A few months ago I asked the members of the QuiltArt list whether they listen to anything while they work, or if background noise is a distraction. I had been quilting along to some Run-DMC (quilting and old school rap DO go together) and just wondered what music, if any, gets other people creating.
The responses were tremendously varied, from Gregorian chants to heavy metal to folk (not so much on the hip hop, though), and I enjoyed reading all of the responses. There was one response of the dozens that came in that made me think:
Doesn't anyone work in silence and let the work speak to them?
After some real consideration, I decided that the music or NPR serve a critical function for me. If the left side of my brain is engaged in listening to a discussion of singing along (badly) to music from my college years, the right side is freed up to just create. The good inner critic that says, "Try this quilting design" or "Purple would be beautiful there" comes through loud and clear while the negative critic -- "Are you nuts? You can't do this!" -- is occupied remembering the words to Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger."
That's just me, though. Does the music serve a function for you? Or is it just to cover up the creaks and pops your house/studio make everyday?
Monday, August 27, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Best Laid Plans
Ready...
Tuesday, 7:30 PM
I couldn't get my husband out of the house fast enough. He was going to be gone until Thursday afternoon. The next day, Wednesday, the kids had after-school activities until 4:30. I would be alone in my house ALL DAY.
A silly, giddy grin spread across my face as I planned out what was surely going to be the best work day I had had in a long time. I cut the strips for a small child's quilt. I took pictures of a work in progress so I could post to the blog, and cut batting and backing for a new piece. I might have giggled. And maybe danced.
Set...
Wednesday, 10:30 AM
The children were at school. I had walked 2.5 miles, showered, and read the news. I started winding a bobbin so I could get to work.
Stop!
10:35 AM
The phone rang. I was not planning to answer it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't a school nurse calling to tell me to come retrieve a sick or injured child. Anyone else could leave a message.
Anyone else except for my 83-year-old mother-in-law, Ms.G, that is. I always answer the phone when she calls because she is 83.
She had a doctor's appointment that my husband and I did not have on our schedule. In 25 minutes. It was going to take me an hour to get her there under ideal conditions. With my husband out of town, it was going to be up to me to get her there. I asked her to call the doctor's office and tell them what the problem was. I finished winding my bobbin and selected some music to work by while I waited for her to call me back, because I was sure they would just reschedule for another day.
But no. They said to come on in later and they would work her in. My day was imploding. Rational Me tried reminding myself that I was fortunate to be in a position to go help her, and that she has been a wonderful MIL, but Derailed Me wasn't trying to hear that.
That is how my perfect day became a 7-hour odyssey through DC on a rainy winter day. I picked up Ms.G, took her to the doctor, and waited around for a couple of hours hoping they would get to her before I had to go get my daughter from school. A foolish hope, really, because this had become One of Those Days. Thwarted and muttering, I drove an hour round-trip to get my daughter, drop her at home, and return to the doctor's office to collect Ms.G.
When I finally got home, I could not bear to even turn on the light in my studio. Even so, I could hear the taunts of my carefully prepared fabrics. I closed the door.
We had waffles for dinner that night.
I was looking forward to my husband's return.
Tuesday, 7:30 PM
I couldn't get my husband out of the house fast enough. He was going to be gone until Thursday afternoon. The next day, Wednesday, the kids had after-school activities until 4:30. I would be alone in my house ALL DAY.
A silly, giddy grin spread across my face as I planned out what was surely going to be the best work day I had had in a long time. I cut the strips for a small child's quilt. I took pictures of a work in progress so I could post to the blog, and cut batting and backing for a new piece. I might have giggled. And maybe danced.
Set...
Wednesday, 10:30 AM
The children were at school. I had walked 2.5 miles, showered, and read the news. I started winding a bobbin so I could get to work.
Stop!
10:35 AM
The phone rang. I was not planning to answer it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't a school nurse calling to tell me to come retrieve a sick or injured child. Anyone else could leave a message.
Anyone else except for my 83-year-old mother-in-law, Ms.G, that is. I always answer the phone when she calls because she is 83.
She had a doctor's appointment that my husband and I did not have on our schedule. In 25 minutes. It was going to take me an hour to get her there under ideal conditions. With my husband out of town, it was going to be up to me to get her there. I asked her to call the doctor's office and tell them what the problem was. I finished winding my bobbin and selected some music to work by while I waited for her to call me back, because I was sure they would just reschedule for another day.
But no. They said to come on in later and they would work her in. My day was imploding. Rational Me tried reminding myself that I was fortunate to be in a position to go help her, and that she has been a wonderful MIL, but Derailed Me wasn't trying to hear that.
 |
| My voice |
| My brain |
That is how my perfect day became a 7-hour odyssey through DC on a rainy winter day. I picked up Ms.G, took her to the doctor, and waited around for a couple of hours hoping they would get to her before I had to go get my daughter from school. A foolish hope, really, because this had become One of Those Days. Thwarted and muttering, I drove an hour round-trip to get my daughter, drop her at home, and return to the doctor's office to collect Ms.G.
When I finally got home, I could not bear to even turn on the light in my studio. Even so, I could hear the taunts of my carefully prepared fabrics. I closed the door.
We had waffles for dinner that night.
I was looking forward to my husband's return.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Diversity comes to Jacq's Girls!
Until now, all of the dolls pictured on my website have been African-American. One could assume that I don't make dolls of other ethnicities. One would be mistaken.
I have made a number of Caucasian dolls over the last two years, but either the photographs were not good quality or they were not photographed at all. All of that is now changing.
I have now added five Caucasian dolls to my regular line-up. Please welcome Amanda, Charlotte, Hayley, Jenna, and Lucy! More to come...
I have made a number of Caucasian dolls over the last two years, but either the photographs were not good quality or they were not photographed at all. All of that is now changing.
I have now added five Caucasian dolls to my regular line-up. Please welcome Amanda, Charlotte, Hayley, Jenna, and Lucy! More to come...
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| Charlotte |
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| Amanda |
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| Jenna |
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| Hayley |
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| Lucy |
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
New York Doll Show 2012
For the second year, Jacq's Girls went to the New York Doll Show held at the beautiful Riverside Church.
Unlike last year's stifling, participation-inhibiting heat, the weather on Saturday was perfect. There was a steady stream of people coming to look, chat with artists, and maybe pick up a present for someone special.
I took my trusty assistant (my daughter), who is almost capable of running the booth herself. When I returned from a quick stroll around the show, she was confidently talking to several adults who had stopped to look at the dolls. Did I mention that she's 12?
Thanks to Done Up! for pulling this wonderful event together again this year. Here's looking to 2013!
Unlike last year's stifling, participation-inhibiting heat, the weather on Saturday was perfect. There was a steady stream of people coming to look, chat with artists, and maybe pick up a present for someone special.
I took my trusty assistant (my daughter), who is almost capable of running the booth herself. When I returned from a quick stroll around the show, she was confidently talking to several adults who had stopped to look at the dolls. Did I mention that she's 12?
Thanks to Done Up! for pulling this wonderful event together again this year. Here's looking to 2013!
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| Ruby prototype |
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| Erinn in a special tutu |
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| Ready! |
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Is This Work or Play?
I read a few weeks ago that referring to one's studio time as "play" devalues the work that is being done.
At first, I completely agreed. How can anyone -- including yourself-- take what you are doing seriously if you keep calling it play? If people think that you are playing, they feel no compunction about disturbing you. They imagine, perhaps, that you are sitting at your desk giggling and squishing your fingers in Play-doh or some other seemingly frivolous pursuit. Say that you are working, however, and it is as if a giant "no trespassing" sign had been erected. The phone does not ring, no one asks you when dinner will be served.
Having had some time to consider, however, I only mostly agree. Children learn through play. And while adults don't play in the same ways, we learn through play as well. Several years ago, I joined a group of women on a Sunday afternoon to dye fabric. Only one of us had ever done it before, but we were ready to try out different techniques like shibori, over-dyeing, and painting with thickened dye once we did some straight dyeing. It was fun. Our host had a beautiful, large, shady backyard and we probably looked like big kids laughing at our mistakes, sharing our success, and eating our brown-bag lunches under a big tree. No one set out to make a masterpiece; we were just learning. Playing, if you will.
The difference, though, is what you call it. Say that you are going to learn to dye fabric, and it sounds like a structured class. Say that you are going to play with dye, and that sounds much less serious. Same end result, different perceptions.
I have decided that, as artists, playing still has a purpose. We just don't have to let the rest of the world know that. So put your serious face on and sprinkle water on your brow so that it looks like you have been working over a hot easel/computer/sewing machine all day. It will be our little secret.
At first, I completely agreed. How can anyone -- including yourself-- take what you are doing seriously if you keep calling it play? If people think that you are playing, they feel no compunction about disturbing you. They imagine, perhaps, that you are sitting at your desk giggling and squishing your fingers in Play-doh or some other seemingly frivolous pursuit. Say that you are working, however, and it is as if a giant "no trespassing" sign had been erected. The phone does not ring, no one asks you when dinner will be served.
Having had some time to consider, however, I only mostly agree. Children learn through play. And while adults don't play in the same ways, we learn through play as well. Several years ago, I joined a group of women on a Sunday afternoon to dye fabric. Only one of us had ever done it before, but we were ready to try out different techniques like shibori, over-dyeing, and painting with thickened dye once we did some straight dyeing. It was fun. Our host had a beautiful, large, shady backyard and we probably looked like big kids laughing at our mistakes, sharing our success, and eating our brown-bag lunches under a big tree. No one set out to make a masterpiece; we were just learning. Playing, if you will.
The difference, though, is what you call it. Say that you are going to learn to dye fabric, and it sounds like a structured class. Say that you are going to play with dye, and that sounds much less serious. Same end result, different perceptions.
I have decided that, as artists, playing still has a purpose. We just don't have to let the rest of the world know that. So put your serious face on and sprinkle water on your brow so that it looks like you have been working over a hot easel/computer/sewing machine all day. It will be our little secret.
Monday, July 9, 2012
If She's a Princess, I Must be the Queen
My sewing strengths are in quilting and doll-making, not in making clothes that real people would wear. I made a few skirts for myself that fit well enough, if you don't look at the waistband and see that one side of the zipper is higher than the other. I can hem my son's suit pants. I made a wedding veil for a friend that came out nicely. And then there was my daughter's princess Halloween costume in 2004.
My then-four-year-old daughter wanted to be a princess for Halloween (of course) and she wanted me to make her costume. I agreed (of course) because I was wearing my Superwoman undies the day she asked. That was the same year my husband was sewing himself a new Batman cape and he was helping our son, who was 8 then, learn to sew a Robin costume. It was a very creative season in our household.
I took the little girl with me to pick out a costume pattern and scanned the directions. It looked pretty easy. It was a costume, right? We chose a remnant of a pretty pink brocade for the dress, a sheer pink for the sleeves, and a garland and ribbons for her headpiece. I estimated that this would take one afternoon to assemble.
I estimated wrong.
There were princess seams and French seams and a whole bunch of seams I had to look up in a sewing guide. Working with the sheer fabric was not something I would volunteer for again. The zipper was really long. There was a sheer cowl-like neckline. This costume turned into quite the couture gown.
Once it was finished, my daughter loved it. Loved. It. She twirled around in it with an enormous smile on her face. When she stopped twirling she looked up at me and said that she felt like a princess in that dress. That was good enough for me. The she said, "You get to be the queen, Mommy!" and curtsied. For just a moment, looking at the beautiful princess in front of me, I thought she might be right.
My then-four-year-old daughter wanted to be a princess for Halloween (of course) and she wanted me to make her costume. I agreed (of course) because I was wearing my Superwoman undies the day she asked. That was the same year my husband was sewing himself a new Batman cape and he was helping our son, who was 8 then, learn to sew a Robin costume. It was a very creative season in our household.
I took the little girl with me to pick out a costume pattern and scanned the directions. It looked pretty easy. It was a costume, right? We chose a remnant of a pretty pink brocade for the dress, a sheer pink for the sleeves, and a garland and ribbons for her headpiece. I estimated that this would take one afternoon to assemble.
I estimated wrong.
There were princess seams and French seams and a whole bunch of seams I had to look up in a sewing guide. Working with the sheer fabric was not something I would volunteer for again. The zipper was really long. There was a sheer cowl-like neckline. This costume turned into quite the couture gown.
Once it was finished, my daughter loved it. Loved. It. She twirled around in it with an enormous smile on her face. When she stopped twirling she looked up at me and said that she felt like a princess in that dress. That was good enough for me. The she said, "You get to be the queen, Mommy!" and curtsied. For just a moment, looking at the beautiful princess in front of me, I thought she might be right.
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| Halloween 2004 |
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| Halloween 2004 |
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Borrowed Robes
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| Dawn, 10 x 13 copyright Jacqueline Bryant Campbell |
That is how I felt the first time someone described me as an artist. I wanted to contradict the person and say, "Oh, no, I'm not an artist!" but that would have been silly since I was standing in front of artwork that I had made. Did that qualify me to be an artist? Suppose the art police found out? I felt as though I was suddenly wearing someone else's clothes, almost like the first time my mother let me borrow one of her fancy dresses and I realized that clothing influences the way people react.
There I was, wearing the newly-bestowed artist robes. As the evening wore on, I was asked many times, "Are you the artist?" and was subsequently caught up in conversations about my piece. I understood then that the only person who thought my artist robes were borrowed was me.
I own these robes now.
Whose robes are you wearing?
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