I’ve been contemplating space in relationship to the artist. Is that what really what I’ve been doing all this time? Yes. Well. Yes. I suppose it has a something to do with not having a designated space to work for the past two years. I tend to float when this happens. This is a choice that I made. It isn’t that I feel deprived of a proper studio. ‘ve been sort of willingly and pleasantly adrift in a sea of ideas and inspiration with no particular place to manifest. I realized just recently that I had not deconstructed and vacated The Crow’s Nest as well as I could have and that I have unfinished business there. I’m not sure where to begin connecting the dots so I’ll go back to one relevant point in time, eleven years ago.

The photographs in this article are from an installation by artist Fumio Tachibana. The photographer is Yasuhide Kuge. This exhibition was the first time I had consciously experienced the artist, his inspiration, materials, work, and working space as inseparable. Tachibana is someone who has mastered the art of evocation. The re-purposing and re-imagining of “fragments” woven or arranged into a new whole is a important concept in my own work.

His subject is Clara, a fashion institute for western style dressmaking in Japan, founded and run by Motoko and Shiro Koike in 1923. They also published a fashion magazine called Yosai Shunju. The building was demolished and the magazine banned during World War 2 in 1944. I’ll take a wild guess that anything to do with western culture was not at all popular in Japan during that time. Motoko revived the institute as a classroom studio in the 1950s. When the studio was dismantled, Fumio Tachibana collected and reorganized the fragments of Motoko’s work and materials (drawings, sketches, dressmaking patterns, postwar Japanese handbills, wrapping paper, silk thread, and printing equipment) into a large scale installation of new artworks and arrangements in their own space so that the classroom itself was part of the work. There is something powerful going on here in that Motoko’s presence is strongly felt in the photographs.

Source: Communion W, 2001 Curator: Can Wong

Fragments. Remembrances. Scraps of cloth or small tokens attached to the handwritten records of foundling children were kept as a means of identification. It was hoped that these remembrances would be a means of one day uniting mother and child under more hopeful circumstances.

Occasionally, there were happy endings where the child was reclaimed, apprenticed, or adopted. However, more often than not, the foundling children immortalized in these unusual ledgers died young and were buried in unmarked graves. What almost all of them have in common is that this is all that is left of their existence, which is perhaps more of a mark than most people leave, even those who have happier beginnings or more successful lives. There are just bits of cloth, a ribbon or a button attached to the faded pages in a record book, something so practical and seemingly ordinary which have across time and upon rediscovery become completely fascinating. So beautiful and sad. Haunting.

Foundling 14695. An embroidered sampler left with a boy named William Porter, admitted on the 6th of December in 1759 and died on the 27th of May in 1760.

Captain Thomas Coram opened the Foundling Hospital in 1741 with a charter awarded to him by King George II. Artists William Hogworth, Joshua Reynolds, and Thomas Gainsborough along with composer George Frideric Handel were patrons of the endeavor, donating the proceeds from their works. The idea was revolutionary and progressive in its time. Desperate and destitute young mothers, who did not have the means to care for their children whether they were unmarried or widowed, were given the opportunity to house their children in a safe place with no questions asked and gifted with open invitation to reclaim their children when and if possible.

Many of these mothers were probably children themselves, in the worst of circumstances, who would otherwise have abandoned their infants on doorsteps or in the street, or watched them die of illness or starvation.  Now given some bit of hope, represented by a scrap of cloth from a child’s garment or their own, young mothers left the hospital with a textile ticket and its exact match from the same piece of clothing was attached to a ledger recording the infant’s details and description, proof that this child was hers. There is some kind of magic there.

Foundling 16516. Patchwork made from printed and woven fabrics, embroidered with a heart and cut in half. One half was left with a boy who was admitted in 1767. He was named Benjamin Twirl by the Foundling Hospital. His mother Sara Bender reclaimed him on June 10th in 1775.

Foundling 14922. A bit of threadbare linen ‘flowered all over with playing cards’ left with a boy in 1759. He was named Joseph Floyd by the Foundling Hospital. He was apprenticed in 1769.

Foundling 14953. A boy was admitted on October 3rd of 1759 wearing ‘checkt stuff’ and was named Mentor Lesange by the Foundling Hospital. In 1770, he was apprenticed to a farmer named Hercules Durham.

Foundling 13187. A girl of 14 days wearing ‘yellow satten flowered’ was admitted June 20th in 1759 and given the name Lucy Locket. She a died a few weeks later on July 2nd.

Foundling 10563. A girl was admitted on the 22nd of November in 1758 with heart cut from red woolen cloth pinned to her cap, probably cut from her mother’s dress or coat. She was named Isabel Crane and died a few weeks later on December 16th.

Foundling 2275. A boy admitted in September 1756  attached to a flowered silver ribbon with a paper note sewn into it and died the same month.

Apparently someone on the hospital staff folded the paper sheets into small packages of nine folds, most of which were never opened, and eventually collected into books. For this reason, they were accidentally preserved and rediscovered two and a half centuries later.

Sources:

Francis Spaulding, “Swatch with Mother”, The World of Interiors, March 2011, p 102 – 108

Shelly Goldsmith, “Scrap of a Thing”, Selvedge, Issue 36, p 37 – 40

http://www.johnstyles.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/materiallondon.htm

http://www.foundlingmuseum.org.uk/exhibit_handel.php

The handwritten pages of a notebook on geography and surveying, kept by Joshua Tevis in 1804.

While researching book bindings for a project, I’ve been coming across these gorgeous embroidered book covers and bindings from the 16th and 17th century. Thought I’d make a blog post out of these exquisite works of art.. The original scans for the books are scattered throughout The British Library Database of Bookbindings. I’ve just selected, cropped, and optimized them. The larger size originals are in a flickr set so that all the amazing details can be seen and are worth clicking through and taking a good look at.

Embroidered satin book with floral motif. The Whole Booke of Psalmes (London, 1639)

Embroidered velvet book with scroll and floral pattern. Orationis Dominic: explicatio (Geneva, 1583)

17th century embroidered satin book with pictorial angel and trees. The Whole Booke of Davids Psalmes (London, 1634)

Embroidered Canvas book, pictorial angel and floral motif with two red ribbons. The Booke of Common Prayer (London, 1611)

17th century embroidered velvet book cover. A Comfortable Treatise, for the reliefe of such as are afflicted in Conscience: revised the third time, … interlaced, and enlarged in many places. (London, 1620)

Front and back covers of an embroidered satin book with two sets of metal clasps. The Whole Booke of Davids Psalmes (Edinburgh, 1644)

Embroidered satin book cover with silver threads. Good Newes from Heaven. (London, 1631)

Embroidered book cover with sequins. The Holy Bible (London, 1642)

Satin embroidered book cover with threads of coloured silk ‘woven’ across upper and lower covers. The Whole Booke of Psalmes (London, 1627)

Now this was a lot of fun to discover. I purchased an old leather sewing kit. It was in excellent shape and apparently had nothing inside it except a rusty threaded needle and brown paper padding at the bottom. However, there was something quite interesting and well hidden wrapped in that plain brown paper.

The mysterious thing about these old book pages is that they have “1724″ marked in pencil on them, which is something a dealer would have done and yet they are stuffed at the bottom of a sewing kit and cut to the edges in a way that indicates the are being used as padding. Interesting naive woodcut illustrations. I like some of the little details, especially the skull and bones with mushrooms.

Mixed media art by Mother Nature in fungus on tree bark. Found in our wood pile and almost tossed into the fire.

“We now come to a beautiful and loquacious race of animals, that embellish our forests, amuse our walks, and exclude solitude from our most shady retirements. From there man has nothing to fear, their pleasures, their desires, and even their animosities, only serve to enliven the general picture of Nature, and give harmony to meditation.”

Yet another lovely and very old book I recently added to my collection is the third volume of Oliver Goldsmith’s An History of the Earth and Animated Nature which although available online through the much appreciated resources of the Internet Archive has unique and unmatched appeal as an actual object aside from reading, at least in my opinion, always being much more enjoyable from the page than it is from the screen.

The copy in my hands was published and bound in 1795. It has a badly deteriorated binding and cracked spine with it’s pages intact although a few are loose. On the opposite page of all illustration plates, there is an intriguing left impression of ghost images which have faded to a pleasing sepia tone and are really quite beautiful in their own right. I’ve always loved the language in which natural history book of this period are written and that this author refers to various species of animal as “their kind.” Various kinds of bird and amphibious creature are covered in the present volume.

Here is a passage on the Dodo. The author writes as though this species is still around at the time of publication. Whether that is true or not, his description gives some indication as to the reason for the poor bird’s past or future extinction. I’ve included photographs of the text. Larger more readable versions of all pictures are viewed by clicking through to my flickr account.

Tropical birds of the Oriole species and their manner of building nests.

In describing the inhabitants of the water, a class of animals occur, that mankind, from their place of residence, have been content to call fish; but that naturalists, from their formation, have justly agreed to be unworthy of the name. Indeed, the affinity many of these kind bear to the insect tribe, may very well plead for the historian who ranks them rather as insects. However, the common language of a country must not be slightly invaded; the names of things may remain, if the philosopher be careful to give precision to our ideas of them.

I first ran into this weird little doll about four years ago, close to when we moved here from Boston. He lived in a glass case in one of the local antique markets. I’m not really a doll person per se. I don’t collect them and I didn’t often play with them when I was little. I was always more interested in books, then and now. I have a few of Kerry Kate‘s lovely odd hand painted dolls, who now keep company with the formerly lonely vintage Palestinian rag doll. I think I had a Blythe doll once upon a time but I wasn’t attached enough to her to swear that she existed.

For some reason I became obsessed, absolutely obsessed, with the above pictured odd little antique bisque doll from (I think) the late 1800s. He has no eyes, no hair, messed up ghoulish little teeth, and wears a threadbare roughed up outfit comprised of a jacket that is clearly too small and big pants – voluminous felted wool pants – with Dutch wooden shoes instead of feet. I would go and stare at that doll every time we went to the antique markets hunting for books and talk myself out of buying him. He was expensive for an unfinished bisque doll and I’m not a collector of things. I don’t collect objects other than books related to my work.

I think I drove C.P. McDill crazy over that doll, fussing about the doll, obsessing about the doll, informing him repeatedly that I wanted the doll. I have no idea why I wanted it and I’m sure he was completely baffled. This went on for a few years. That’s right. Years! When Erzebet came along on one of our trips to the market (when was that?) and was shown the object of my obsession, she said “Hah!” out loud “You just want that doll for the BIG pants!” I just lost it laughing and could not stop. From then on the doll was known as the BIG pants doll. Shortly after her visit, I decided I should stop obsessing and just buy the doll. So off I went to collect my doll.

Of course, he was gone.

Gone!

I searched the entire market. I grilled every dealer. No one remembered the doll or knew where it went. I thought that strange. No one noticed it except me. I was crushed and I felt completely ridiculous for feeling so crushed over a doll. This happened years ago, whenever it was that Erzebet last visited. For these past few years I have wistfully examined the glass cases every time I visit the market, hoping to see the BIG pants doll not staring at me through its naked eye sockets and baring its nasty little teeth at me. Hah! I missed that homely little incomplete face. I know it seems so weird but there was just something about it that grabbed me. Obsessions. Attachments. These happenings are such a mystery.

Then on Friday, just a few days ago, we went to the markets and I did my usual thorough plunder and pillage of every interesting affordable dusty deteriorating old book I could find. When I was at the entrance, almost done with my wheeling and dealing, about to take home my pile of crumbling papers and boards, C.P. casually walked up to me and said “Your doll is back.” I said “What?! What doll?” He said “The doll with the BIG pants, the doll you liked.” I thought “What?! The doll I liked? Liked? Are you kidding me?” The man is a master of understatement.

I had not looked in the glass cases. I ran over and looked in them all. I didn’t see the doll. I thought C.P. was messing with me but there it was on a low shelf way in the corner on a stand that said “For Display Only” Oh no! I asked if the doll had been there all along and the consensus was that it had just shown up after being on tour with the dealer who owned it. She had used it for a display and never sold it. Usually, when I fuss about whether or not to buy something, and I lose the chance, it ends up being a momentary disappointment and ultimately (as my friend Lisa pointed out when I told her this story) it is a relief. This was different. I just knew. I always had a feeling that doll would be mine and now it is. I am happy to have the doll. However, I still have no idea why I wanted it in the first place.

Found and constructed objects. Charms for making, to keep the connection between hand and heart, to inspire a light touch and unburdened memory, a simultaneously focused and detached response to a wild flow of ideas and an overwhelming abundance of materials. Finishing a work of art is all about letting go.

Patin’d silver metal bezel and chain and vintage charm. The image is a hand painted paper tile is an original work of art comprised of vintage paper, ink, and oil paint glaze to resemble the palimpsest of illuminated manuscripts.

Three favorite photographs of artists’ gardens from a book that I am parting with. I have this long standing practice that for every object I bring into this house, I must part with an equivalent object, usually a book for a book, a clothing item for a similar clothing item, etc.

John Ruskin

Edward Augustus Bowles

Derek Jarman

I have in my hands this small fabulous book from 1835 titled “The Young Reader”, so well rubbed in all the right ways that it is an artifact of sculptural elegance. The content is as fascinating as it’s current presentation. When I look through early readers such as this one, I don’t have to wonder why certain authorities seem determined to eradicate their existence.

There are currently attempts to pass ridiculous “Nanny State” laws which seek the physical destruction of such wonderful objects and the complete removal of their content from circulation. The value of such a book is not just in the obvious charm of aged paper, a young artist’s scribbles, and whimsical yet technically proficient illustrations. The value is also contained in the artfully chosen collection of stories, poems, and lessons.

The lessons contained therein do not attempt to dumb down or disney-fy (Fie!) certain aspects of reality. There is an odd and effecting mix of grittiness and sentimentality presenting a common sense wisdom. The young readers are addressed with respect for their intelligence, potential, and emotional fortitude. They are assumed to be capable of learning self sufficiency. This particular copy was once owned by Henrietta Henrietta who seemed determined to master the letter “y” with sepia toned ink and a feather pen. She has delightfully decorated a wee treasure containing an eclectic mix of literature, fables, and moral tales which also happen to encourage basic reading and comprehension skills.

These older books have become popular with home schoolers and educators who are fed up with the neurosis-inducing thin skinned political correctness and vapid spiritless mind-numbing nonsense favored by our current system of education. Why would the gatekeepers of culture and so-called “education” feel threatened by this material? There could be lead in the books they so claim. Lead my left butt cheek. This is pure gold.

Whether it is because so few writers of talent have undertaken to furnish good materials for a compilation like this, or whether there is a great intrinsic difficulty in writing for children so as to be instructive without being dull, and simple without being silly, it may not be certain. But it is certain, that but a few writers have been happy in the production of pieces interesting and profitable to very young children. – John Pierpont

My child, what a good thing it is that you can read! A little while ago, you know, you could only read very small words; and you were forced to spell them all, thus c, a, t, cat; d, o, g, dog.

Now you can read pretty stories, with a little help, and by and by, if you take a good deal of pains, you will be able to read them without help.

When you can read in a book, by yourself, it will be easy for you to learn a good many things, and amuse yourself and your friends by reading, and make yourself learned, and good, and happy.

See here I have got a book, that has a good many stories in it, and a good many pictures, too, that will help you to understand the stories better.

The stories, and the verses have been made by some good friends of children. They knew a great deal, and wished to have all the little boys and girls have good books to read in, to make them wiser and better.

The first story in this book is about a foolish little lamb, that would not mind her mother. And the story is meant to show that little children, as well as little lambs, should always mind their parents, and seek their advice.

The full story of The Cats Who Went To Law.

The full story of The Sagacious Goose.

The full story is behind the cut.

Here you go. I typed it as it was. (Hopefully) Note: emblematical, eyeing and under tone ?

The Sagacious Goose

Many persons seem to think that a goose is a bird that has neither wit nor wisdom. They laugh at the poor harmless animal and seem to consider it good for nothing but to be stripped of its feathers, for our beds, and to be roasted for our dinners.

Indeed the goose has become proverbial for its stupidity, and emblematical of a dunce; for we often hear a dull boy, or a simpleton of a man, called a goose; and the old proverb says, “If all fools wore white caps, they would look like a flock of geese.”

Now this is doing great wrong to this useful and valuable bird, which after all, has received from its Maker as much wisdom as it wants for its own use, and it sometimes has some left for the use of us owners.

The city of Rome was once saved from destruction by the cackling of a goose, which wisely kept awake when the army of the Gauls was going to attack it, and when all the inhabitants had foolishly gone to sleep.

And the story that I am now going to tell you, gives still stronger proof that a goose is sometimes a more sensible bird than he passes for.

“I have known one,” says Mrs. Hall,–” a snowy gander,–who formed a singular and devoted attachment to a gentleman, and never deserted his side, if he could avoid it.

“When the gentleman rode, the poor bird ran or flew after him. When he walked, it strolled along also; and refused food, even when pressed by hunger, except from his master’s hand.

“At dinner time he used to sit patiently outside of the window that opened upon the lawn, eyeing his protector; and standing first on one leg, and then upon the other.

“But the greatest proof of superior intellect that he evinced, was one afternoon, when following his master through some marshy ground that skirted a neighboring bog; the gentleman, trusting to his knowledge of the dangerous district, did not take heed to his way as he ought and presently found himself sinking into a bog hole.

“The efforts he made to get out, only sunk him deeper, and he must have been inevitably swamped, had he not crossed his fowling-piece over two fallen trees, one on each side of him, and held fast by that, although he had not strength enough to free himself from the thick mud, and the rank, tangled weeds.

“His faithful dog seeing his master in this dilemma trotted off for assistance; and the gander, after walking around him, stretching his neck, and cackling in an under tone, at length raised himself into the air, and flew round and round over his head, making, at the same time, the loudest noise that he could.

“This attracted some turf-cutters to the spot and the gentleman was extricated from the bog, before his servants, alarmed by Rover’s having come home without his master, had time to come to his assistance.

“Nothing could exceed the poor gander’s delight when he saw his friend again at liberty. He rubbed himself, like a cat, against his legs, shook his wings and cackled with much glee, and I can say that, for the remainder of his life, he was treated with that high respect which was due to his eminent services.”

I trust we shall hear no more from silly or mischievous boys, about the stupidity of a goose, until they will tell us how, if they had been in the situation of this gander, they would have contrived better than he did.

Lesson Eighty-Fourth from The Young Reader