Quilting traditions and global patchwork and a lot of rain

Everyone I know knows I knit and love to have several WIPs in hand. however, I must confess to a secret envy of they who can sew. Yes, I put it in an archaic and convoluted form but I long for a sewing machine of my own. I hated hand sewing as a child, so I find my new found love bewildering at times but there you are. Looking deep into what is and deconstructing fabric, stitches and cuts is so much fun. I suppose that is why I am so interested in machine quilting. Yet another way to showcase my quirky self of style. Way back when we were kids, my mum would send her old and worn saris to the tailor to have quilts made of them. They were pretty in a way- mine was of this deep blue silk with paisley/floral patterns on- but not unique except in the sense that no one else I knew had that same sari!

I wonder if you have seen the movie- "How to make an all American quilt". I saw it several years ago and the heirloom quilt, with all the various threads of the subplots neatly sewn in (haha, I put that rather neatly myself) was good to see.

so was the quilting exhibit at the Newark museum.

It seems that rain and I have an old affinity. Half of my stories start with too much rain or not enough of it. I love rain, the wet mist on my face, damp hair, the smell of the earth, squelching through mud with closed shoes on, watching it draw patterns on my window. I love Indian rain, that is, soft and warm and never freezing, never icy, welcome coolness after the summer heat. This cold, freezing rain we get there is too different for me to relate. Too icy for me to like. Too alien for me to embrace. On such days, I curl up with a nice cuppa tea and a good book or a nice warm knit. I cook hot soups and stews. I do not go out.

So it is mildly surprising that I trudged the wet and puddly way to the museum. Of course, I dare not have gone alone. I wouldn't have gone to Newark alone anyway, but the rain, ah, well, it kind of knocks the stuffing out of me sometimes. If it hadn't been for K and C, well, I'm glad we did go. Also, I am glad I was accompanied by accomplished and experienced sewers. I've seen the quilt C made and it is absofrigginglutely gorgeous. Me, I can't sew in a straight line. Maybe with quilting, that wouldn't even matter.

There is a ton of information available on the internet about quilting traditions, in America and elsewhere, and I will not tire out my fingers by repeating it here. sure, we all know that till fairly recently, women were not allowed much, if any, self expression- be it creativity or the freedom to voice their opinions. Where I come from, most still do not. Except in the world of hand crafts.

They do needle point, cross stitch, paint screens, paint pots, bake cookies, thread jewelry...and quilt. They sew their hopes into it. Their dreams. Their frustrations. Their joys. Their souls. Which is why the history of crafting is so interesting. It is also the history of woman kind, of their struggle to find their own identity, separate from the familial relations of wife, mother, daughter and sister. It is a chronicle of zany creativity, of forward thinking, of whimsy even. How may quilts were born of practical necessity and how many were wrapped away in linen and stored, treasured, only to be displayed on special occasions? Labors of love indeed.

In a world that is fast deriding hand made and home spun and history fades into nothingness when faced with the brisk lives we lead, it is a joy to look upon something of the past that has endured. Our patterns come from theirs, recycled by every generation. We the immigrants adding our own histories and experiences to a tradition that, like all good traditions, cheerfully adapts itself to its surroundings in order to survive. I think back at the awe inspiring quilt designed by a Chinese immigrant artist who noticed the stereotyping of her fellow immigrants as either laundry or restaurant workers, and transmuted it into a beautiful quilt. I see the beauty and the intricacy of the work. I also read in it a sense of frustration at the stereotyping and a sense of pride in her own heritage. Of course, there is also a sense of embracing both past and present. But that's my own opinion and the quilt that speaks to you may tell its own tale.

The picture above may speak differently to you. But the quilt, she did speak to me, and that alone was worth the wet and chilly day out.