Following on from Laura's blog here I did wonder about leaving a comment, but felt I had more space on my own blog. All this stems from another blog where an artist, a TOH Affiliate Artist, had angered a visitor to her own exhibition/gallery at Festival of Quilts.
Basically, it was a strong initial reaction based on the surmise that a female artist was perpetuating a negative representation of women. I believe the viewer didn't identify with the portrayal of middle aged women as a voiceless homogenous mass. Do follow the links if you wish, and draw your own conclusions from the posting and the comments. Kudos to the artist. In the words of Joyce Carol Oates, “art should not be comforting; for comfort, we have mass entertainment and one another. Art should provoke, disturb, arouse our emotions, expand our sympathies in directions we may not anticipate and may not even wish.”
But because of that reaction, I thought I'd also share this: when I was stewarding the Through Our Hands gallery at Festival of Quilts, a woman I know very slightly, came up to me and told me that she didn't like my current work but preferred the stuff "I used to do; the abstract colourful stuff". She was very generous in her praise of the lovely colours I "used to use" - which softens the fact that I had been told that the same person had said that my Life Story quilts are perverted. (A Poisonous Plant perhaps?!!)
Of course, to my mind, she's missed the point entirely. The fact that someone could use the genre of a quilt to make a political or personal statement - and that wasn't "something you'd want to hang in your living room" - was entirely alien to her, but she's not alone in her view. That's fine. Everyone is entitled to their viewpoint but how unkind.
Without wishing to bore you again, we all know the problems I've had getting my quilts viewed at quilt shows, on pinterest, in magazines etc - the fact they've needed to be shown behind curtaining, (for goodness sake) or are not suitable for main stream shows by the likes of Grosvenor Exhibitions for example. (You would have sympathy if a business was worried that showing them might affect their profits, but that is unlikely given visitor numbers from exhibitions where they've been shown elsewhere, no, that's not it, they're actually censoring you because I'm deemed not suitable for your delicate sensibilities. Perhaps they're right!! Very sad.)
It's hard as an artist to keep going in the face of such negativity; to battle forward with an idea when others are seemingly unconcerned about the consequences of their critical views. If your work puts forward or highlights an idea that others disagree with, who says you have to be strong and take their reactions like a punch on the chin? It's also kind of vital for all of us, that artists feel they have the freedom to continue to challenge. To accept criticism and understand others is an important part of the creative process, but not if it makes someone afraid to speak their mind. We have to be little careful not to wound I think. It always amazes me that there is a detachment between the work and the artist, as if one is fair game and it doesn't affect the other.
I leave you with yet another image of Life 4 - Hello Dear What Did You Do Today.
The words on it (printed underneath the picture and I'd be really honoured if you found the time and energy to read them) remind me constantly of how safe, well fed, middle class, middle aged, and white I am, and the truth that women over 50, despite being strong, powerful, ambitious, or whatever, are also a lot of the time, invisible, through no fault of their own.
We don't have to do chores if we don't want to, or have children, (and that's not true for all cultures even in this country) but someone has to take the responsibility of caring, and for women of my generation, ignoring the basic instincts they may have, they have always had the societal pressure that it will be them. It's hard to go against how you've been bought up.
"Here we are at home says Daddy.
Basically, it was a strong initial reaction based on the surmise that a female artist was perpetuating a negative representation of women. I believe the viewer didn't identify with the portrayal of middle aged women as a voiceless homogenous mass. Do follow the links if you wish, and draw your own conclusions from the posting and the comments. Kudos to the artist. In the words of Joyce Carol Oates, “art should not be comforting; for comfort, we have mass entertainment and one another. Art should provoke, disturb, arouse our emotions, expand our sympathies in directions we may not anticipate and may not even wish.”
Of course, to my mind, she's missed the point entirely. The fact that someone could use the genre of a quilt to make a political or personal statement - and that wasn't "something you'd want to hang in your living room" - was entirely alien to her, but she's not alone in her view. That's fine. Everyone is entitled to their viewpoint but how unkind.
Without wishing to bore you again, we all know the problems I've had getting my quilts viewed at quilt shows, on pinterest, in magazines etc - the fact they've needed to be shown behind curtaining, (for goodness sake) or are not suitable for main stream shows by the likes of Grosvenor Exhibitions for example. (You would have sympathy if a business was worried that showing them might affect their profits, but that is unlikely given visitor numbers from exhibitions where they've been shown elsewhere, no, that's not it, they're actually censoring you because I'm deemed not suitable for your delicate sensibilities. Perhaps they're right!! Very sad.)
It's hard as an artist to keep going in the face of such negativity; to battle forward with an idea when others are seemingly unconcerned about the consequences of their critical views. If your work puts forward or highlights an idea that others disagree with, who says you have to be strong and take their reactions like a punch on the chin? It's also kind of vital for all of us, that artists feel they have the freedom to continue to challenge. To accept criticism and understand others is an important part of the creative process, but not if it makes someone afraid to speak their mind. We have to be little careful not to wound I think. It always amazes me that there is a detachment between the work and the artist, as if one is fair game and it doesn't affect the other.
I leave you with yet another image of Life 4 - Hello Dear What Did You Do Today.
The words on it (printed underneath the picture and I'd be really honoured if you found the time and energy to read them) remind me constantly of how safe, well fed, middle class, middle aged, and white I am, and the truth that women over 50, despite being strong, powerful, ambitious, or whatever, are also a lot of the time, invisible, through no fault of their own.
We don't have to do chores if we don't want to, or have children, (and that's not true for all cultures even in this country) but someone has to take the responsibility of caring, and for women of my generation, ignoring the basic instincts they may have, they have always had the societal pressure that it will be them. It's hard to go against how you've been bought up.
Life 4 - "Hello Dear, What Did You Do Today?"
The words stitched on this quilt are as follows:
Well dear, I worried. I had coffee this morning. Coffee is the second most valuable legal commodity after oil but is largely grown by subsistence farmers and I forgot to buy Fair Trade.
Then I took our grandchildren to school. Did you know that 90% of all childcare still rests on women's backs.
On the way to the hated supermarket to buy food, I saw that lady from the house by the park in her burkha who everyone says is lonely and abused but can't tell the police in case her family is deported, and thought about the veiling and seclusion of women and the cult of virginity and the death penalty for women's adultery, and tried to imagine what it was like to be killed with stones. I thought of rape and how under Shar'ia law a rape victim needs four male witnesses to substantiate her testimony. In the west we might just say she's making the whole thing up. I thought how rape could end if men just stopped doing it.
Then I had my hair done and looked in the mirror and saw how old I was. When you get old you cease to exist, people just don't seem to see you any more. Perhaps I should lose weight or wear high heels to make me taller and show off my legs. Perhaps my nose needs altering or I could get my ears pierced or my teeth whitened. This made me think of trying to look nice and how idd this was when 140 million women have been circumcised and cruelly mutilated because it reduces libido and prevents promiscuity. No, I'll just bleach and perm my hair and put on false eyelashes and shave myt legs and pad my bra, and file and paint my toenails. I'd best skip lunch or I'll get fat.
I pottered about the garden and planted some lettuce. I thought of the women who make up over 50% of the world's population yet only hold the title to 1% of the land, and produce more than half it's food. They work 2/3rds of the world's working hours but receive 10% of the world's income.
Then I collected the grandchildren from school and took them to cubs and ballet and thought of childbearing and the way fertility can be controlled, like the 35% of all Puerto Rican woman that were sterilized by the US Agency for Development.
Then I paid a visit to that frail neighbour who The Meals On Wheels lady told me about. She's sad and alone because her family have had to move to search for work and she's frightened and doesn't want to go into residential care but she's in the system and thinks no one is listening.
Then I came home to do the cleaning and the cooking, sort out the clothes and do the washing, and remembered what the Ladybird books taught me in school.
Well dear, I worried. I had coffee this morning. Coffee is the second most valuable legal commodity after oil but is largely grown by subsistence farmers and I forgot to buy Fair Trade.
Then I took our grandchildren to school. Did you know that 90% of all childcare still rests on women's backs.
On the way to the hated supermarket to buy food, I saw that lady from the house by the park in her burkha who everyone says is lonely and abused but can't tell the police in case her family is deported, and thought about the veiling and seclusion of women and the cult of virginity and the death penalty for women's adultery, and tried to imagine what it was like to be killed with stones. I thought of rape and how under Shar'ia law a rape victim needs four male witnesses to substantiate her testimony. In the west we might just say she's making the whole thing up. I thought how rape could end if men just stopped doing it.
Then I had my hair done and looked in the mirror and saw how old I was. When you get old you cease to exist, people just don't seem to see you any more. Perhaps I should lose weight or wear high heels to make me taller and show off my legs. Perhaps my nose needs altering or I could get my ears pierced or my teeth whitened. This made me think of trying to look nice and how idd this was when 140 million women have been circumcised and cruelly mutilated because it reduces libido and prevents promiscuity. No, I'll just bleach and perm my hair and put on false eyelashes and shave myt legs and pad my bra, and file and paint my toenails. I'd best skip lunch or I'll get fat.
I pottered about the garden and planted some lettuce. I thought of the women who make up over 50% of the world's population yet only hold the title to 1% of the land, and produce more than half it's food. They work 2/3rds of the world's working hours but receive 10% of the world's income.
Then I collected the grandchildren from school and took them to cubs and ballet and thought of childbearing and the way fertility can be controlled, like the 35% of all Puerto Rican woman that were sterilized by the US Agency for Development.
Then I paid a visit to that frail neighbour who The Meals On Wheels lady told me about. She's sad and alone because her family have had to move to search for work and she's frightened and doesn't want to go into residential care but she's in the system and thinks no one is listening.
Then I came home to do the cleaning and the cooking, sort out the clothes and do the washing, and remembered what the Ladybird books taught me in school.
"Here we are at home says Daddy.
Peter helps Daddy with the car, and Jane helps Mummy get the tea.
Good girl, says Mummy to Jane. You are a good girl to help me
like this."
like this."
When I had our children I worked part time for 20 years without sick pay or a pension and tried to nurture you all in sickness and life, and help keep everyone fed and educated. If an Englishman's home is his castle why doesn't he clean it. Only 3% of PLC Directors in Britain are women and only 4% of judges. 78% of all clerical workers are women, but only 11% are managers.
Then I started to work on my quilt, and you're reading it now. Women artists only earn 1/3 of male artists. So I stopped and made your tea. That's how I spent my day,
dear, how about you?
Then I started to work on my quilt, and you're reading it now. Women artists only earn 1/3 of male artists. So I stopped and made your tea. That's how I spent my day,
dear, how about you?
A reaction
4/
5
Oleh
Unknown
