Textiles are an important part of any home. Bits of fabric and wool and thread that comfort us when we sleep, envelope us in cleanliness, dry our daily dishes and welcome our tired feet as we begin and end each day. These are the things that soften our spaces. As with many things we live with, some are very ordinary and others are quite fine. They are practical and decorative – an appealing combination. Offering beauty and comfort in their warp and weft, warmth in their fibres.
Among the many things we have received as gifts for our walls, are two tapestries. Bryan had an aunt who opened up a tapestry shop in the 1990s where she collected and sold tapestries from around the world. I’m not entirely sure of the story of these two, but Bryan’s parents purchased them and at some point decided to give them to us. We both loved them immediately. They are replicas of Czech artist Alphonse Mucha’s Four Seasons paintings, originally done in 1896. We happen to have Summer and Winter. Done in the art nouveau style, they are exquisite examples of this wonderful artist’s work. In the beauty of these depictions of nature’s changing seasons, I find myself thinking of the many experiences of my life. How things are sometimes different than we expect, yet can be filled with joy and goodness nonetheless. How people can surprise us – perhaps being more than what we perceived in the summer, and full of warmth in the winter. Beauty is found throughout the seasons of our lives; it remains in the gifts we give, in the things we share.
I suppose most of us think of textiles as functional items. Things that literally keep us warm. We have a few special, but practical, textiles in our home. Things we use every day. For many years, I was involved with an organization called Ten Thousand Villages. An organization that offered fairly traded hand crafted items for sale – a means of providing much needed income to artisans in developing countries. A few of the purchases I made over the years, provide warmth to us now. And they do it with such style. We walk on two of these special items every day. These rugs were made by artisans in Nepal – artisans that otherwise would have been unable to earn a decent wage. Made of wool, full of colour and unexpected pattern. They are the kind of rugs that your feet sink into a little, providing both a comfortable and beautiful place on which to stand. Then there are the recycled sari throws - somehow I managed to buy five, as I couldn't resist their soft, old fabric or the stories their careful stitches had to tell. A project was started in Bangladesh where women were able to earn a living making these lovely throws from old saris. Women who had formerly worked in the sex trade, as one of the few options for earning any income. Repurposed fabric that is carefully patched and stitched together to create such beauty. New ways to make a living and support their families. Beauty from brokenness.
A few years ago, my sister and I embarked on our first ever sister’s road trip. The plan originated when she wanted someone to drive with her to visit a friend in the Maritimes. As I am always up for a bit of travel, I was happy to go along for the ride. We covered about 5500 kilometres on that trip. We didn’t have a single argument. We took in various historic and tourist sites and enjoyed parts of this country that are filled with such beautiful scenery. We had quite a lovely time. More than twenty years earlier, I had been to Cape Breton and was aware of a tradition of rug hooking in that region. At the time, buying souvenirs wasn’t in our travel budget, so I was bound and determined to acquire something this time around. It was suggested we stop at Flora’s Gift Shop on the Cabot Trail. I was not disappointed. The place was crammed with all manner of souvenirs, but the highlight was the stacks and stacks of small hooked rugs. There was an older woman working hard on one in a corner, and I was able to watch her masterful skills. I wanted one. I bought one. A beautiful collection of colourful houses. A beautiful reminder of time spent with my best sister, my oldest friend.
This is when things took a turn. I got it in my head that I might take up this craft of rug hooking. Well. Anyone who knows me is aware that I have been known to attempt to learn a skill of this kind, and immediately develop a sincere dislike, bordering on hatred, of the craft at hand. This situation was no different. Sometime after this trip, I ordered myself two rug hooking kits from another Cape Breton specialist - part of a New Year’s resolution to learn something new. A resolution shared with my dear friend Jamie, we would both give it a whirl. I was so excited when they arrived. I carefully got myself organized, started working, and realized, after about half an hour, that I had accomplished less than one square inch of anything, and not very well. Jamie completed hers, but I hated it and resolved to quit yet another craft project. Somehow an acquaintance of Jamie’s got wind of this and offered to complete my sad beginnings – because she loved rug hooking. This complete stranger showed up at my door, picked up my kits, went home, completed the task, and returned a few days later with two little rugs. Perfectly beautiful. Whenever I look at them, I am struck by how generous strangers can be. And how our shortcomings sometimes open up space for others to shine.
When I think about the Jamie and Carla New Year’s Resolution tradition (that might be too strong a title, and we rarely follow through with much success), another grand scheme involving a textile project must be mentioned. I love quilts. I particularly love old quilts and, as a Mennonite, there has long been the tradition of quilt making in my circles. I also love the art quilt. A kind of textile work that celebrates the colours and shapes and use and re-use of fabrics of all kinds. I saw a wonderful documentary on the quilts of Gees Bend many years ago that sparked the interest. The Gees Bend quilts were made by a small, isolated group of Black women in Alabama – over multiple generations, a tradition dating back to the 1800s. These were quilts made of whatever was available: feed sacks, work clothes, remnants. Not unlike the materials in many quilts of old. But what is remarkable is the patterns that developed there. Wildly artistic, geometrics without specific rhyme or reason. Beautiful examples of the creativity that emerges out of necessity, out of hardship. These works have since become well known and been displayed in places like the Smithsonian and the MoMA. They are still quilting in Gees Bend. I wish I had one, but alas, completely out of my league. So, another dream is born – I would learn how to make a quilt of my own. Jamie joined in the resolution, but being much wiser (and more practical) actually sought out instruction. Her quilt turned out as it should have. Neat and tidy. Mine was hair-brained. I ordered scraps of Marimekko fabric on eBay (because, obviously I needed fabric from Finland for a decent quilt). I may have also bought a sewing machine for this project. Money well wasted. I carefully cut two inch squares of fabric and set about designing my quilt. Then I started sewing. And sewing. And sewing. Weeks later (or months), after much swearing and complaining, I had completed my quilt. I learned in this process that I hate sewing. But, if I squint from far away, and avoid looking at the situation on the backside, I am happy with the results.
About a year ago, I decided it was time to acquire a real quilt. There is a relief sale in New Hamburg, Ontario every May that, as a fundraiser for the Mennonite Central Committee, has a quilt auction. With little else to do during a pandemic, this was the year to bid. My friends Marion and Catherine and I each registered to bid, and selected our favourites. We watched the auction online together - from our separate homes, in the midst of our collective lockdown. We bid. With varying degrees of success. We missed out on some and, possibly, acquired others accidentally (auctions are not for the faint of heart!). While it didn’t all go according to plan, each of us got something. The quilt I purchased is beautiful. I love it more than the one I lost. It is exactly and completely perfect. Made with scraps from a previous year’s auction showcase quilt, it now fills a wall with colour and inspiration. It was donated by the quilter to raise money to offer relief to those in need. It is a gift to me as I see it every day at the bottom of our stairs. It is both art and life. Serving to provide necessities for another, while it provides for my soul. It is comfort as a reminder of the parts of my heritage that are so generous and willing to offer resources wherever needed. It is comfort as a reminder of two women who have shared so much of themselves with me during this pandemic.
I will end with some family pictures. I inherited my love of travel from my parents. They have enjoyed many trips, to many interesting places. They began their travels early in their marriage when they went abroad to Germany to study for three years – where both my brother and I were born. On one of their later adventures, they took a little side trip to Morocco. Another place I’d love to visit. While there, they purchased a small silk rug in a market, and it found a home under their piano bench for many years, protecting the hardwood floors. Somewhere along the way, they moved and no longer needed it, so I received yet another lovely gift. I love that it was used beside the instrument that I learned to play as a child – I feel as if it keeps me connected to my past and to the roots of my musical career. And I’m thankful to have it as a reminder of these people that gave me so many of my loves – music and travel being among my favourites.
My sister is a knitter. She is constantly knitting something. She has a collection of wool that borders on enough for a small shop. Everything I lack in crafting ability, patience and commitment, she has in spades. Her skill is impressive. A couple of years ago, she embarked on an Advent project that involved opening up a bit of yarn each day and knitting (or was it crochet? I will be corrected when she reads this…) a small bit of something that would reveal itself in its completeness by Christmas Eve. A knitter's advent calendar. Throughout the process, it wasn’t clear what it was, or if there was any rhyme or reason to the colour scheme provided. When it was done, she didn’t really care for it, but I loved it. I casually mentioned it would make a great Christmas gift. And so it became one, and I was the lucky recipient. I’m still not entirely sure what it was intended to be, a shawl perhaps? But I instantly saw it as a sort of curtain for the window in my piano room. And there it has remained ever since. Adding a bit more colour to the room and to the conversations with children who are endlessly curious about it. I love that it does all of this. I love that it gave my sister little bits of daily joy and accomplishment. I love that she gave it to me because I liked it.
Textiles serve many purposes. They keep us cozy, they soften hard edges, they provide colour and pattern in our lives. They are the result of hands that care enough to learn and master the skills required to create them – whether merely functional or wildly expressive. Bits of fabric that we can touch and feel, remember and appreciate. Filling our lives with comfort. Filling our lives with warmth.
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