Valerie Asks...

Valerie pointed out to this post on Layers of Meaning by Serena Fenton, saying questions asked here sound like some asked at Randy's recent Penland workshop. The artist who first posed these questions, Kay WalkingStick, is a painter, and for me Question 8 is a bit of a "huh?!", but it never hurts to ask.

WeaveCast

The first time I was ever told of WeaveCast, there were only a couple of files, and I thought I needed a cute iPod to listen. Over the months I have visited and downloaded however many files there were on the day, but until recently I had only 30 gigs of hard drive, so whenever I had a big photo or editing project, I had to zap them.

But fear not, I now have 120 gigs, so today I downloaded everything, again, mainly because the latest installment is by Bonnie Inouye. I haven't listened to any of them yet, as it took me half a day to download, but the links and references on the web site look more plentiful that in the early days. Well done, Syne Mitchell; such a lot of work.

So, at the risk of preaching to the choir, if you haven't checked it, do. You don't need a cute iPod, just software like Media Player, RealPlayer, QuickTime, etc., (readily available if you don't have one) to listen.

I couldn't help myself; I asked Syne to get Randy to talk about the time he rethought of his mission as an art teacher - I need big memory gaps filled.

Joy Weave

I have two floor looms: the 16-shaft computer-controlled, and the 4-shaft jack used at the defunct Nelson Polytechnic Weaving School, which with other looms sat in storage for over a decade, and which I've had for seven years. When I weave cashmeres, I use the jack because of the shorter loom waste. More importantly, however, when I first started buying cashmere yarns, I tested out a few structures, and found 2/2 twill at around 15EPI best brought out the deliciously soft/light characteristics of the yarn and still held the structures stably. This way, I can throw a nice eight meter cashmere warp any time and whip up these creamy tiny scarves, even if I'm toiling and troubling over on the 16-wheeler. (Although some day, I would like to weave a cashmere warp on the multishaft, for sure.)

I love the freedom of a simple floor loom, and the ability to design as I go. Treadling and watching an unplanned structure appear is liberating. I even rethread before the eight meters is up to have a little fun some times. It also exercises my mind, because even on 4-shafts, I still want to weave fussy cloth, as I do on the big loom. Thus far, changing colors and switching the direction of the threading and treadling have been the main components of my cashmere designs, but I think I might try something else soon. Maybe undulation. Or something else.

This warp is in two lime greens; one so pale it's almost a nuanced white. Today I finished one with a weft of a third lime cashmere/silk mix, and started the second scarf with yellow-green cashmere weft. Sometimes, though, no matter how I twist my neck or hold my tongue, I can't see the structure, and then I come upstairs and check it on the computer.

Case in point: I'm quarter of the way through with the yellow-green, but I'm seeing the structure for the first time now. Phew, I don't hate it. But the florescent lights and colors in photos... &^%$#@!!

I Couldn't Help It / SSVE Warp

This is plenty embarrassing, but I suppose I should post this one here as well. Just so you don't think I'm on some chemically-induced rage-trip. (I had 1/2 of a 600ml bottle of Coke for the first time in over 18 months some considerable hours after "the incident".)

Anyway, it'll be a enthralling topic to analyze during the next Nancy Time.

* * *

This Mr Patt, (not Pratt, as I mistook in the first instance - and it was unintentional because I did know a Linda Pratt in high school, a junior who started dating one in our group, Jim Hoffman, suspiciously close to our Senior Prom,) was ruining my weekend and sanity, so I couldn't help it, I googled him, and found his profile photo. Not sure how these two web sites differ or are positioned, here and here, but a man with a face like this cannot be a bad guy, I concluded. Unless he's using one of his Good Twin's pics.

He still thinks I got huffy and puffy because he looked into and commented on a private conversation, whereas I say he was missing the spirit in which the letter/my post was written; I wasn't writing a serious treatise (gosh, my spell-checker isn't working!!) about the ethical and professional responsibilities of an e-v-e-n-t organizer. I know I'm not stupid enough to post a genuinely personal letter on Blogger, but of course he doesn't.

Never mind; I offered truce, and I'm sure he won't be back because I'm not including words he likes to search. Case closed.

* * *

Meanwhile, I've been trying to rework my SSVE warp because I can get two or three more from the warp. The cloth came out as I hoped it would, like a more delicate version of a coat fabric, but I'm not sure about its hand/drape, and it weights a ton compared to my normal scarves I choke every time I look at it!! It will undoubtedly soften with use, but I dug into my silk box for skinny silks, and sampled two.

I'm not crazy about either samples after washing and pressing. I'm just wondering it's the 21EPI sett for 11/02 (which I learned is roughly 7/2 in the US?) merino with scales, but I don't want to give up without further investigating, so I'm leaving the sett alone, and looking for other weft candidates.

A Piece of Humble Pie

Having lost my natural cool this morning, I went off huffed and puffed to the Refinery to help Lloyd and co. receive the Nelson Regional Art Awards entries. Jeanette and I were to do the form/money/receipting, and Lloyd and Scooter unwrapped and put serial numbers on all entries.

I was a little worried at first because the receiving process was a tad more complicated than I had imagined, and tried to streamline the activities, but Jeanette had her own ideas, which naturally were entirely different from mine. I was starting to get cross, but after a while, I took my own advice and did it her way and it worked a treat. Of course my way would have, too, but heck, all four of us were happy at the end. We were able to correct errors as we worked, and ended up saving someone else's time at a later stage.

Jeanette told me not to hesitate to ask people to wait while I did my part; this I find hard to do as my Japanese instinct kicks in, (or I see a red light flashing), but she's right and artists weren't impatient. So I had a piece of humble pie, but I'm also patting myself on the back, because her way, my way, it didn't matter in the end, and truth to tell, they weren't all that different.

I go back on Monday to do another stint; Jeanette won't be there, but we'll stick to her way.

If You Think Failing Art in First Grade is Bad...

There was something else before that, and I wrote about it at the recent writing workshop. Because it started out as therapy for my eyes only, it's an untidy piece of writing, and then we were to read one piece in front of others, so I had to put in more details about the US for my Kiwi audience. I haven't been able to tidy this up because I can't decide for whom I'm writing, but it's all true. You think I have problems, it stems partially from a very bad start in my academic life.

* * *

In Japan, children start school in April preceding their seventh birthday, or in the April the child turns seven if the child’s birthday is in April. I would have started school in April 1965 if I were in Japan, but my parents planned to stay in the US, so I was scheduled to start school in September 1964. In the early months of that year, only vaguely aware of the shocking assassination of a prince-president and knowing nothing of the war in Asia, I blissfully attended Casa Elizabeth Seton, a picturesque Catholic kindergarten in Tucson, Arizona. I loved making pictures, singing songs and doing the may pole dance. I fought with Michelle Lupo in the back of my mother’s black and white 61 Chevy until Mother stopped the car and told the two of us to "Get out and walk the rest of the way home!" I could say my alphabets and knew how to spell half a dozen words, and I was learning a little bit of Spanish. And for some reason, my Dad was mighty proud of his little girl being two-and-a-bit-lingual.

Abruptly in August 1965, for reasons I was unaware of at the time, my parents decided to return to Japan. That summer, my loving and well-meaning aunts and uncles bought me American picture books, which I don’t know where they purchased back in those days, sat me amidst my cousins, some of whom didn’t remember who I was and waited for me to read the books out loud. I felt the expectation unreasonable; I hadn’t started school, so why should I know how to read? But I felt my much older cousins impressed with this stranger possessing powers beyond her years, so I had to step up. I can still recall their round faces caging me in, huge round eyes staring, everybody holding their breath in awe.

I would open the book, glance at the page, close the book again knowingly, and retold the story in Japanese, because “You all wouldn’t understand it if I read it to you in English, would you, and why do you need to look at the pictures when I’m telling you what the story is all about!” I carried the mounting pile of books obligingly everywhere I went, making sure they knew that I was the gifted one.

It was a torturous, humid summer, being the center of the clan’s hot tiny universe. Cousins from afar stayed at my grandparent’s house and the rest lived at the end of the street. This was the start of their summer break, and they set their naked childish curiosity on me. So everybody got together every single day, and I took upon myself to carry the burden of the main attraction for their summer break. To my great relief, however, the Tokyo Olympic Games started mid-August, and my cousins’ interest in me waned, and I found a comfortable spot being just one of the grandkids in front of my grandfather’s television.

My parents must have been relieved the timing of our return was not disruptive to the commencement of my academic career, as there was plenty of time to enroll me in a respectable “mission” school. Prior to the entrance exams and interviews to my mother’s Alma Meta, and its smaller but academically superior sister school in October, my parents were instructed not to teach me reading, writing and arithmetic by the schools, so my inclinations and potentials could be accurately assessed during the screening. And like idiots, they obeyed.

When my prestigious school finally started the following April, I discovered that everybody in class could read Japanese fluently. That, I understood immediately and felt appropriately miserable. But these girls could do more, something else entirely beyond my comprehension. Mr Eto would ask the class to sing the first line, and my class mates duly chirped, “doh, doh, so, so, la, la, so”, and I did not know if I was on the same page or even the book as the rest of the class. It took me a few weeks to learn that they were reading the funny little black and white dots, some with tails, some without, hanging in every which way like laundry on clothes line. These girls were reading music.

Thus my academic career started with a solid, unshakable mutual understanding by both my teachers and myself that I was not a chosen one, and in a matter of eight months, at age 7 years few weeks, I had been transformed from being two-and-bit-lingual, to illiterate in three different languages.

Nancy Time / Pat Time

I am so happy today. I had some Nancy time in the morning, and among other things she showed me her Interlac felted bag. (Synchronicity, Deep End!!)

She got a pattern and started to knit Interlac but felt it would be too heavy as a scarf, and Pat, I think, suggested Nancy felt it. It's in deliciously delicate colors and a yummy bag.

She was also wearing a new knit necklace - she knitted what's called Sari Silk around here - it's like a fat chenille yarn made up of sari fabric offcuts. Nancy time is precious even without the textile treats, but boy, this was an added bonus.

Then in the afternoon I had a strategic meeting with Pat regarding the kind of scarves and "packaging" for Santa Fe. I'm exhilarated and terrified at once, but if I don't try, I won't get anywhere, and I don't have to negotiate face-to-face, so that's a big relief.

I feel terribly selfish because Nancy and Pat know each other and I could have easily organized for all of us to get together, but I hadn't seen Nancy in weeks and I'd never gotten together with Pat before so I wanted to make both special. And they were. I hope Pat Time becomes a regular feature in my life, too. Or Pat-and-Nancy-time; wow, that's like drugs...

Sorry, no pics of Pat today; I was busy trying to remember all her suggestions.

Organizing Events

In the mid to late 20th Century, I ran events and also staffed computer help desks, among many other things. A friend of mine just carried out a major event as part of a team, and she was crushed at some of the scathing remarks targeted at her. This is something I know about, so I wrote the following reminder for her, and thought I'd share it with you. (READ: sometimes I want to convince you that I used to be a bit saner.)

Do keep in mind that this has nothing to do with SSVE, you've all be so wonderful. But this is one of my few original truisms, and it works particularly well when you are heading a group of volunteers. So here goes:

Running Events & Responding to Complaints

Statisticians say something like 20% of the attendees will give you feedback, both good and bad, if you ask. This is a lie; people seldom take the trouble to give you good, meaningful feedback and we as organizers tend to remember only rude people. This is the same as people never ringing the computer help desk to report their computer is running fine, or email HR to thank them for being paid promptly.

Of the 20% who give feedback, about 20% have constructive ideas. These are the ones you want to pick up, and it's easier if you ask them directly what they mean, rather than you or The Committee interpreting or guessing. But by no means are you obligated to take up any of these good ideas; do it only if you/The Committee want/s to.

There are those who thrive on criticizing, and this is the social/therapeutic contribution of events that is seldom mentioned. You are providing them a place to voice their uneducated, inconsiderate, ill-conceived, inappropriate or disproportionate reactions, to make them feel important. This is their problems.

However, one of the tactics to avert unpleasantness is to ask for details of their feedback as if you believe their feedback matters, let them cite actionable/practical suggestions, and thank them profusely. Even if they are rehashing an issue that The Committee thoroughly discussed and ruled against, do not explain this. Sometimes it is possible to win people over in this manner, and they become your converts, (because you were wise enough to listen to them), but do not try this unless 1) you can be bothered, 2) there are no dire, real issues on hand, and 3) you sense they'll come back and reprimand you for not acting on their suggestions.

Or you can smile like an idiot and utter niceties and get on with the job.

Occasionally, crazy people have bright ideas, too. But very occasionally.

Think what people are going to remember in a few months. Unless your event is plagued by food poisoning or fire, they are going to remember the merits of the content of the main event.

But anything you touch tends to turn into gold anyway, (name), and the organization and the event will start to run itself after about two runs, unless The Committee decides to destroy it. Events is a team sport, so give way to other Committee Members where you can hold on to your sanity in spite of their bad decisions. By Event 3, you'll know how to quietly work in the background to prevent most disasters. If all else fails, quit The Committee, and become a paid member, and rant and rave. If you need a lesson in ranting in raving, my dear (name), ring me.

Figure Drawing

On May 2, I started my 10-week course on figure drawing.

A few years ago, if you suggested I take a figure drawing course, I would have laughed so loud you'd think me mad. But the last design workshop made me semi-fearless, and besides, I've known teacher Ronette Pickering, ex-weaver and ex-weaving teacher, for over a decade, and I thought it's high time I paid for all the neat fear-of-drawing-busting ideas she'd given me. So on Friday mornings, I've been going to class.

Ronette has a great reputation for enabling non-drawers to get cracking, and I was wondering how the dynamics of our relationship would change, but it hasn't changed at all. In fact, so many of the students are her friends, so there's a nice, small-party like atmosphere, and half of her past students read like who's who of Nelson artists.

The instructions are clear and we are shown lots of examples of the technique we're supposed to learn. This term the focus is on contours and tones, and I'm so glad I've started here because tone (value) has been one of the big fish bones stuck in my throat (now, that's a Japanese description!) when in comes to designing my weaving. I didn't know that this was part of a full year course, so on Day 1, I signed up for the next term, because mere 10 weeks could not make ma a hobby drawer, I thought.

My drawing are pretty bad, though. I still draw much of what I think I see and not what I do see but don't know I'm seeing. But there is that liberating feeling of doing something new without expectations, and I think I might be having more fun than those who have been drawing and have certain expectations. And like anything else, I find that a couple of hours of practice in between Friday mornings help in reducing the initial "Yikes" feel in the classroom.

The strangest thing I've learned is that we don't see the human body as a person, but as a form. The first couple of weeks I kept thinking about the criticism on rap music and the objectivization of women. In a figure drawing class, though, the models are not people, but different shapes of objects. And women are far more interesting because of the curves, and buxom women are undoubtedly the most beautiful. It was quite a strange thing to get my head around, but because we're looking at curves and shades, very quickly I got used to it and didn't feel too embarrassed, until one week we had a guy.

Last week in May, the model was a little late so we were standing around waiting for her. That's my new mate, Ron. It's a little harder for Ron because he's polite and doesn't want to stare at women models, so his drawings tend to be small.

One week we made contours of faces using a thin piece of wire. Ronette gave me an extra length, so I did Ben's face that night while he was watching the TV. I had a little bit left, so I stuck a heart at the top of his head, because at that moment, he was mad at me for something or rather. My wire work went so much better than my drawing; I liked the more direct approach of bending the wire.

Mean Blogger

Not Connie, but Blogger, you understand.