speechless

June 12, 2020

Pandemic, murder, demonstrations, voter supression, police brutality and…coming around the bend….climate change. The stress load is heavier and heavier. I’m not sure I can even line up two or three sentences that parse how I am feeling. I’m speechless.

I can only show you what I am working on. This piece is called Silos. Silos as in we are all separating into our own narratives. Silos like how we store up for the future. Silos like when there is a surplus. Silos as in dysfunctional business environments. Silos like media streams that only speak to the loyal. Silos as in isolation.

It started with masks.

And a quilt I no longer wanted.

That got cut up.

Into head shapes.

And added to a newly created background.

Maybe next time I post here I will figure out what to say.

What are you working on?

Send me a whisper, give me some words.

They say

February 19, 2020

It’s never easy, they say. Struggle comes with rewards, they say. It will all come clear with focus, they say. Put your head down and work harder, they say. Trust your gut, they say.

Get out the rotary cutter, I say.

About two months ago I was between projects and didn’t know which way I was going as a next step. I had this ragged piece of thin cotton that I kept trying to iron flat . For some reason the wrinkles wouldn’t go away. So I decided to stitch them in permanently.

I just kept adding texture and color and pattern with stitch until I had a piece that was about 3 x 4 foot that made no sense at all. It was chaos and wrinkles and pretty little textures. A study in thread on a wrinkled piece of fabric. Ho hum.

Then I dreamed about pink rivers. Don’t know why. Just did.

The textures in the cloth reminded me of topographical maps and gridded land masses. The wrinkles stood in for the rivers. So I got out the rotary cutter and sliced and diced and added pink to the stitched cloth. I layered those squares with organza over a vintage tablecloth full of flowers because I had decided that I wanted beauty in my life that day, not worry. (I’m so tired of bad news.)

The squares looked great on the tablecloth and the organza gave me the opportunity to let the rivers flow underground. But when I stitched it all together it was a mess. The organza didn’t want to be layered, the tablecloth was wobbly and the squares of texture ended up looking like a bad craft project gone wrong. YUK.

The wrinkling, wobbling layers did not match my vision of a unified surface.

Enter the rotary cutter. Because within each disaster is a masterpiece. They say.

I took the squares with me on vacation and added hand-stitched details. And, I really do like the way they look. They are intimate, abstract and multi-layered.

Upon return to the studio I saw the leftover piece of textured wrinkled cloth and decided I would combine it with a quilt I made (and never finished) 15 years ago. The combination of the white textured cloth and the subtly colored quilt was intriguing. Using both as raw materials I cut them, combined them, stitched over them and sewed it all together. One day it seemed great.

But the next day I realized it was all wrong.

Though I really do love all that texture, it was hard to focus on this piece. No center of interest, no pathway for the eyes.

So I got out the rotary cutter again.

Now I have these little “masterpieces” that are traveling across the design board asking for a home. I have some new ideas for them this week, and probably will have more ideas for them next week.

They say if the fabric is ugly, cut it up into small pieces. If it’s still ugly, you haven’t cut it small enough. I don’t think these fabrics are ugly. But I do know that they haven’t found their permanent home yet.

It’s all about the process, they say.

Ups and downs

November 22, 2019

Every so often I wake up with a word list in my mind. It happened a month ago at 3 am. It happened last week at midnight and it happened this morning at 5 am. The list is a series of verbs that contrast each other. I have a note pad at the side of my bed so that I can write down my dreams. Sometimes I have enough consciousness to do that. Other times I lay there and try to memorize the thoughts so that I can write them down when I wake up. It never works. My dreaming mind is a white board with an automatic eraser.

Here’s a list from that 3 am wake up call a month ago:

shake up/shake down
let up/let down
write up/write down
bring up/bring down
lock up/lock down
dress up/dress down
play up/play down
stand up/stand down
step up/step down

The thing I notice about this list is how different the meaning of the primary verb is when using the up modifier as opposed to the down modifier. No surprise there. Up is the opposite of down right? But here’s the thing: both can be negative. For example, shake up can imply agitation and anxiety while shake down implies an illegal act. On the other hand using the word up is often positive as in dress up, let up and stand up while using the word down almost always connotes a negative spin. Obviously, I am no linguist. But it intrigues me that my brain is listing these phrases for contemplation.

Why do I dream these things? I think it is a sorting of synapses to process the negative and positive things in life. My work reflects these dichotomies. I will start an “up” stitching and inevitably the “down” sneaks in. Monsters, snakes and cynical grins sit side by side with Seuss-like trees and decorative leaf patterns. Juggling the positive with the negative is part of my exploration as an artist.

What I really wonder about is: Can I do art that is beautiful and uplifting without adding the spice of the down stroke? Do my doubts, worries and anxieties always have to show up?

On another note

I had a great time at Art Quilt Tahoe this month. The setting was spectacular and my students left me awestruck with their work. Thank you Roxanne, Linda, Ileana, Carol, Gay, Nancy, Sandra, Terry, Jacquie, Diane and Marion for making my job so easy. And, thank you Judy, for inviting me.

Better Not Said

August 27, 2019

I’ve been thinking about what we don’t say.

When asked how we are doing we say “fine.” Not “I’m anxious as hell and I don’t want to take it anymore.“ When we are in a group of strangers it’s difficult to talk about abortion, racism, immigration or politics because it might step on some peoples beliefs. We send out little hints in polite company, feeling out which side of the great divides they are on before revealing our position. We use code words to express our dislike. In the South it is “bless her heart” for someone who is hopelessly wrong or clueless.

So I started thinking about how a language that doesn’t say anything would look. Kind of a secret language we keep to ourselves as we navigate these non-conversations. It’s a language only we understand. You know how it sounds right? It’s that voice inside that calls out your truth but in a whispering tone that only you can hear.

These hieroglyphic shapes could mean anything to the passing stranger. Or nothing.

And then I started thinking about what holding back does to our consciousness. How does NOT saying something affect what I believe to be true? How does NOT saying something create a tacit understanding among community members of where I stand? How does NOT saying something affect my inner peace? Does saying my truth out loud create barriers or bridges?

I’m all over the place with this. It’s hard to even write what I mean here.

Does polite conversation have a place in the dialog of change? Certainly ambassadors must use it when they are negotiating deals with despots. They seed their conversations with objectives while avoiding hot spots. Our president seems to think that name calling and dramatics will result in him getting his way. But will it? Or does the abandonment of polite conversation give us chaos instead?

Keeping my truth to myself results in little reservoirs of doubt and anxiety.

So here is Better Not Said. A study of inner thoughts and outer NON dialog.

Better Not Said, 41” x 26.5”, linen, cotton, thread and batting. Paula Kovarik — *Better Not Said*, 41” x 26.5”, linen, cotton, thread and batting. Paula Kovarik

channeling

March 2, 2019

Sometimes I have to unsettle the settled patterns of my mind. I start with no ideas, no burning need to communicate. I just have to get out of my head and into my hands. I grab the nearest slab of fabric, stick some batting into the fold and start stitching. Black and white satisfies the need for definition. It forces me to focus. These pieces flush out and flesh out latent anxiety. Perfection isn’t here. Neither is story or parable. It’s just a traveling line.