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?

Make Haste Slowly

We all have a relationship with time. A difficult relationship, mostly. To inspire us to think differently or at least with more differentiation about time, there is (among others) the Dutch philosopher Joke J. Hermsen. Recently Hermsen supplemented her time-work with an excellent essay entitled Melancholia of the Unrest (accompanying the Dutch Month of Philosophy 2017) and with Kairos Castle, a delightful exhibition at the Castle of Gaasbeek, near Brussels.

 

In Greek mythology Chronos is the god of the practical, measurable (clock) time, of which we never have enough (or so we think). His grandson Kairos is much less known and according to Hermsen the god who deserves our attention, now more than ever. Kairos is the god of “the opportune moment”: if we are sufficiently open to him, Kairos can break the clock time for us and create a different experience of time. This “Kairotic moment” is a sort of interval, “in between” time (the term is Hannah Arendts’, one of Hermsen’s philosophical heroes), that holds unexpected insights and new possibilities.

Kairos is mostly represented with one lock of hair: attention and good timing are primordial to grab the opportunity when it presents itself. Which is why a sense of restfulness, awareness of oneself, openness to the world and a preparedness to wait are so important. These are not qualities contemporary society treasures: the exhibition offers a rare and delightful opportunity to practice.

The many layers of the Castle of Gaasbeek (building started 777 years ago!) make it a perfect location to experience time differently, to explore different layers of time.

Kairos Castle is Hermsen’s argument put into practice: let’s create more time for stillness, for reflection and consideration, for attention and concentration. And the exhibition makes this literal: you can of course choose to pass by unseen (among others) the five long videos – or you stop, sit and get drawn into a different world, a different time. And when you find yourself in that different time, you’ll experience an interval between looking and understanding. Perhaps art first alienates before there’s recognition. Perhaps you don’t even understand what you’re seeing: there’s a hitch, a faltering, a necessary delay of judgment. And it’s exactly that “in between” that accommodates new thoughts, forgotten memories perhaps, a different insight. The general idea is that artful suspension of clock time frees the mind, as if it empties itself of clutter and gets ready to think and feel differently.

Are we stuck in Chronos, or can we draw our own time? (Maarten Baas, Grandfather’s Clock)
Recognize the book from which this ‘Nouvelle croyance III’  (Georgia Russel) is made? Erasmus above would have approved of the initial alienation.
The empty harnass suggests space for new thoughts & action (Antony Gromley, DOMAIN XCV, 2014).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Susanna Hertrich’s Chrono-Shredder.

Kairos Castle is meant to bring us into an intermezzo in the time regime of grandfather Chronos, so that we can practice opening up to the strong qualitative moment that inspires insight and or change. I’m happy to say it worked for me: time was “shredded” while I visited the exhibition. I had no idea of the clock time when I came out. And it was a great experience.

But in fact the exhibition represents only half of Hermsen’s argument: if we stop there, we’ve missed her point – for where is the action? Ideally, I would have come out of the castle and grabbed Kairos’ hair lock. To do what exactly? 

“Alles op sijnen tijd – Tout à temps”: Hermsen transposes this crucial adage from the Castle’s kitchen to society in general.

In fact, Gaasbeek Castle contains the ultimate answer: the adage “All in Time” on the kitchen chimney refers literally to the different layers of time. And that includes time for action – which must always be preceded by time for reflection. The point is thus not so much to escape time as to master it differently so that new things become possible. 

Here Hermsen aligns herself with the Dutch humanist Erasmus (1466-1536) who advocated Kairos to princes whose rashness or sloth could ruin nations. Note that time’s mastery concerns both quick and no action: at all times it’s a question of identifying the “tempus legitimum” with circumspection and sagacity. In Erasmus’ words this becomes “Festina lente”, or “Make haste slowly”: select the right moment, take your time to consider carefully whether it is indeed the right moment – and only then act, courageously and swiftly. 

Yet the question remains: what does a philosopher, whose task is essentially to think about the good life, mean by action? Why is the part on agency so crucial to Hermsen’s argument?

Hermsen has often argued that the true Kairotic moment carries the promise of change. If all is well, it enables us to act when the time is right. But in her latest essay Hermsen examines the world and concludes (with many others of course) that all is not well. People are restless and people are melancholy. The philosopher shows great awareness for how this affects people individually but here she presents a collective viewpoint: Melancholia of the Unrest is Hermsen’s most political book so far.

There have been the elections in the United States, the Netherlands, France and, still to come, Germany. There’s the Brexit. There’s individualization, globalization, digitalization, climate change, economic and social disruption. There’re the humanitarian disasters whether in the context of migration, terrorist attacks or war and famine. I think we all agree that “times are a-changin”.

Hermsen isn’t satisfied though to ascertain what seems obvious. She presses us towards the poignant question of how we as a society seem to have lost the capacity to deal with things not going the way we expect them to, with disappointment and loss – with change.

And her own answer is disconcertingly simple: it’s neoliberal market thinking. It promotes far reaching levels of technocracy. It puts people under high pressure to perform and rejects ‘non productive’ behaviour, including suspension and nuance of judgment. It breaks down structures that in the past supported a sense of community and collective engagement. In sum, it assesses everything, all the time and exclusively, on its consumption value.

In such a system which additionally holds the individual responsible for virtually everything, qualities such as simple friendliness or a caring attitude crumble because they’re not market relevant – not to speak of more complex values such as solidarity or citizenship. We’ve all been reduced to “hyper consumers”. And who doesn’t know people who feel exhausted, alienated, emotionally and morally empty? These people also see no reason nor have the strength to imagine the future differently: this is yet another version of the TINA-syndrome. So people are scared. And fear further isolates them, heightens their feelings of vulnerability, powerlessness and depression. Neoliberalism in short undermines resilience and the possibility of agency. 

Hermsen’s definition of the societal malaise is eeringly recognizable. Yet she takes her own role as agent seriously and points us towards a clarification. For if melancholy is the problem, it can be the solution too. If we stop navel-gazing into our own confused times, we discover that melancholy is part of the human condition. Even a child can experience melancholy. And often a sense of transience and dissatisfaction is a precondition to creativity. Other times and other cultures too can inspire us to turn melancholy into reflection and creative imagination, and when the time is right, into action.

There is in other words no need to fear melancholy itself. But we must find a more diverse, richer way of dealing with it. More specifically, Hermsen’s aim is to steer away from melancholy’s “pathological” version that pushes us collectively towards depression. It’s the “healthy” version that we need to strengthen. Slowing down doesn’t have the purpose of acting less but better. If we can create space for feelings of confusion and loss, we may learn to acknowledge them to ourselves and express them to others. We may even recognize them in others – and thus create a common ground in which feelings of connection, empathy and solidarity can grow. And if we can put our powers together we may find creative ways to turn change for the better. 

This is of course Kairos. What others call disruptive times, Hermsen sees as society reaching a tipping point. Hence the urgency of her argument. Hence her insistence on stimulating as many conditions as possible so that we are capable of grabbing the lock of hair – and live a better life.

The Babel confusions by Maarten Van Valckenborch (ca. 1600) & Dani Karavan, Haritz-Slit (2014) contrast with ‘Love’ by George Meertens (2010).

We need to do this collectively. For a society to draw power from critical times, it needs to steer away from confusion and fear and find a common language, values and ideals. It needs connecting stories. Perhaps above all it needs time – a different kind of time that enables us to think slowly before we undertake swift action. Hermsen believes that art can bring about Kairotic time. Because the temporary suspension of judgment, needed to appreciate art, can (also) inspire kindness and love and thus break through the neoliberal mechanisms. And so we are back to the power of art in Kairos Castle.

Hermsen also emphasizes the importance of education in order for society not to slither towards depression. Evidently rejecting the current priorities (here too) with utility and efficiency, she strongly advocates the so-called soft values – that will allow young people to build resilience and hold faith in agency in a world full of complexity, diversity and change. A possible third solution, which Hermsen mentions in passing, is travel as opposed to tourism.

I agree with most of Hermsen’s arguments. Of course it’s a good idea to incorporate the values of Kairos and more generally what in English is so beautifully called a liberal education in, for instance, the reforms being planned in the Flemish educational system. There can’t be too much counterweight to the utility thinking that continues to emphasize the direct match between education and the workplace. And forgets the common truth that two third of the present toddlers will have jobs that do not exist yet. We need to invest in the future, of course.

But it’s important to address the present as well – and seize the right moment for the greatest possible impact. The problem is that most people Hermsen wants to help, do not read her books, do not go to exhibitions like Kairos Castle and have already gone through the educational system – to no avail, apparently. So what to do? Should we give them up?

I suggest another ‘channel’ through which to reach a broad segment of the population, namely work. Many of the people who’re past the educational system are scared into feelings of emptiness and powerlessness because the forces of globalization and disruption seem too large for them. Depression is already the leading cause of ill health and disability worldwide, with an increase of more than 18% between 2005 and 2015 according to the World Health Organization. That sounds like the conditions for hasty action to me. But the omnipresent TINA-thinking offers no way out. And the current predominant political rhetoric makes large groups of people susceptible to polarization – which only increases their isolation and alienation.   

Yet there are alternatives. In an earlier post I pointed out that disruption can also employ the current transit phase of society to change things for the better. Organizations that are committed to social innovation focus on human needs and the power of communities. Often there is also a clear sense of urgency about bringing back meaning and dignity into work. More generally an alternative attitude towards work, whether in social or commercial enterprises, is one of the most promising paths towards a better life for many. As I summarized before, this includes trust, flexibility for individual talents, room for growth and agency.

Since I started looking into meaningful work, I’m astounded about how widespread its principles and benefits are known and acknowledged. The critical question then becomes why, despite some very successful examples – and the continuing rise of individual cases of depression and burn-out, there is so little agency. Perhaps Hermsen is right after all: perhaps we first need much, much more investment in the right conditions. I hope with her that Kairos’ time will arrive soon. Go and experience Kairos Castle, your time runs out on June 18!

May this blog’s invitation come from the only work (alas) that contains textile: Kairos Castle is expecting you (Pipilotti Rist, Expecting, 2001).

 

Alternative Creationism (1)

It’s my firm belief that creation is a wonder. Rest assured that I’m not into alternatives as propagated on the other side of the ocean these days. Nor indeed in the customary interpretation of the title’s noun. It’s human creation that interests me, and more specifically in the alternative sense of what its contribution to the good life might be.

This is an existential exploration, as illustrated by Bill Watterson’s delightful character Calvin:

@Bill Watterson

The question of why we do what we do is also the central query of an intriguing book that has just won the Dutch prize of the Best Spiritual Book 2017– and which I hope will receive an English translation. In Restlessness the Ghent based ethicist and philosopher Ignaas Devisch advocates an immoderate life to be understood as a life of desire, passion and creativity. His argument is intriguing for at least two reasons. One is that the author very explicitly challenges the manifold calls to slow down, be it in food, science or living. Second, he does so with an extensive historic reconstruction of the societal presence of restlessness –  which is not recent at all!

Restlessness belongs fundamentally to modernity.

Aware that this is an unfamiliar statement, Devisch spends most of his book elaborating it. This leaves a mere ten percent of the book explicitly devoted to the praise of the immoderate life, as we’ll see later. But first the historian in me delights in stressing the unusualness of the argument, even more so because Devisch transcends the often stark division of the so-called Dark Ages and Modern Times on the grounds that the late Middle Ages prepared that modernity in fundamental ways – including the arrival of restlessness.

Of course it’s tricky to pinpoint the birth year of a concept such as restlessness, but if one year deserves the ‘honour’, it must be 1348. With the outbreak of the Black Death a torrent of angst ran over Europe and undermined the Christian ideals of heavenly awards for the toils of this earthly life. If death can be so horrible and sudden, better make the best of this life – now. This is the beginning of the end for the medieval worldview. And the beginning of the modern project that, from the start, included the desire to live here and now. How topical that sounds!

Devisch gives the 17th-century French philosopher, theologian and mathematician Blaise Pascal a central role in his exposé. Probably his most famous expression is that “man cannot sit in a quiet room alone”. This is the boredom Calvin refers to. But Pascal’s interpretation is actually much more bleak. Pascal understood the modern race against time as a secularized version of our inability to deal with the inescapable, death. In the expression “get the most out of life while you can”, we would stress the first part, probably even leave the second unmentioned. For Pascal the escapist movement away from death was essential and essentially modern. A central theme in his Pensées (published after his death in 1669) is divertissement: modern man diverts himself – in order not to face the terrible reality of life.

Nothing is so insufferable to man as to be completely at rest, without passions, without business, without diversion, without study. He then feels his nothingness, his forlornness, his insufficiency, his dependence, his weakness, his emptiness. There will immediately arise from the depth of his heart weariness, gloom, sadness, fretfulness, vexation, despair.

This is indeed not a very attractive position. No wonder that man wants to stay busy. Pascal stresses the existential objective of diversion. Devisch rather emphasizes that almost inadvertently that diversion gave rise to human agency. And both make the point that modernity is thus equal to movement and freedom.

With the religious frame of the afterlife shattered, and all the normative structures that came with it, emptiness arises – which can, Pascal would say must, be filled again. At a collective level, this explains why progress is so central to modernity, although Devisch hardly elaborates on this (I’ll turn to this in the next installment of this blog). At an individual level, modern man (and of course I always mean “woman” as well) is free to do what he wants – to be whom he wants to be. This is why modern man is essentially individualistic: there is no more fixed identity, it’s up to him to make something of his life. Modern man has become an agent.

And with the agency comes the restlessness: there’re choices to be made, not once but time and again. There’re always opportunities to better oneself, to move up in the world. There’s the drive to be or more accurately to become someone. Living in the secular modern world is a permanent undertaking, a project. Put like that, it’s also clear the work is never done. There’s no point where I can say: I’ve reached my destiny, I’m me now.

This lightbox was a Christmas present. I hadn’t yet read Devisch’s book but the question I composed is appropriately modern and thus restless.

With some exaggeration, Calvin’s thoughts shown earlier summarize one of Pascal’s key arguments: boredom originates from the emptiness of modern life – and both are expelled with creation. Or again, modern humans craft themselves. And as any craftsperson knows, perfection is never reached. Perhaps one is content with the outcome for a little while, but even while planning a new (stage in the) project it’s clear that the skills need further tuning to do better. There’s no upper limit, it’s never (good) enough. And so one becomes restless – again.

If, in short, restlessness is so very much part of what it means to be a modern human being, there’s no escaping it. Devisch actually argues that the question is put wrongly. In essence he challenges the negative connotations of restlessness: since when is a life in balance desirable? Pascal would say: do you actually want to spend your life alone in a quiet room? Or in Calvin’s words: do you really want to be bored? Of course not. We like activities and interaction, we search for things to look forward to and to strife for. We like to be busy and make progress.

As restlessness has been with us for over six centuries, it’ll probably last (at least) our lifetime. Devisch advises to stop fighting what you cannot change. Better still, recognize restlessness for what it really is, namely the crucial factor for an interesting and creative life. In management books this would be called “positive stress”. What would our lives be if we stopped moving? If we had no further desire to better things and or ourselves? So the argument finally turns positive: give in to your desire to get out of the room, go and do things, live life to the full. In brief, Devisch advocates the immoderate life:

Embrace your restlessness!

With the full story of its centrality to modern life, we now understand restlessness is positive energy that is available to us. The real question then becomes: what will we do with it? Devisch concludes with the adagium of a passionate life: “engage your restlessness for things that make life meaningful, whatever that may mean”.

Here we reach the weakness of the book. It’s obvious that Devisch doesn’t want to dictate how we should live. That indeed would go against his own argument of modern freedom and the virtually endless choices that entails. Yet difficult questions remain. Such as: how free are we really? Don’t many people feel, not mobile as supposedly inherent in modernity, but its very opposite, namely stuck? And how many of us experience their life as “meaningful”? Do many not continue to suffer from the emptiness of modern life Pascal was obsessed with? How many can say that they fight off Calvin’s boredom with a good life? How many feel in existential control over their lives’ ‘project’, rather than lost? Devisch admits that restlessness does become a problem (think: time pressure, loss of control, negative stress) when people don’t experience the meaning of their actions anymore. His suggestion is to find “ways to stand less restlessly ‘in the mobility’.” But what if you don’t know how to do that?

Devisch has chosen to concentrate on the individual level. And that’s of course legitimate. As historian I’m delighted with his rephrasing of “nothing new under the sun” that brings a much needed sense of nuance and relativity into the current debate. The strength of his book is that it opens an alternative perspective for each of us: we understand better why we, as individuals, are restless – and how that can be a good thing. But, alas, and as most of us experience at least sometimes, it often isn’t.

My own argument for alternative creationism has two components. In my next post I will explore the collective level which Devisch hardly addresses. My hunch is that problematic restlessness has less to do with a misperception of our individual drive than with the collective implications of the modern project. More specifically, the sense of being lost and stuck is often connected with the conditions of work. Devisch points a few times to the continuing need critically to evaluate the consequences of competition and time pressure on the labour market. He also refers to the current discussion about “workable work”, including the difficult realization of “meaningful” work, but he doesn’t elaborate. I aim to show that alternative perspectives can also re-insert meaningfulness in work. But first I unashamedly advocate craftsmanship as an individual choice to craft the good life.

‘Making’ is an undervalued source of wonder and joy. I maintain it’s also a meaningful way “to stand more firmly in the mobility of modern life”. It requires sitting (or standing) in a quiet room alone and to engage one’s energy towards something meaningful. You’re in control over what you decide to make – and the range of possibilities is virtually endless. Yet you’re also happy to be challenged and to be lost in the flow for that’s part of the fun. This is creationism because of its focus on creating. It’s alternative in the sense that that creating is considered to be an end in itself. Although there usually is a ‘creation’, a ‘product’ if you want, the process of getting there is not (essentially) instrumental. And that’s why the combination contributes to the good life.

Craftsmanship is about energy. It’s about connecting mind and body, so that you can grow towards a more integrated human being. It’s about exploring your imaginations and intuitions and searching for corresponding forms of self-expression. The experience itself creates a space in which you can discover meaning, as Calvin has put it. That focused space enables living in the present. And it is filled with kairos that allows us to remain in Pascal’s room.

Yet the skills that are thus developed, such as practicing patience, engagement and perseverance, exercising autonomy, judgement and agency, achieving a level of expertise or mastery, also craft a personality that stands more firmly outside that room – about which of course there is much more to be said, and that’s a promise.

 

January Blues

Blue Monday has come and gone, yet the January Blues will still be with us for another ten days or indeed longer. Wondering what to do about this, it struck me that each component of that set phrase carries a ‘two-faced’ meaning (at least).

Take January, derived from Janus, the Roman god of beginnings, gates, transition, time, doorways, passages and endings. The traditional portrayal is a man with literally two faces: he sees both past and future. Janus is thus about time – and how we deal with it. In January we seem to hang somewhere in between. The parties are over, there are no big festivities in sight and Spring (light!) seems a long long way away. Interestingly, the gates of the Janus Temple in Rome were closed only during peacetime, which was very rare: the common practice was open doors meaning war and conflict. We have not had a peaceful year, yet Janus has closed it. And opened another, must we expect (more) conflict? Or put differently, ‘something’ has ended, do we trust it will be followed by a new beginning? And what might that entail?

Janus flask, 1st century AD (The J. Paul Getty Museum).
An interesting modern Janus. I’m not sure though what the hole might signify.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a similar vein, the other component of the phrase, blue is equally ambiguous. As most of us, the French historian Pastoureau and the French-American artist Bourgeois associate the colour with rest and peace. Yet blue clearly also evokes melancholia and dissatisfaction with the way things – we – are. How can it ‘work’ both ways?

In On Being Blue the American philosopher and writer William Gass defines blue as ‘the color of the interior life’. And we all know that interior life isn’t always as restful as it could be. Gass’ inquiry itself is not very calm. I must admit the booklet rather unnerved me as I didn’t get a grip on what it was trying to say or do. I started reading it a number of time – and put it away in frustration. Learning a little more about Gass himself helped. He’s usually associated with American Postmodernism and he conducts experiments at the level of a sentence itself: he’s for instance much more interested in the sound than in the meaning of the words. And because he finds readers overall too hung up on content his euphonic style aims to free them from the linear conventions of narrative. No wonder I was flabbergasted! It’s nice of Gass though to define this different way of experiencing the beauty of language (in his collection of essays A Temple of Texts) in textile terms:

The act of reading [is the act] of looping the loop, of continually returning to an earlier group of words, behaving like Penelope by moving our mind back and forth, forth and back, reweaving what’s unwoven, undoing what’s done.

In fact the colour is almost a pretext for the listomaniac Gass who demonstrates, repeatedly, how a small word of four letters can delight us with so many shades, tones, flavours, meanings, connotations and expressions. On Being Blue is above all a inquiring reflection on language – and the melancholia it provokes. 

Melancholia is also very much present in Bluets by the American writer Maggie Nelson. Here again is a little booklet that testifies to the love of blue and combines it with the loss of love and (bodily but also mental) health. Again it does not associate blue with being restful or at peace. Nelson also seems to have something with lists and challenging ‘ordinary’ narrative: her ‘story’ is made up out of numbered paragraphs, the function of which is not immediately obvious. And she too seems to be weaving: personal feelings, experiences, anecdotes and thoughts add up to a quest into obsession and the (im)possibility of human connection.

Both Gass and Nelson offer wonderful lists of expressions in English that contain the word blue. And they are many, certainly compared to Dutch – are we to think of Dutch speakers as less interested in ‘the interior life’? To leave something blue blue (iets blauw blauw laten) for instance means to leave something for what it is, obviously not a good start for a quest of any kind. And to run a little blue (een blauwtje lopen) is to be rejected in love – a failure in connection that most likely will cause the blues. There is only one common expression that surprisingly has a totally different meaning in either language: in Dutch a ‘blue Monday’ stands for ‘a short time’. What’s even more intriguing is that blauw used to have the figurative meaning of ‘insignificant, null, of little value’. Among a number of assumptions about this etymology, my preferred one is the so-called wool-colouring hypothetis.

Display of indigo materials in the Museum of Industry, Labour and Textile (MIAT) in Ghent.

In the textile regions of the Low Countries the wool dyers were a powerful guild. And thus introduced their interpretation of dying with indigo into the Dutch language. The laborious indigo process takes various stages. First the wool is soaked into a yellow looking dye. It’s only when the wool is hung up to dry and thus exposed to the oxygen in the air that the colour turns blue. Traditionally the soaking was done on Saturdays, the drying on Mondays. On a blue Monday then the wool dyers couldn’t work: the day was thus ‘of no significance’. Or rest – that isn’t valued.

Summarizing where all of this has got us, both January and blue carry a multitude of meanings and associations which together form an altogether ambivalent mixture. Perhaps that in itself is the current attraction of the phrase: we ourselves feel ambivalent. Especially in a month that is still defined by endings, we’re uncertain and reluctant to contribute to the creation of new beginnings. And it seems we’re not very good at dealing with uncertainty and risk. 

Yet already in 1986 (1992) Ulrich Beck defined the Risk Society as a new stage of modernization in a way that matches our experiences: society’s characteristics, its power structures, its knowledge and authority norms, its definition of identity have changed – are changing. What is distinct about this stage of modernity is that the risks are the product of the modernization process itself, that is, they are man-induced. According to Beck risk society is thus characterized by an absence, namely the impossibility of attributing the hazards externally. That means that (most of the) risks we’re facing depend on human decisions and are thus politically reflexive. The awareness of the ecological problems for instance is illustrated by the now common concepts of sustainability and the precautionary principle.

It seems that Beck mainly wanted to warn against risk management as an exercise in bureaucratic rationality or technocracy, including the contempt for the public perception of risk. This is a powerful plea against both TINA (There Is No Alternative) and downplaying the anxieties of ‘ordinary’ people who, because modern risk is spread unevenly, have reason to fear it. This is written more than thirty years ago! But we don’t appear to have done much with Beck’s analysis. 

And it begs the question what is to be done now. If it were up to me I would argue for more reflexivity, for more people involved in that reflexive exercise and thus being equipped to partake. In Flanders the reform of secondary schooling is very hot right now but I’m not sure it includes the tools we’re talking about here. I fear we forget too often that ‘school’ is derived from the Greek σχολή (scholē), originally meaning ‘leisure’. And surely leisure must be blue according to the common association of the word: it requires a certain peace at the level of the interior life, so that being open to new experiences and learning new things become possible (again).

Reflexivity requires time and space. It requires the revaluation of rest. And it requires resilience, in the first place to be able to stand in ‘the heat’ of uncertainty, to feel and live it fully – before taking action of any kind. Of course I believe that ‘making’ in the earlier named sense of aspiring craftsmanship, flow and kairos can induce a good climate for ‘enlightened’ reflection. 

To stay within the theme: blue weaving in what is actually a knitting pattern
& linear felt lines – to return to a more restful narrative?

 

 

 

 

 

Here I would like to suggest another path which, of course, many others have favoured far more eloquently, including the English writer Jeanette Winterson: turn to beauty! This is for once no advice to do something but to be. Accept that we live at a critical conjuncture, don’t resist it but wallow in it so to speak. We don’t need more instant opinions or immediate debates. We need space to be and wonder, stillness to reflect and define better the quest of the good life. When we are touched by beauty, we are ‘null’ and ‘insignificant’ in terms of of economic utility – and that’s the point. Let’s create more space outside productivity and consumerism and thus bolster our sometimes fragile human nature. Think of it as a temporary respite that allows restocking on energy. In Winterson’s words:

Art is my rod and staff, my resting place and shield,

and not mine only, for art leaves nobody out.

Put differently, art can sooth us and thus strengthen our resilience – which we’ll need when it does become time to act. I’m very much looking forward to Kairos Castle at Gaasbeek near Brussels: conceptualized by the Dutch philosopher Joke Hermsen I expect the exhibition to refer to her argument for restful space, in order e.g. by art to become spirited again. But the exhibition opens only in Spring. I also know visiting a concert or an exhibition isn’t always possible and it generally involves doing a number of things. So what to do about our January Blues?

Perhaps it doesn’t always need to be arduous. We are talking about a temporary shield after all. It can take different shapes at different times, as long as it replenishes us in terms of wondering inquiry and energy. Wouldn’t simply listening to or looking at beauty do the trick right now?
Years ago I experienced great flow compiling a handmade booklet with (to me) beautiful blue images. Nobody ever saw it.

The ambivalence of being & wanting blue.
Composing the collages was fun
yet the eye has remained very blue indeed.

 

 

 

 

But low and behold, our ‘modern’ times have created not only man-induced risks but also marvelous ways of summoning sources of inspiration and joy – and the ability to share them. I happily put you on your way with my textile discography and three citations from my Pinterest board Feeling Blue.

Don’t leave the January Blues (here by Natalie 
Foss) blue blue, go for an inspiring & spirited quest for
beauty & don’t forget to wrap yourself kindly.

 

A Resolution to Your Future Self

The holiday season is again upon us. I’m always delighted when I come across textile interpretations of all the lovely feelings we want to spread around this time of the year. For instance, how wonderful is it to save a Christmas tree and compose one instead with wool bobbins! This one stands in the window of a hairdresser’s in my lovely city of Ghent.

What a delight to come across such creativity, simply passing in an unassuming street.
Here, I presume, the hairdresser who came up with this great idea.
And he has an eye for enhancing details!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet despite all the messages of peace and harmony, the holiday season is usually a rather stressful period for most of us. One unmistakable factor causing the stress is finding the right present for the ones we love. The present we’re expected to come up with, is preferably something unusual and clever, entirely suitable for and thus desirable to the person it’s aimed at. The result is almost unlimited consumerism, last Sunday was the penultimate shopping day in Belgium since records began!

The question is: do we really need more stuff? Will that make the New Year happy? Aren’t we supposed to be making resolutions about (among others) sustainability and becoming more aware of the environment? To be more content with what we (already) have and more importantly, with who we are? I’m certainly not the first to note that objects don’t satisfy for long. But putting a sustainability resolution in a box with a bow won’t do of course. So how to get out of this predicament?

I have a simple suggestion. And of course it involves fabrics 😉 but I’m sure you can come up with all sorts of other applications. What I’m suggesting is that we don’t so much give things as time. Our time.

How much stronger can a message of affection be when you’ve thought of something to make, wondered about what materials you need, where to find them and how to apply them with what techniques, and then, with a lot of attention, devotion and patience, turn your mind’s image into realization? With a bit of luck both you and the receiver experience genuine satisfaction: (s)he gets a unique present which communicates love and focal attention, in the creative process you feel the earlier mentioned energizing flow.

I know. The process of the making preferably ends in a present – which is of course still ‘stuff’. I don’t really have a solution for this: as any resolution, time does not fit easily into a box. But can we agree that it’s not the product that is important but its symbolic value? That would have the additional benefit that its form hardly matters: the idea is to spread the well-intentional sentiments of the season and be broadminded enough to support them in all shapes and sizes. But of course the holiday season is already here. Even if you can overcome the first objection, there is the now more pressing one that you don’t have the time anymore to make those handmade lovelies.

As this is the season of compassion and generosity, be merciful towards yourself too. And be kind towards your future self! There is indeed no point to get all worked up and let yourself be defeated by the sheer impossibility of the task. What you can do now, is to make an unusual and clever resolution:

I will explore my creativity this coming year. And I will do so in a way that I will look forward to the next holiday season – for I’ll have all my crafty presents ready long before the first Jingle Bells! 

 

The benefit of making the resolution now is double. First this is together with the Summer probably the period of the year that you have more time than ordinary to be curious and explore, in terms of subject, materials and or techniques. Be nice to yourself and offer yourself that time and space to experiment, to see what comes out of your creative process, and wonder whom you will delight with the result next time you find an occasion to celebrate (and inventing those occasions is permitted!).

Second the season offers plentiful inspiration. It provides a whole series of themes, figures and settings that invite creative interpretation. I’m happy to share some of my earlier explorations. But remember: they’re simply meant to inspire, nót to re-create the stress that you’ll never find the time to make so many presents at once. I didn’t either: I made them slowly, patiently, throughout a great many years. 

There is these days a curious, rather tiring discussion in Belgium about whether a nativity set is neutral enough to decorate a public space. I think the discussion ridiculous. It heightens both anxiety and hostility when we should be reflecting harder and better on what’s happening in our world. Why not be inspired by the spirit of the season and understand that to include mildness and generosity?

Fortunately my nativities were never meant for public display. And I like nativity sets: because we all know the story of Christmas, it almost doesn’t matter which components you include, play down or highlight. It is in other words a perfect theme for your very own interpretation.  

My five variations on the theme each 
include felt & vintage finds.
Note the subdued sheep above,
which here have turned very playful!

 

 

 

 

This is my personal favourite: small felt figures, each containing a loadstone which on a vintage platter made magnetic enables movement. Here the arrival of the Wise Men from the East with their precious gifts.

 

Another option is to select one component of the nativity set and explore the various ways in which you can convey all the lovely feelings you want to spread around. The messagers from above seem a good option: surely there are no people who object to angels?

Angels can for instance be reflective or exuberant. Left they’re
entirely made of felt, above & right, it’s a humble wine cork 
which supports their crochet outfit & wings.

 

You could also do stars or candles or Christmas trees. Or take the most humble part of the nativity which in itself suggests softness, warmth and cuddliness: perhaps sheep transmit the seasonal aspirations best? 

First there were two,
then they multiplied in numbers & in colours,
finally to make a very merry flock indeed!

 

Bet anyone’s ears will feel warmer with these merry sheep coming along?

And in case you like more ‘useful’ gifts, why not transfer your theme to objects that equally add to the glow of the season?

 

 

 

gen.er.ous adj. 1: free in giving or sharing

2: noble syn open-handed

It’s not fortuituous that two of the central figures of my favourite nativity set, Mary & Balthazar,
have their arms wide open.

In giving or sharing our time, we practice not only our craft but also our generosity. And being open-handed can lead to an open heart and mind. Which are qualities we very much need in these times.

 

I wish you this season much softness, warmth, mildness, and an open mind and heart for all that life has on offer for you in 2017. And good luck with the resolutions to your future self! 

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!

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
PrideAndPrejudice_COV_FnCrx.indd
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.

boom bis
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. 

teder 1

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

teder 8
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?

teder 1IMG_9585

Textile Summer

Summer is about to begin.

For most of us, it’s a time to stop the ridiculous pace of working life, to do all the things we’ve been delaying, to relax & feed the repleted energy levels, to read & reflect, to be creative, to spend time with loved ones, to expand our horizon by visiting places.

Strange though it may sound, now is also the time to think about how we can hold on to the glorious feelings of the coming period. How do we stretch the benefits of Summer into the everyday routines, which will take hold of us far too fast afterwards?

One way of doing this is to make your vacation visible in your everyday life. I mean that literally: well-chosen souvenirs enable you not only to cherish those lovely memories but also to stretch them into the present, which may be drearier than you had hoped for.

I know a lot of people who have given up on finding nice souvenirs during their travels. And it’s true: unless you have the time to go off the beaten tourist track, it’s hard to find anything original – with the power to bring a smile to your face long after the benefits of the holiday have worn out. But because it serves a noble cause, you may want to try once more to find a querky object, an interesting trinket, something unusual which is fun or beautiful, or both.

IMG_0360For some time now I attempt to bring back from my holidays something textile. I came upon this beautiful wall decoration in Izmir, Turkey, where I spent a lovely holiday with a friend in between handing in and defending my PhD. Because she wanted a carpet for her new home, we spent ages in the many tapistery shops of the city. In a slightly dilapidated stately house filled to the brim, she found her carpet and I the wall decoration. The shop owner, who went to great lengths to induce Western tourists to choosing their souvenirs in his shop, watched us carefully as we put different carpets and cushions together. Over a shared cup of mint tea he tried to understand how his styling of colours and fabrics was so different from ours. Most of it is intuitive and I’m not sure I could (or can) express it explicitly but he must have thought our efforts worthwile for to our newly acquired treasures he added the saddlebagIMG_0365 shown below for free. It matches well with a carpet I already had at home (and of which sadly I don’t know the origins). Later I added to the red colour scheme the embroided children’s boots & pantofles I found in Beijing.

 

China is full of textile wonders of course. I saw endless numbers of beautiful silk blouses and scarfs. The one that came back with me, delights me every time I wear it, not only because of the beautiful memories of that memorable trip and the delicious softness of the fabric. The ginkgo theme also resounds with the quality label I established under the name Ginkgo when I worked in an academic publishing house. textile souvenirs

The Egyptian camel and the fabric fish from Lisbon (with a different pattern on the other side) are not so sophisticated but they too make me smile when I walk past them in my home.

 

Iceland is another source of delight for textile lovers. The
government of Reykjavik has banned the retail shops you can find in any city to a mall, thus creating in the historic centre opportunities for local, independent designers. Not surprisingly wool is omnipresent, in any application you can think of. The alternative christmas decoration in dark blue felt has a bright blue festive pattern. The mittens are felted and embroided upon elastic fabric, so they fit all. 

Ijsland

The colour palette isn’t exactly textile but I couldn’t resist: the collection of about a hundred photographs reminds me of the beauty of the island ànd offers inspiration for interesting alternative colour schemes.

But what if you really can’t find any fabric worth taking home? Now there’s a challenge: find something that you can turn into textile! Once you set your mind to it, it’s surprising how many objects lend themselves to this purpose. It’s a matter of ‘turning on your textile eye’ and tap into the inspiration that surrounds you.

vogeltjesOn Crete I found an adorable little wooden bird which would do nicely for my sister’s bird collection. But before I gave it to her, I made its soft caressible twin. I’m already curious to find out what your and my textile eyes will discover this Summer.

vogeltjes2

 

Clothes on Display

It happened naturally, almost without me noticing it.

Clothes are everywhere in my apartment. The photographs in a previous post already suggested a serious collection of fashion. And books and magazines related to textiles in the widest sense of the word are also present in significant numbers. But those are subjects for later posts. For now I want to suggest an alternative praxis which may find its way into your own home. With little effort, I promise!

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A friendly gatekeeper greets anyone who climbs the stairs.

 

To adapt a well-known expression to our current needs, all’s well that begins well.

So visitors to my home are ‘warned’ even before they enter:

 

This is the crux of the matter: I think (some) clothes are too beautiful to be hidden away in closets. So I let them out, literally, to do their thing – which is to give us joy, because of the happy amalgamation of colour, shape and style.

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A vintage kimono combined with the dress my godmother wore to my parents’ wedding attune beautifully with the oriental green house I painted in the upstairs’ corridor.

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Another great thing about decorating with clothes is that you can update your interior when and as often as takes your fancy, without having to think about new paints or wallwapers, let alone about finding time to do the decorating. Changing the jacket on a manekin (a word of Dutch origin by the way) doesn’t take valuable time away from, for instance, adapting that lovely dress you found for no money in a secondhand shop to your own measures and tastes. Speaking of which, since June 1 ecocheques can be used in Belgium to pay for secondhand clothes – which is a great way to promote the sharing economy.

Even the bathroom doesn't escape.
Even the bathroom doesn’t escape.

 With its focus on sustainability and social responsibility experts say this alternative has staying power, which I for one hope to be true. Without getting too highbrow about it, when we all contribute, we make it happen. So why not give it a try?Decorating with clothes is simple. It doesn’t require much time or effort. It adds personality to your home.

And it can be applied anywhere:

 

William Morris (1834-1896) already understood:

Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful,      or believe to be beautiful.

This is the Beginning

Welcome to this blog where I want to share my enthousiasm about all things textured with you.

For this is indeed about ‘us’, with me being excited finally to get started with this blog, and with you having found me and hopefully sharing my excitement about beautiful textile things.

To get started properly, I want to share with you this felt time capsule.

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Time captured in felt, to make time more ‘felt’.

I made it during last New Year’s Eve, to mark what was an extraordinary moment in time – actually to capture time, to try & make it more mine.

The process is labourious but that was the point 😉

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The shape takes some time to emerge.

Starting from an oversized shape (allowing for the shrinkage during the felting process) covered in bubble wrap, adding lots of merino wool and some scraps of red textile, the only other ingredients are hot water, soap & lots of patience.

 

This gave me a lot of time to think about myself, about the coming year & what it might bring to me. What I would to bring to it.

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Fabrics are omnipresent in my living room.

More creativity, I decided. And finding a way to share that with the world. With you.

In this blog fabrics, in all their diverse shapes & forms, have centre stage. And they are alive: they tell a story.

It’s those stories I want to tell. Will you join me?