Monday was a chance for me to indulge in the two obsessions that cost me the most pocket money in the last couple of years: the comedian Richard Herring, and patchwork quilts. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep the night before. There can’t be many people who would be so overcome by the thought of some old bedding and an internet sketch show. Just as well I’m not a fan of Metallica and cocaine. I may need to get my life into perspective.
Quilts is a temporary exhibition at the V&A museum, London. I was looking forward to seeing for real the work that I had only seen in books. They had many famous historical pieces on display, as well as some contemporary art. I’ve been thinking a lot about stitching lately. The stars quilt that is Nina’s going-to-college gift is sandwiched now. I hope that the back is square with the front, but there doesn’t seem to be any way to tell. It would help if the front was even, but it isn’t and there’s no way of correcting it now. The star quilt didn’t start out as something for Nina. I think I began it three or four years ago, with the vague thought that it might be a sofa throw (it has dark blue in it that was intended to go with the living room). Mostly it began because I wanted to have something to do with my hands while I watched TV, the top is kite shapes worked around papers cut from old envelopes and junk mail. As I went on with it, Nina took to it, so we decided it could be hers. She picked the fabric for the borders and back.
At the exhibition, I was struck most by the volume of people. It was an unremarkable Monday and yet the rooms were crowded, mostly with women. In the way in which, the other day, I realised I was now on the upper age demographic for New Look, so I realised here that I was at last within the median. I’m not used to that. Until now, I’ve been about the youngest at every sewing event I’ve attended. It was quite nice not to stand out. Although I was overtired, having been badly affected by soporific travel sickness tablets once again, I had a good look around. It was quite a difficult exhibition to see. To protect the art, the lighting was hopelessly low. Clearly, things can’t be touched, so it wasn’t possible to look at the backs of the quilts (which is of key interest to a quilter). I had looked forward to seeing the Tracy Emin work, To Meet My Past, but it had been positioned badly so that it could only be seen from the front, end on. There were several of us ageing biddies shuffling and muttering politely. Did the other sensibly shod women think ‘Oh, for fucks sake’, but not vocalise it? Probably not, judging by the titters at the inscription of 'weird sex' at the head. It's proper art though, supposed to represent Emin's dark past, and an honest thing, in my very humble opinion.
Lots of what I saw has stayed with me. Almost everything was made with smaller pieces and thicker fabric than I had imagined. I also hadn’t previously taken into account that almost everything, all the way up to the early 20th century was designed by drawing out lifesize on paper, cutting out, wrapping fabric over, and whip stitching back together. This makes things stunningly accurate, but would have been slow, slow, slow. I was also impressed that pre the era of cotton, people thought nothing of combining fabrics as diverse as silk, wool, linen, and velvet, all in the same work. This goes far against current received wisdom to use fabrics of equal weight.
Highlights? I enjoyed seeing Joanna Southcott’s quilt. She was a religious nut, convinced that she would give birth to the new messiah. Refused admission to court, she cursed the king with every stitch. I had heard of her before, but it was a thrill to stand within a foot of her stitches, her anger radiating from those floral prints. I enjoyed sitting on a bench amongst the Welsh quilts that were peaceful in their plainness, listening to the voice of a woman who had been part of a group which worked them, selling them on to London Hotels to make a few pence for food. There was a kind of resigned tranquility there, at least, that was how I imagined them. I couldn’t see much of it, but I liked Tracey Emin’s bed the best of the modern work, and I wouldn’t mind seeing more of her stuff given the opportunity.
Coming away, I felt my own poor work connecting with the past. I think that the value of a quilt is in the making. The slowness is for thinking, and for distraction. Quilts were always made over a long period, so they get imbued with what was going on around them. Nina’s quilt has some of the sludge browns and bright reds that I bought at the depths of my depression but that were stitched in good times, it has the blue of the TV room of her teenage years, the blue tie died fabric from Bali speaks fo our shared hippiness and of Cornish seas. It is laid out even now on the table upon which we eat Christmas dinner. It is us, and our time in this house. I came to the decision that I will hand quilt (I had previously thought I might send it out for machining, or at least machine it myself) in simple lines, but I‘ll enjoy the over and under of the needle better. I hope she uses it until it is a mess ot threadbare darns and patches. The exhibition quilts (especially the ones made for patriotic reasons) were pristine. Good to for the 21st century to see, but what a waste for the stitcher left squinting and blistered. Maybe after years of making to commemorate a coronation long over, their work seemed too dated, or maybe they couldn't indulge in fallatio under the face of the reigning monarch.
Later on in the day, I found the perfect quote for the back of the stars quilt. I can’t tell you though, it will be a secret until the last stitch.
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