You know, writing Women’s Work has had some surprising outcomes. One of the most unexpected things was the emergence of my textile art practice. My relationship with textiles isn’t new, however; my mom can attest that I’ve been interested in fashion and sewing since I was a kid. I used to carry around a sketchbook and draw elaborate gowns all the time. I probably filled two or three books with ridiculous and impractical dresses.
Then in high school, I had a knitting phase. I dragged my yarn with me to class and would click-clack the needles during lessons, driving my teachers mad. I was only ever good at making straight lines, but that’s okay because that coincided with my scarf phase. That’s synergy.
During my senior year of high school, my mom bought me a sewing machine, but by that point, I was interested in other things and didn’t put much effort into it. Also, using a sewing machine for the first time felt scary! It feels like you’ll push the peddle too hard and get sucked up under the needle (this hasn’t happened yet).
I didn’t truly give sewing a try until after I had my son. I’d knitted him a blanket while I was pregnant (all straight lines, of course) and I had my eye on some tutorials for quilts, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around the logistics of fitting the pieces together. Instead, I made him some cute little baby clothes. This was great for building my confidence in using the machine.
While writing Women’s Work, I encountered stories of artists like Maria Martinez and Faith Ringgold, who learned their skills from women in their families. And there were others whose practices helped them connect with lost loved ones, such as Tschabalala Self and Otobong Nkanga, whose mothers both did textile work. Then women like Miriam Schapiro and Billie Zangewa made me think about domesticity and what it means to juggle multiple roles: wife, mother, artist.
I began to reflect on the women in my own family—particularly my grandmother and great-grandmother who made big, beautiful quilts—and I felt pulled to tap into this tradition within my family history. I wanted to connect to them, but I also wanted to connect to the women I was writing about in a tangible and experiential way. Through this process, I gained insight into the joys and frustrations that come with textile work. I sat at my dining table, sometimes while my son ate his dinner next to me, with heaps of fabric and thread strewn across our kitchen. I chased after elusive ideas and I stumbled upon happy discoveries. I cried when one of my quilts ripped in the wash, and I smiled to see my husband and son snuggle inside a finished blanket. It developed into personal exploration and was an unexpected gift that came from writing the book. It had also—somehow without me noticing—developed into an art practice.
In the spring, I was invited by Legacy Russell to exhibit my work in The New Bend, a show she curated for Hauser & Wirth in New York that would soon be traveling to LA and Somerset. The show features artists whose work is in dialogue with the history of the Gee’s Bend quilters (they’re also in my book). I was very surprised and honoured by this invitation, and I took that moment to reflect on what I was doing with my emerging textile practice.
For a while, I ruminated on ideas for what to contribute to the show, and I started (and abandoned) several pieces. In the end, I focused on the concept of unseen labour. So much work goes into the making of a quilt and I wanted to honour that work which sometimes goes undervalued, but I was also thinking about other forms of unseen labour; the people who do jobs that make our lives convenient, but that we don’t always see or notice. For me, that concept can be embodied in the many seams that get tucked inside the layers of the quilt and are never seen again after it’s complete. Those seams represent hours of cutting and sewing, and in my work Seeing (above), I put the seams on display by facing them towards the front of the work. There are no elaborate patterns or colours—just lines to focus the viewer’s attention on that labour.
In another work, I am not a machine (above), I used linen and silk in the same colour to create a subtle textural contrast that hopefully draws the viewer’s eye around the work. My aim was to encourage close examination. I got so frustrated while trying to make the squares line up in this piece because of the different materials. I realised that I was frustrated because I was chasing perfection when I’m only human. I kept repeating “I am not a machine” to reign myself in and eventually decided it was a fitting name for the work. I also like it because there’s something in the pattern of the silk squares that reminds me of the punch cards used in some old machinery.
Now, The New Bend show opens on 27 October in LA, and I’m excited to share my work. This is a very new experience for me and I feel all of the emotions around the newness that one might expect. Aside from that, I’m pursuing concepts in my current work that I’m very excited about, including some ideas I’ve been chasing for a long time that I didn’t go into in this text. I’m just figuring this thing out one day at a time.
Y’all be good.