archival bonding and colliding

As a researcher working through trans histories and pasts, as well as presents/presence and belonging, I am faced with a critical and necessary task: to not apply the concept of transgender to the lives of (gender-shifting) individuals whose narratives, writings, photos and other smudges on the historical record, predate the term itself. This is one of the messy realities of observing/analyzing the past and its affective collisions through a current and rapidly-evolving transgender presence.

When my heart races and I don’t notice it immediately, when my reactions to pieces/fractions/shreds of a queer or trans archive are dispersed across my body, is it because a presence in the past has found its way across an ocean of time to find me, or is it the complete opposite? Is it because part of me gets tired of wishing I had a temporal connection to someone of an earlier time? Michelle Caswell et al. ask, “how can we think about the impact of community archives on members of communities that have been marginalized by mainstream archives” (2016: 57)? Last night while browsing the Digital Transgender Archive (DTA), I answered this question with my body.

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Alison Laing Looks Onto Lake. 1963. Photo: Unknown. https://www.digitaltransgenderarchive.net/files/0v838057g

First, my strong connection to water. Second, an elder. Third, togetherness. My response reads this glimpse into history as one of visibility, authenticity, fluidity. I could have it all wrong. Still, I am touched. I want to know more about her. I search for anything on Google and discover the work she has done as an educator for trans individuals. I form a bond with another through an artifact.

Caswell et al. put forth the idea of representational belonging: “the ways in which community archives give those left out of mainstream repositories the power and authority to establish and enact their presence in archives in complex, meaningful, and substantive ways” (74).

I feel it.

Reference

Caswell, Michelle., Marika Cifor and Mario H. Ramirez. 2016. “To Suddenly Discover Yourself Existing’: Uncovering the Impact of Community Archives,” In The American Archivist, 79 (1): 56-81. DOI: 10.17723/0360-9081.79.1.56.

poking the (academic) bear

As a research project, Saltwater Stories is about autoethnography; it is about interrogating the self in order to generate theories and insights about the social and the cultural more broadly speaking.

I’ve worked at least partially autoethnographically since about 2012, but this is the first time that I’ve used autoethnography to frame a large-scale research project. The process has been both liberating and intimidating. At some points I have torn my hair out. At others, I have felt intensely vulnerable and exposed. Sometimes I have wondered what on earth I was trying to accomplish and why I thought this was a good idea in the first place. But then at other points, this project has felt more ‘right’ than any other major project before it.

What’s helped, along the way, has been the establishment of the MUN Autoethnography Reading and Research Group. Last spring, the Department of Gender Studies invited performative autoethnographer Tami Spry to St. John’s and my colleague Natalie Beausoleil and I got to talking about approaches to research. Natalie, a sociologist of health, works with arts-based research methods. I’d been moving away from standard academic writing, feeling my critical and creative instincts stifled by traditional forms and approaches. And so we contacted others around the university and the MUN Autoethnography Reading and Research Group was born.

Our group has grown over the past year to include well over twenty students and faculty members from across the university: Community Health and Gender Studies, of course, but also Education, Nursing, Folklore, Sociology, Engineering, and Human Kinetics. We meet ever three to four weeks or so to discuss autoethnography readings on a range of topics. Some come to every session; others can barely find time to be there. But I think it’s safe to say that we’ve created a vital space for thinking about and working with autoethnography at Memorial University.

A couple of weeks ago, we held our first public event. “Poking the (Academic) Bear: Experiments with Autoethnography” was an opportunity to share our work in progress with each other, and with the public.

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The parameters were simple: any autoethnographic work in progress, in any form, in any style, with a time limit of seven minutes per presenter.

We booked the MMaP Gallery on MUN’s campus, and went for it.

And what a night it ended up being! We had 11 participants, a full house, and presentations that included essays, poetry, 1980s pop music, video, and more. There was – and still is – so much to chew on, so much to think through, so much to consider.

Below, thanks to photos taken by Lesley Butler and live tweets by both Lesley and Daze Jefferies, you can catch a glimpse of the event in action.

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Cecile Badenhorst from MUN’s Faculty of Education on words that keep escaping…

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Me – on protest weather on Good Friday. (photo by Lesley Butler)

Conclusion: will we do this again? Yes! Most definitely!

Thanks to all presenters for sharing bits of themselves and their research.

 

 

collecting: haptic ecologies of kin and kind

2000-2006. As rural children, my peers and I come face to face with all material considered useless and ready to be disposed of, into the ocean: black garbage bags, plastic bottles, oil, old car parts, onion sacks containing corpses of unwanted kittens.

While some of these sink to the bottom of the harbour and stay there, potentially serving as reminders for the times we used to have or possible regrets (all those poor kittens), others float on the surface and are carried away in sweeping movements by the Notre Dame Bay. In good weather, she sends them back mellifluently, maybe hoping we will gather them again and find better ways of dealing with our disposals.

The next year we enter junior high where we have our first critical look at environmental studies. We are taught to get out into nature and take care of our bodies because endorphins make us feel better. We are taught to play our part in keeping our towns clean, and a summer project for students encourages us to pick up litter from ditches. Because we live in the middle of nowhere, our only way to get around is by walking or riding our bikes. Feel good, do good. We get to cash in all the bottles we collect. After all, the best way to engage adolescents in critical environmentalist praxis is through a capitalist promise, no?

Still, after all this learning and all these dollars later, I have been no stranger to spitting out my gum in public or leaving trash behind in places I know I shouldn’t.

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Double exposure from my Holga 135bc. September 2011. Photo: Daze Jefferies.

In his article examining Indigenous perceptions of relationships between humans and nature, Enrique Salmón (2000) asks us to think about the concept of kincentric ecology and to interrogate its unfolding in traditional and vernacular terms and practices.

Do we care enough about our emerging kin? Those life-forms who are coming, and will come, into being as our corporeal holdings rot and take on new forms. In this moment, most of us only think we won’t be returning to the earth in any way. We aren’t thinking about the ways we make, weather, and are in this world together (Neimanis and Walker 2014).

Conjointly, how might we change our everyday actions to better reflect the philosophy that we inhabit the earth with many others (non-human and more-than-human), that we are “sharing breath with our relatives” (Salmón 2000: 1328)?

Putting together the work of Indigenous thought, ecofeminisms, posthumanisms, and art/science/theory collaborations brings to light the cogent need to re/think our haptic relations to kin, what Larissa Lai might call “shreds of the flesh of [our] own kind” (2002: 52). This imagery of and turn to touch/ing can put us face to face with the way we produce sustainable narrative-making with the environment. It is not enough to say that life-forms are made of the same quantum parts. We need to be aware of our intra-active touching with all other lives, recognizing that when we harm them, we harm ourselves. We play a game of Double This, Double That.

In Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene, Donna Haraway imagines an “elsewhere and an elsewhen that was, still is, and might yet be: the Chthulucene” (2016: 31). While some may think that her theorizing comes from an unexpected place (the spider Pimoa cthulhu), its rootedness in nature follows a tradition of particular Indigenous pedagogies (Wildcat 2009; Pierotti 2011; Simpson 2014). Because the spider has been named by humans, yet its eight long feelers embody the tangled and tangling elsewhere/elsewhen Haraway contemplates, her theory is able to come into being through the intra-action of human and non-/more-than-human nature, as the Chthulucene “entangles myriad temporalities and spatialities and myriad intra-active entities-in-assemblages” (2015: 160).

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The sculpture Maman (1999) by Louise Bourgeois. I remember seeing it for the first time at the National Gallery of Canada in 2009 and being completely taken aback yet captivated. Photo: Deanna Nichols. https://flic.kr/p/4mrynM

Haraway teaches me that “tentacle comes from the Latin tentaculum, meaning ‘feeler’ and tentare, meaning ‘to feel,” and that “tentacularity is about life lived along lines…not at points, not in spheres” (2016: 31-2). I step out of the book’s pages to catch a glimpse of my own surroundings, to imagine the lines formed in rock by the feelers of the Atlantic Ocean: the way that she has played with this island, forming rugged edges where land touches water in bursts, and at places in the sides of cliffs where that touching never stops, smooth surfaces like innocent skin from “continuous erosion” (Hallett 2010).

These life-forms have been playing with each other for millions of years, and both of them are still here.  Not so long ago, our human kin started to erase many of these lines that guide us: we try to dominate in this game of touching and feeling, we strip away interrelations and exchanges from tentacular powers and forces, from all things. When Haraway says that “maybe, but only maybe, and only with intense commitment and collaborative work and play with other terrans, flourishing for rich multispecies assemblages that include people will be possible,” (2015: 160) she wants us to recognize the harm that cannot be undone, to imagine ways to mend these many forms. She asks us to make our own sacrifices in order to care for our many kinds of kin, our familial/familiar, since “it is high time that feminists exercise leadership in imagination, theory, and action to unravel the ties of both genealogy and kin, and kin and species” (161).

What potential might lie in viewing the natural world, not as “one of wonder, but of familiarity” (Salmón 2000: 1329)? What about the intra-action of both? Is the notion of wonder a key component of imaginative thinking? Can imagination be familiar?

For a moment I imagine myself as Larissa Lai’s hybrid shapeshifter Nu-Wa (fish, snake, human) with her many types of feelers. Nu-Wa shows me her ancient world without touch: “In the beginning there was just me…The materials of life still lay dormant, not yet understanding their profound relationship to one another” (2002: 1). If we do not recognize the critical power of relating to all our multispecies and multiform kin through touch, and if the earth does not use all her tentacles to seek revenge first, maybe in the end we will be like Nu-Wa, alone and unable to feel.

And I will not be ready. Will you?

She might leave me, she might leave you.

She might show you garbage floating on the surface.

She might ask you to imagine, like Stacie Cassarino:

the space between what you deserve
and what you will into this animal world,

knowing you will lose it,
you will float there, hardening (2009: 12).

References

Cassarino, Stacie. 2009. “Kingdom of Glass,” In Zero at the Bone: 11-2. Kalamazoo, Michigan: New Issues Poetry & Prose.

Hallett, Vicki. 2010. “Continuous Erosion: Place and Identity in the Lives of Newfoundland Women,” In Despite this Loss: Essays on Culture, Memory and Identity in Newfoundland and Labrador, eds. Ursula A, Kelly and Elizabeth Yeoman, 74-91. St. John’s: ISER Books.

Haraway, Donna. 2015. “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin,” In Environmental Humanities, 6: 159-65. http://environmentalhumanities.org/arch/vol6/6.7.pdf.

Haraway, Donna. 2016. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press.

Lai, Larissa. 2002. Salt Fish Girl: A Novel. Toronto: Dundurn Press.

Neimanis, Astrida., and Rachel Loewen Walker. 2014. “Weathering: Climate Change and the ‘Thick Time’ of Transcorporeality,” in Hypatia, 29 (3): 558-575. DOI: 10.1111/hypa.12064.

Pierotti, Raymond J. 2011. Indigenous Knowledge, Ecology, and Evolutionary Biology: Indigenous Peoples and Politics. New York: Routledge.

Salmón, Enrique. 2000. Kincentric Ecology: Indigenous Perceptions of the Human-Nature Relationship,” In Ecological Applications, 10 (5): 1327-32. https://www.fws.gov/nativeamerican/pdf/tek-salmon-2000.pdf.

Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake. 2014. “Land as pedagogy: Nishnaabeg intelligence and rebellious transformation,” In Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 3 (3): 1-25. http://decolonization.org/index.php/des/article/view/22170/17985.

Wildcat, Daniel R. 2009. Red Alert!: Saving the Planet with Indigenous Knowledge. Golden, Colorado: Fulcrum Publishing.

© Daze Jefferies (dsj272 @ mun.ca), 2017

help me to name it: self-mythologizing as experiential inquiry

myth:
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ologize

I think myth is an overused and misunderstood word. A message that cannot be fully explained. A belief, a story, a legend, a folktale, a poem. A door that blows open, the leaves that fly in. A mess. Something untrue, something to roll your eyes at.

We talk about them all the time.

Through my academic training and prodding away at various texts, I have come to realize this: scholars of symbolic culture have a hard time agreeing about things. Ask a folklorist or cultural anthropologist what exactly it is that they do – what their discipline is about – and you might confuse yourself more than you intend to. But you want to, and you will, absorb something potent about humans studying humans. There is no single nature. We are all doing our own thing the best way we know how – making up definitions, forming arguments – all abandoned, all scattered (Brand 2001: 211).

For my own learning and interactions with Dionne Brand’s A Map to the Door of No Return, for my wayfaring and desire to locate the self in the story, I propose that mythologizing can be concerned with narratives of origin.

Something we see ourselves in.

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My dad on a beach, years before I was born. July 1985. Photo: Roseann Jefferies.

On a visit home at the end of the summer, my dad and I are able to share a few hours together alone at sea. It is a chance to bond, to show each other that there are sparks, a deep love that exists between us. Most of all, this is an opportunity for the both of us to showcase how many exclusive facts about history, culture, and the environment we can throw out in the open. We have always played these games of knowing.

That evening we see whales, drink cans of Coors Light. I visit the place where my ancestors settled after departing England. They settled on the islands because the best fishing grounds were located there. That’s how they survived.

As far as I know, the story of my place-based patrilineality, and my affinity to this island, begins here:

Thomas Jefferies moved to Exploits/Burnt Island from Crewkerne in Somerset, England in the late 1870s. I wonder what his daughters Jemima and Anna-Bella looked like, how they created meaning on a tiny sheltered enclave surrounded by water.

My dad shows me the house they grew up in – now renovated since the island has become a place for doctors and others to keep summer cabins.

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The Jefferies family lived in the house in the middle. I imagine it was built shortly after arrival, circa 1870. August 2016. Photo: Daze Jefferies.

My self-mythologizing involves this place. I travel here before I know anything about it. Maybe it wasn’t travel at all, I just ended up here. “Ghosts try to step into life,” writes Brand (111). They wanted to show me something. I wanted my dad to take me here. And then after hearing about them I wanted photos of the houses – I didn’t realize the history revealed to me would poke me like a tattoo that I wasn’t ready for.

I am marked, now carrying symbolic history of my family on my skin. “Then there’s the ones we don’t know about. It’s better if we just leave them alone,” my dad says. If I don’t dig down into that forgotten oldness, how will I know what’s waiting for me there? I want to tell my dad that he can’t just bring me to a place and tell me to not search for too much. In this corporeal form, experience is the earth of my autobiographical development. The quest to come into contact with/touch/notice parts of my lineal lore – my inside story – induces me and sets me up to come up short eventually. A game of knowing is never just a game, it is an obligation, and “I can feel a never-going-to-be-sated hunger there” (108).

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When we tell a myth about ourselves, we have the flexibility to play with it. A Map to the Door of No Return is a work of self-mythologizing in various ways. Blurring the lines of autoethnography, personal experience narrative, fiction, and theory, Brand takes on the challenge of writing and representing her life through carefully corrugated memories and meditations. However, she argues that “myth is of course seductive, but it needs material power to enforce it” (129). Can’t material power be the human voice? What about something written? If I narrate it, chances are I mean it. Is that not powerful enough?

As much as I learn about maps, I feel like I am traveling through the text with no direction in sight. Can I read it backwards? What about in fragments? Playing with the headings. What am I supposed to know now that I have turned the pages in strange patterns and chapters inside out, now that I have seen where October ends and Finding a Compass begins. My thoughts are supposed to be scattered. Pain of pasts written into present. In the Diaspora, memories of blackness and home disperse across geography and temporality. Brand’s traveling across distance and time incites my own symbolic movement through the text. As she travels, she tells a story about herself. One of great change and searching, of flight. She is constantly moving places.

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View from above. August 2013. Photo: Daze Jefferies.

I choose window seats when I am in air, in transit from place to place. Between bursts of white, I see where the land meets the ocean. Somehow I scrounge up the money to travel or I am offered a vacation. Mythology is also about evolvement – how I got up here from down there. One must think about this horizontally. In my life, the origin of opportunity is intricately connected to grounds of orientation, isopleths of privilege. It’s about ability, access, the site at which I am located. My learning, understanding that “we accumulate information over our lives which bring various things into solidity, into view” (141). It’s about Burnt Island and that white house.

I wish to know more about movement:

The dispersal of my ancestors like capelin in the water. Nobody caught us in a net or picked us up off the beach rocks in the spring, cooked us, ripped our heads off with their teeth. We were able to lay our eggs and get away – the lucky ones – making something of ourselves. Of course almost all capelin die after spawning on the beaches – I am just playing around. In my self-mythologizing, I very well could be a fish. Why can’t it be true? To imagine parts of myself in another, to imagine myself as another.

Transmogrification and transmutability can be principal portions of the way we narrate place, identity, and experience in our lives. Brand’s writing transmogrifies time and place – channeling me through her imagination, memory, and longing of/for oldness and mis/direction. She theorizes a map as “a set of impossibilities, a set of changing locations” (224). As my bearings shift, so do I. My stories too – we have no choice. Self-mythologizing is a game of knowing how well one can narrate the underpinnings of personal experience – how well one is equipped to and for change.

Did my ancestors know where they were going when they ended up here? What tensions did they have about journeying on to new terrain? Did they understand how 146 years of transmutation would make a good story? How far would their spawn swim into the future?

Reference

Brand, Dionne. 2001. A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes on Belonging. Vintage Canada.

 

stitching theory

stitching theory

A considerable body of research has considered the role of handcrafts – sewing, knitting, crocheting, and the like – in the service of activism. We might consider here Rozsika Parker’s influential The Subversive Stitch (1984/2011) and more recently, Betsy Greer’s publications, Craftivism: The Art of Craft and Activism (2014), and Knitting for Good: A Guide to Creating Personal, Social, and Political Change, Stitch by Stitch (2008) but also the ever-growing body of scholarly literature on contemporary craftivism and DIY culture (see, for example: Bratich & Brush 2011; Groeneveld 2010; Kelly 2014; Luckman 2013; Pentneny 2008; Solomon 2013; Springgay, Hatza, & O’Donald 2011; Springgay 2010; Williams 2011).

Embroidery, knitting, crocheting – all have experienced a resurgence in recent years. But what does all of this mean? What purposes might handcraft, traditionally aligned with the domestic and the feminine, serve? “The needle is an appropriate material representation of women who are balancing both their anger over oppression and pride in their gender,” Ricia A Chansky writes. “The needle stabs as it creates, forcing thread or yarn into the act of creation. From a violent action comes the birth of a new whole. Women are channeling their rage, frustrating, gilt, and other difficult emotions into a powerfully productive activity” (682).

20-epic-womens-march-signs-from-all-over-world-12Winter had its way with Newfoundland over the past few days. Two days of blizzard conditions have brought us 66 cm of snow, aching shoveling muscles, but also more relaxed brains and bodies, the result of forced closures. The whole city shut down: schools, government offices, the university, banks, public transit. Even the shopping mall and the liquor store were closed. And in that space of winter wind and blowing snow, we cocooned ourselves inside with hot chocolate and scones between bouts of shoveling. I should have spent the entire time writing, catching up with a number of projects. Instead, I spent it in front of the sewing machine, stitching a quilt together.

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shovelling, day 2

I’m not an expert quilter. My current project is only my second. I’m awkward around the machine. I can’t always sew in a straight line. The material bunches in funny places. Sometimes the machine won’t go at all and then I curse it and all things fabric.

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fabrics gathered from family, pillowcases, Ikea, and at thrift shops and….

But the rhythm of the machine also gave me room to think. And what I discovered, after two days of stitching and thinking, is that quilting time is ideal thinking time. Rhythm. Touch. Feel. Sound. Colour. Texture. Routine. All of these worked together. My quilting time wasn’t just about the quilt; it was about all the stuff that’s rattling around in my brain. After several hours together, my fabrics, my thread, and I had worked through not only a quilt, but also the larger ideas that underpinned my research. Together, we told stories. Together, we massaged ideas. Together, we made theory.

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squares. and more squares.

In her essay, “Foodmaking as a Thoughtful Practice,” Lisa M. Heldke argues that “[t]he knowing involved in making a cake is ‘contained’ not simply “in my head” but in my hands, my wrists, my eyes and nose as well.” (219). Theory, here, is profoundly embodied, located in touch, smell, taste, and the body’s memories. Foodmaking, she says, is “theoretically practical” (203; see also Heldke 1988).

As I worked my quilt through the machine, I considered the potential of quilt making, too as a space for embodied thinking, processing, knowing. Of making theory in a material sense. What stories can 400 squares tell? And what new stories emerge when I join them together into a whole?

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the only spot big enough to layer the quilt…

While, as Parker observes, “embroidery and a stereotype of femininity have become collapsed into one another, characterised as mindless, decorative, and delicate; like the icing on the cake, good to look at, adding taste and status, but devoid of significant content” (6), it doesn’t have to be this way. Leanne Prain reminds me that “unexpected” embroidery causes us to pause and think anew. After all, “embroidery is a means of communication, the stitches, like handwriting or drawing, make marks. A stitch,” she writes, “can form a mark of love, a mark of hate, or simply indicate, ‘I was here.’” (18).

This ethos is the whimsy that accompanies yarn-bombing, for example, or guerrilla cross-stitch. It’s also the impetus that underpins the Pussy Hat project. A colleague on Facebook admitted to not quite understanding that project until she saw photos of the Women’s March; the sea of pink hats made a bolder statement than she ever could have imagined. But I wonder if the power of the Pussy Hat project lies not only in the final performance, but in the process itself. What spaces for thinking did the process of making the hat enable? How did knitting make theory possible? What theory emerged in the stitches themselves?

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done!

Three years ago, my fourth year students, my colleague Beth Pentney, and I – together with a crew of other volunteers – created a giant bikini bottom as a knitivist commentary on the politics of women’s bodies and the politics of art in Newfoundland and Labrador .

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Knitting accompanied our weekly readings and our seminars. It accompanied all of our thinking and all of our discussions. As one of the seminar students, Mary Germaine, said:

When you knit and you’re with other people, there’s nothing else to do but talk – nobody’s checking their phone when they are knitting . . . in class we are looking at things that are hard to talk about, like what happens to women in Sierra Leone. We’re not socialized to deal with that sort of information. Having our hands busy helped to play out the discussion in a physical way.

 

Knitting made a space for thinking and for working through challenging ideas. Knitting made room for theory. And because it was part of every class, knitting became part of our theory making process: together, we knitted our theory into being. In the words of Betsy Greer (2008):

By allowing our minds to work through what we’re feeling while our hands follow a familiar and comforting rhythm, we allow our emotions to sink in and work their way throughout bodies – from the reluctance of letting our negative feelings settle and root to acceptance of the outcome and the discovery of new paths we can take to make things better …. Knitting creates a safe space in which to sit comfortably, whether with our uncomfortable thoughts … our anxieties … or … our joy. (p. 42)

 

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Handcrafts are ideal vehicles for storytelling and storymaking. As Leanne Prain observes, “textiles can help us learn about ourselves and those around us” (2014, 11). From button blankets to story quilts to embroidered maps and more, the artists and craftspeople profiled in Prain’s Strange Material: Storytelling Through Textiles demonstrate the myriad ways that textiles can tell stories, often without words.

Textile work makes meaning through touch. The material is the story, is theory.

“Artists may have many reasons to work with textiles,” Prain writes,

but often, their love for the medium of fabric has to do with the sense of touch. Through the nap of velvet, the slight roughness of linen, or the silkiness of angora, fabric can evoke memories. Our childhood memories are filled with fabric, from the blankets we were wrapped in to the scratchy sweaters we were forced to wear to school. Quilts, embroideries, and weavings can hold remembrances both personal and collective, and artists can use them to create biographies, autobiographies, genealogies, and memorials. (2014, 103).

My first quilt, created out of a range of fabrics I bought during the course of two research trips to Suriname, is rich with stories. Stories of my family’s histories, stories of a nation’s histories, stories that haven’t yet been told.

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As I stitched this second quilt, I recalled a Maroon sewing machine displayed in the Surinaams Museum in Paramaribo. Carved out of wood, with intricate detailing, the machine was purely ornamental, but its very presence suggested the relevance of sewing to Maroon cultures.

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The anthropologist Sally Price, who has lived and worked with Maroon communities in Suriname for many years, points to the importance of strip quilts as part of Maroon culture. In a more recent online piece, she links this piece work to larger histories of women’s art, considering in particular a politics of collage – termed femmage – that could “[turn] the detritus of earlier…projects” into new “aesthetic wholes.”

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Today, such work might fall into the realm of assemblage theory, or, perhaps, into actor network theory, both of which consider how it is that individual elements gain meaning through their ever-shifting encounters with one another. But I wonder about the lowly patchwork quilt and the work that it has done – and continues to do – to make meaning.

Needles and thread, my two snow days tell me, are not only good to stitch with; they are also good to think with.

 

References

Bratich, J.Z. & Brush, H.M. “Fabricating Activism: Craft-Work, Popular Culture, Gender.” Utopian Studies, vol. 22, no. 2, 2011, pp. 233-60.

Chansky, Ricia A. “A Stitch in Time: Third-Wave Feminist Reclamation of Needled Imagery.” The Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 43, no. 4, 2010, pp. 681-700.

Fields, C.D. “Not Your Grandma’s Knitting: The Role of Identity Processes in the Transformation of Cultural Practices.” Social Psychology Quarterly, vol. 77, no. 2, 2014, pp. 150-165.

Greer, Betsy, ed. Craftivism: The Art of Craft and Activism. Arsenal Pulp Press, 2014.

Greer, Betsy. Knitting for Good! A Guide to Creating Personal, Social, and Political Change, Stitch by Stitch. Trumpeter, 2008.

Groeneveld, E. (2010). “‘Join the Knitting Revolution’: Third-Wave Feminist Magazine and the Politics of Domesticity.” Canadian Review of American Studies, vol. 40, no. 2, 2010, pp. 259-77.

Heldke, Lisa M. “Foodmaking as a Thoughtful Practice.” Cooking, Eating, Thinking: Transformative Philosophies of Food, edited by Deane W. Curtin and Lisa M. Heldke, Indiana UP, 1992, pp. 203-229.

Heldke, Lisa M. “Recipes for Theory Making.” Hypatia, vol. 3, no. 2, 1988, pp. 15-30.

Kelly, M. “Knitting as a feminist project?” Women’s Studies International Forum, vol. 44, 2014, pp. 133-44.

Luckman, S. “The Aura of Analogue in a Digital Age: Women’s Crafts, Creative Markets and Home-Based Labour After Etsy.” Cultural Studies Review, vol. 19, no. 1, 2013, pp. 249-70.

Moore, Mandy and Leanne Prain. Yarn Bombing: The Art of Crochet and Knit Grafitti. Arsenal Pulp Press, 2009.

Parker, Roszika. The Subversive Stitch: Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine. I.B.Tauris, 2011.

Pentney, Beth Ann. “Feminism, Activism, and Knitting: Are the Fibre Arts a Viable Mode for Feminist Political Action?” thirdspace: a journal of feminist theory and culture, vol. 8, no. 1, 2008. Retrieved from http://journals.sfu.ca/thirdspace/index.php/journal/article/viewArticle/pentney/210

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(c) Sonja Boon (sboon @ mun.ca), 2017.

The Rhinoceros

Researching the keywords ‘colonies,’ ‘migration,’ and country names (like ‘Suriname’) in an image archives will inevitably result in two kinds of images: photographs and prints. It is a reminder to me that colonialism borders pre- and post-daguerreotype. People wanted to know about the ‘brave new world’ they were occupying, even if they could not see it themselves. Those who did not travel to new and exotic lands would attend talks, read books, and view cabinets of curiosities in order to know about the things they could not see.

People were curious, and they romanticized the notion of ‘discovery’. They wanted the next best thing to being there, to understand the life there, human, plant, and animal. Researching those same keywords will eventually bring up images of animals.

Scientific discovery was closely connected to colonialism and migration. Charles Darwin‘s The Voyage of the Beagle was, and still is, one of the most popular travel memoirs, and it is a scientific field journal documenting exotic wildlife of the Galapagos. Many biologists traveled to new places, and they kept detailed descriptions and sketches of what they saw for scientific purpose. The general public also wanted to know what these scientists saw; therefore, artists were employed to illustrate books and images for talks. I recently found one of these images: a picture of a rhinoceros.

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Art and Picture Collection, The New York Public Library. “The Two-Horned Rhinoceros.” New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1820. http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47e0-cefd-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

It reminded me of an image I studied in art history class, Albrecht Dürer‘s The Rhinoceros (1515). I learned about it in relation to prints artists made without having a visual basis. Lots etchings and prints were created by artists who have never seen the lands, people, or animals they were illustrating for books.

Dürer drew his image of a rhinoceros from a detailed description, and a rough sketch. He had never seen one before, and never would see one. His illustration is of an animal that looks like it is wearing plated armor, and is very detailed. Regardless of the detail, and the efforts to be accurate, both Dürer’s illustration and the one above are like a version of ‘telephone’. They are interpretations developed from secondary sources; they are based on what other people have seen and passed on through words and sketches.

There is only so much information that can be passed on through words and sketchings. It is up to the artist to interpret and fill in the gaps. I learned about Dürer’s ‘Rhinoceros’ because my drawing instructor wanted to impress upon me the importance of drawing what is real, and not what I think is real based on secondhand sight.

While I am mostly working with photographs for this research project, I cannot avoid the prints and how they were used to portray information to a curious and inquiring public. These images would colour the imaginations and opinions of the people who lived during these times. How were these prints used to feed the public’s opinions on migration, colonies, and other lands?

© Tanya Nielsen (tjn710@mun.ca), 2016

About: Tanya Nielsen

About: Tanya Nielsen

My name is Tanya Jasmin Nielsen and I moved to St. John’s, Newfoundland because of an acceptance letter into the Humanities Graduate Program at Memorial University. After spending two and a half years researching the role of failure in the creative process of making art I graduated with a Masters of Philosophy. I am currently working on my PhD in the Interdisciplinary Program exploring anarchy and narrative in contemporary performance art by Latin American women artists. I am also a practicing visual artist of photography, painting, drawing, installation, (on very rare occasions) performance. I have lived most of my life on the Pacific coast, and have travelled great distances for family, school, work, and for myself. When I don’t live within viewing distance of an ocean, I miss it…fiercely.