an admission: I got the timing of my vacation in Pafos, Cyprus, seriously wrong.  

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The rock-hewn necropolis known as the Tombs of the Kings.

 

Let there be no mistake: the area around Pafos is absolutely lovely, of course there is the glorious combination of sea and sun ànd the historian in me was delighted with a terrain of almost 300 ha that is Unesco World Heritage.IMG_1497

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Although very worn, the mosaics are abundant and absolutely beautiful.

 

There was of course a lot of ‘rubble’ too – and this time not only on the ancient sites.IMG_0796 For there is virtually no street in the old town of Pafos that is not broken up in a massive project of public construction works – hence the mistake of my timing: Pafos will be the European Capital of Culture in 2017. 

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Next year one can thus expect an endless lineup of interesting exhibitions, events, all sorts of exciting activities which, with different timing, would have me exposed to serious choice stress. Then but also now the focus of a fabrics blog comes in handy 😉 

Trying to find the bus stops in broken up Pafos I entered a small office, where there was no information whatsoever to be obtained (this resembles the public transport service in Flanders ;-( But my eye spotted a promising leaflet – which set me off ‘climbing’ the streets of the city. 

The Place is an interesting new initiative set to sustain and promote traditional crafts and allow them to survive, including innovative ways to further develop them. Imagine my joy when I discovered these colourful silk cocoons and their application to modern jewelry!

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I was even more lucky: the artist, Angelika Stratinaki was present and explained how she also employed them to continue the old craft of silk embroidery.

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I’ve never seen anything like it. Silk cocoons are cut up in a wide variety of forms and then, carefully because of the fragility of the material, sewn into beautiful designs. I was very happy to buy the bird decoration on the right, a true gem as textile souvenirs go! Alas I don’t seem to be able to find any information on this so-called traditional craft. I have no idea when it started, how broadly it was developed, how many people were and are involved.

What I did find, was a brochure on Pafos 2017. Its motto is “to link continents – to bridge cultures”: the city aspires to be the first European Capital of Culture which will link East and West. The motto also highlights the self-declared need for bridging the differences between the Greek and the Turkish Cypriot communities.

Perhaps there will be an exhibition on the position of Cyprus on the Silk Roads. But what struck me in my textile focus first, is the obvious impact the separation of the island by the Turkish invasion of 1974 is still having. The Cyprus Handicraft Service was set up shortly afterwards in order to provide employment for refugees from the occupied areas who had much experience in the various branches of Cypriot handicrafts. The aim of the Service is “the systematic revival of traditional folk art”. 

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The Limassol centre of the Cyprus Handicraft Service

With shops in all the towns of “the free areas of Cyprus”, the Service further hopes “to promote the revival of our traditional culture”. It is unclear to which extent this includes innovation. Also surprising is that the Service does not actively search for craftspeople. In the shop in Limassol they knew of only one old woman continuing to practice the craft of silk cocoon embroidery- and that can’t have been Angelika ;-).

Cultural antropologist Eleni Papademetriou has done substantial research on the Cypriotic crafts. In Textiles from Cyprus she mentions the omnipresence of silk on the island to the extent that “every family reared silkworms and there was such a supply of silk that in Cyprus rich and poor alike were dressed in silk.” Surely this is an amazing statement! Alas, there is no elaboration on when this happy time has been nor any reference to silk embroidery. 

A documentary to which Papademetriou contributed, does contain some historical periodization: silk appeared on the island in Byzantine times and grew into a substantial economic sector during the 13th, 14th and 15th centuries. Firmly positioned on the Silk Road, Cyprus was the silk manufacturing and trade centre of the Mediterranean and supplied, for instance, the Western Church. I would have loved more historical detail but the documentary mainly shows traditional methods and interviews the last generation of silk producers, a couple of refugees from the North being the predominant characters throughout the film. Documenting the silk crafts in difficulty aims in short to secure their continuity.

This then seems to be the ‘official’ line: the occupation of the North predominates the interpretation of the craft heritage to the extent that survival takes center stage – and leaves very little space for projects of renewal and innovation. The pessimistic tone may in fact discourage a contemporary appropriation of the heritage.

In the epilogue of her book on Cypriotic textiles Papademetriou is equally despondent. She lays stress on the fact that skill used to be interwoven with daily life. “With the leveling of the economy and globalization, this inspired tradition is under threat today more than at any other time. It can, though, be its own unique pebble in the mosaic of not only European but also world art, if we manage to preserve it and to promote it as it truly deserves. We have very little time.” (my italics)

I don’t know whether Papademetriou is involved in the organization of Pafos Cultural Capital. To me it would be obvious that crafts receive ample attention, ideally as part of a larger discussion on what the good life may be and how that may not only require preservation but also adaptiveness, flexibility and an open attitude to the world. The antropologist refers indeed to globalization, but in the gloomy and increasingly prevailing sense that it constitutes an almost insurmountable threat to virtually all our traditions and values. 

Fortunately, there was the Summer reading which I announced in an earlier post: Peter Frankopan’s The Silk Roads. A new history of the world. As the subtitle indicates, this is an ambitious book which sets out to demonstrate how our standard view of Europe as the centre of the worldSilk Roads is ‘only’ a few centuries old. In fact, Frankopan argues, the navel of the world lies between the Black Sea and the Himalayas, in the other words in central Asia. The reason why the author concentrates on the importance of non-European regions is, of course, historical revisionism but perhaps more important for the wide audience Frankopan hopes to reach: a broader viewpoint on globalization – which currently scares us so.  

The Silk Roads (it was the late 19th-century geologist Ferdinand von Richthofen who coined the term Seidenstraßen) present an alternative frame of reference: it is a history of networks, first of all economic but very much religious, intellectual and cultural too. The Mediterranean – with Cyprus at its very east -, is thus the terminus of the Silk Roads that stretched all the way from China across Central Asia. With legion references to neglected rulers, peoples, cities and empires, Frankopan stresses time and again how the world has always been connected, far wider than traditional historiography has led us to believe. Whether exploring the Roads of (among others) silk, religion, fur, slave trade, gold, wheat or oil, the emphasis is on the century-old global exchange of goods, ideas, arts and crafts.  

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The fabrics of the Silk Roads were highly desired all over the then known world. They were sometimes even used as currency!  Here the famous horses of central Asia (8th or 9th century AD).

Three examples of how cross-fertilization influenced what standard historiography recognises as Western historic highlights. 

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Jan Van Eyck’s Madonna by the Fontain (1439). Also note the amazing rendering of the fabrics!

(1) The commercial success of the Italian city states in the ages of the Crusades was largely due to the stability and good relations between the Muslim and the Christian world. (2) The delightful paintings of the so-called Flemish Primitives would look very different indeed without the deep blue, pigment made of lapus lazili, original to Afghanistan and traded over hundreds of miles. (3) The Renaissance had not been possible without the Arabic translations of the classic Greek texts, made available again to European scholars through the intensification of commercial and cultural contacts between East and West. 

In short, the velocity of communication (to which the Frankopan pays surprisingly little attention) may have increased but the ground motive is always the same: the world is so fundamentally interconnected that to reject globalization is to deny the light of the sun. Our traditions and values have always been influenced by developments along or at the other side of the Silk Roads. And to establish how significant those cross-fertilizations were in the past is helpful to imagine and shape the future.

Obviously this doesn’t mean globalization does not inspire feelings of insecurity and fear. But it’s not new, it’s a fact of history – and it’s unlikely that such an ingrained pattern will change in our lifetimes. Wouldn’t it be better then to concentrate our energy on a better understanding of the actuality? On establishing what is possible within the long-standing frame? On imagining flexibility and innovation rather than conservation of what is in flux anyway? I would hope we all can adopt (more) constructive attitudes – which may set us on the path of renewal in many different areas. In Pafos 2017 a contemporary appropriation of Cyprus’ rich craft heritage – and all that it can contain, would be a crafty contribution indeed.

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An attractive update of Cypriot heritage at the airport of Pafos.

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The Power of ‘Soft’ Communication

When I visit places, I like to explore the book stores, see what’s popular in that city or country. I visit the children’s department in particular because children’s books, especially the illustrated ones, are more comparable than books about let’s say (local) current affairs. So I got very frustrated when I once was in Sofia, Bulgaria. There were virtually no books that I could read (my Bulgarian is not great). IMG_0591But then I discovered a to me still largely ineligible but very attractive book. It was its unusual cover that drew my attention: the letters are made with wool, the illustration is composed of woven figures. Inside the book too wool is everywhere: it’s used to make up the page numbers in the table of content; each page which has no elaborate woven creation, is outlined with a simple ‘line’ of wool, dotted with a woolen circle; some of the text is handwritten, with a selection of letters written in wool. Later I discovered that When God was on Earth. Nineteen Bulgarian Folk Legends was nominated for the Bulgarian Book Association Award (2008) because of its unusual concept, namely the combination of folk tales, selected by Albena Georgieva, with the extraordinary visual images of Sevda Potourlian. They also had the good inspiration to include English summaries of the stories.

This is exceptionally good storytelling, allowing the expressivity of the woven illustrations to convey the tale’s morale – which remains unsaid. See for instance this representation of ‘The Plague’: how could anyone, including a child, be unimpressed with the devastating power of wickedness?

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It almost seems like God is having fun being dragged along by the Devil.
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I have no idea of how prominent the Devil really is in the Bulgarian folk soul, but look how expressive he is!

I found alas no information on the artists – do let me know if you know more! -, but to me they strike a perfect match: not only do they employ the craft of weaving to make their book very attractive, they also engage the crafty representations to communicate their heritage in a very enticing way.

Another remarkable example of how craft engages with heritage ànd with attractive books, is the Cozy Classics series. This is the amazing work of 

War and Peace
Just three examples of the
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Cozy Classics series, now
Great expectations
12 titles published or on their way.

Jack and Holman Wang who present classic stories in felt figures. To be more specific, they convert ‘big books’ for adults into word primers for children. Each book in the series contains twelve ‘concept’ words and their felt representations which are easy to grasp by young children and which delight adults, whether they know the Great Book or not. The aim is very much to create a fun ‘literacy-rich environment’ that will engender enthusiastic readers. As they put it themselves in their ‘soft’ reply to a reviewer who had missed the point: “Unfortunately, in the minds of many, classics are associated with academics, but no classic was written for the classroom; every one was written to give pleasure. We prefer to get away from the classroom and have kids grow up thinking of The Great Books as great fun.”

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Truly, what other
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words would you need
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in early life? 😉

 

 

 

I’m humbled by such great craftsmanship. Being a (needle)felter myself, I know how much time and effort goes into making anything look like you’d imagined it in your mind’s eye. See for instance the making of War and Peace: this is fun and value intimately intertwined. Ideally these are interchangeable but as the usage of craft communication suggests, it may require some time and persistence to acquire a rewarding new habit. Thus the love of heritage books is combined with extreme skill ànd patience, not to convince people of the enjoyment of reading with some theoretical or moral argument but ‘simply’ by demonstrating it.

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Felt smoke!   How much ‘softer’ can communication be?

The literal conciseness of the Wangs’ message fits in well with the reading campaign of the BoekenOverleg that gathers all bookish organisations in Flanders. There is no focus on heritage books here and alas the promoters did not choose for craft illustrations 😉 The image is a simple clock, referring to the value reading can bring to your life if you take/make the time. NieuwsbriefYou know the feeling: you’re constantly running around, time doesn’t seem to be your own. But it’s actually crucial, especially in these busy-busy times, to be selective about our pastimes, in order to regain (some) control over our lives. This too is not a boisterous message, aiming to impose or to moralize. It’s on the contrary a gentle invitation – and I hope the more effective for it. The campaign hopes to inspire: it suggests a way of allowing slow time in your life, of making quality time, of reaching flow or kairos if you want. Reading is a present to yourself, it’s offering you the time to be quiet, to reflect, to be inspired, to learn, to explore – and have fun in the particular way(s) you like it. 

Will you too ‘book time for a book’?

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The Enlightening Flow of Craft

When I was ten, I was determined to learn lacemaking. I can’t remember where I got this from, I knew no one who made lace. At a guess I must have gotten intrigued at one of the many exhibitions to which our parents took us. I was delighted to discover this was a craft that could actually be learnt. And my mother found an elderly lady in her native village who was prepared to teach a singleminded girl. These were the seventies, with a revival of interest in traditional crafts. Alas, the setting was the putting on display of people exercising these crafts in distinctly artificial settings.

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The shawl was distinctly not traditional but crocheted by a family friend – and my favourite for years.

An obligatory part was the ‘dressing up’ in what were supposed to be authentic clothes. Initially I made very traditional lace too, think trimmings to embellish a posh handkerchief – not very exciting for a ten-year-old. But apparently I enjoyed it, so much so that I made a clay self-portrait of which, amazingly, the head and the lacemaking cushion survive up to this day!

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Later I followed lessons closer to homeIMG_0460 and there the emphasis was on applying the traditional methods in more contemporary 
designs. I have very little evidence of this, as most of what I made, I gave away to anyone who happened to have cause for celebration. Surprisingly, I didn’t think then to document my lacey efforts for a future blog 😉 

I haven’t made lace in years, I have no idea whether I could still do it. Is it like riding a bike, something one never unlearns? I continue to find lace appealing though and I can rarely resist it, when I come upon it at a car boot sale for instance. I have old lace and new, very fine and rather rough, and, of course, in a variety of colours, sizes and patterns. I find it comes in handy when a skirt found in a secondhand shop is lovely – but not quite long enough to my liking. More generally  I can certainly recommend it as an easy addition to achieve that je-ne-sais-quoi with your outfit!

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IMG_4687I also continue to include lace in my craft projects, whether it’s in jewelry,
mittens and shawls,
or home decoration.

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These felted angels which I presented at a crafts’ fair around Christmas, happily flew off, intent to spread joy elsewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although the process has been slow, I’m delighted that crafts are finally shedding their old-fashioned aura (including the silly clothes!) and are being incorporated into a creative context which treasures craftsmanship  and sees it as a source for, why not, innovation. In the Netherlands there is the Crafts Council which aims for just such a upgrading, with for instance Dutch Darlings, a competition to create innovative and sustainable souvenirs based on Dutch craft expertise. The Bruges based NGO tapis plein is recognised by the Flemish Commission of Unesco as the expert centre for participatory heritage and examines (among others) how cultural habits and practices from the past can affect present society. The current focus is with ‘intangible’ heritage and the resulting publication A Future for Crafts brings together an impressive anthology of Flemish craftspeople, techniques, practices and inspirational quotes which demonstrate the contemporary strength of crafts.

For me it was reading Richard Sennett‘s The Craftsman which alerted me to the powerful effect crafts can have on one’s life. Sennett writes in detail about the grounding of skill in physical practice. Sennett2He identifies three basic abilities as the foundation of craftsmanship: the ability to localize, to question, and to open up. This is about ‘focal attention’, about remaining curious and being open to shift habits & prejudices in the tradition of the Enlightenment. When the brain deploys these various capabilities, it processes in parallel visual, aural, tactile, and language-symbol information. This in itself offers attractive perspectives of creativity, supported by the most recent neurological findings about many, strong circuit connections in the brain. Sennett also praises slow craft time as it allows for the appropriation of skills and carries the promise of evolution and growth. Moreover it encourages reflection, imagination – and thus innovation. Surely these are all talents that the contemporary ‘skills society’ seeks?

Sennett relates his valuation of craftsmanship to Western history and its fault-lines between artist & craftsman, mind & matter, or theory & practice, with the latter part of the equations consistently being dealt a rough deal. Divergently Sennett presents craftsmanship as a practice of ‘the good life’ which stands in marked contrast to the values that are predominant in our world today. Most specifically, ‘craftsmanship names an enduring, basic human impulse, namely the desire to do a job well for its own sake‘ (my italics). Inherently (wo)man strives for quality: it’s an instinctive aspiration which generates genuine satisfaction. This is what Peter Korn, a reflective furniture craftsman, values when he explores ‘why we make things and why it matters’.korn As anyone knows who practices craft in any form, it brings about awareness and patience, it engages deeply and allows hope for progress. In short, it energizes to the point of creating flow as Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has defined it. This is an ‘optimal experience’ of deep enjoyment and creativity, flowof total involvement in and connection with life. This is also what transforms our experience of time and which the Dutch philosopher Joke Hermsen identifies with the Greek god Kairos: sharpened by craftlike talents such as awareness and concentration,kairos it is precisely the quality of the moment which releases otherwise hidden possibilities. Time then feels benevolent because it’s fuller and more engaging. It also opens new perspectives of renewal and growth. 

Yet in reality people mostly experience the tyranny of time – which closes the potential of authenticity and creativity. And utility rules, which implies that for most people the consequences of their work are outside the work: their activity is merely a means to an end – which they may find difficult to connect with. There is a lot of talk about ‘workable work’, yet so many suffer from poor psychological health including burn-out. This then is what I consider to be the import of the renewed attention to crafts: if the recent re-interpretation includes, as it should, reflection upon the good life, we may indeed hope for ‘innovation’ whereby practices from the past can activate their powers to transform for the better our contemporary lives.

The Enlightenment believed that everyone possesses the ability to do good work of some kind, that there is an intelligent crafts(wo)man in most of us. Sennett argues that that faith still makes sense – if we so choose. As an Enlightenment historian I find this argument very compelling. And I do experience flow and kairos in the making of the earlier mentioned box installations. To close the circle of this post, I hope to illustrate all this with an installation which includes lace. The matter of the installation is the result of craft practice, its ‘mind’ aims to focus attention towards one of the ingredients of the good life. 

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The ‘theme’ of this box installation is tenderness, with the quote reading:

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An appeal to be delicate & gentle.

 

It’s in your self-interest

to find a way to be very tender.

I made the installation at a time when I was not experiencing too much tenderness in my own life. Hence I wondered what that meant to me, which characteristics did I associate with tenderness, what would it look like if visualised? This required my ‘opening up’ to the dismal thought that perhaps it was present but I simply couldn’t see it? Hence I included the braille. Or was I myself being too prickly – hence the hazelnut husk-, therefore aloof to the power of tenderness? Further exploration revealed something distinctly fragile: tenderness exposes, it renders both the donor and the receiver vulnerable – which is a quality our world does not value very much. I visualized this with a beautiful porcelain schard which I found carelessly discarded in the street, the fragile skeleton of a Chinese lantern (Physalis alkekengi) and an intent little girl in between. The longing for tenderness may be a trap, as if it were a cage which promises comfort but actually means closure away from life. In the right dose though and with the right intentions tenderness is sweet – also, notice the texture of the sugar stick! And it’s worth aspiring to, because of its potential to empower the people involved. The pearl and cristal hanger refer to the richess that tenderness can add to our lives.

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It may require craftsmanship to see & feel the power of tenderness,
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to appropriate its fragility & vulnerability,
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and to be fully open to its sweetness, worth & richess.

 

 

 

 

 

Lastly, of course, tenderness is delicately soft, hence the central photo of a child’s lace dress. Obviously my visualisation is particular and not exhaustive: what would the intelligent crafts(wo)man in you add in the open space left in the middle?

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