a studio visit

April 9, 2020

Anybody out there?

I’ve been watching the news a lot lately. Looking for hope, solutions and solace. I come away with anxiety instead. I enjoy an occasional good news story when I can find one. John Krasinski has started an instagram feed with his SomeGoodNews show that has lightened my spirits. I’ve finished two large jigsaw puzzles and I think that should be on every doctor’s prescription pad. Reading takes me away (I recommend Bridge of Clay by Markus Zusak and Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead. I just started Adam Bede by George Eliot but I am not sure why) . Yet, I still fall into darkness when I think of the effect of this pandemic.

My life is relatively normal compared to many. I spend a lot of time in my studio. I call and write to friends and relatives to be sure they are still OK. We gather at zoom meetings to say I love you again and again. And I make art.

The pandemic has wormed its dirty little fingers into that work.

Contagion, 28”x28”, Paula Kovarik — *Contagion*, 28”x28”, Paula Kovarik

Contagion, detail. — *Contagion*, detail.

Building these masks has been a challenge. I have a mechanism inside that allows their tongues to wag. Still debating about their bodies.

The studio is full of diversions. But I am questioning the reasons to pursue them.

It is a bright and perfect Spring outside. The garden is ablaze in color. Noticing that is a daily gift—a major miracle that reminds me that life is abundant and thriving.

There really aren’t any words I can find to process this experience. I feel it on my skin. It streams in my ears. The distraction of worry seeps into my core. And life is beautiful and abundant and hopeful at the same time. How will these challenges change the way we live life from now on?

What are your strategies for coping?

send me a note, a whisper

May we all rejoice in small miracles and find the strength to fight large beasts.

Enough time to just think. And stitch.

August 6, 2019

I spent the past week sewing like a madwoman, hours and hours in joy and contemplation. Thinking about influences. And inspirations. The Stitched festival at Crosstown Concourse that I organized and facilitated is over. So now I have time to think.

The work started with these three pieces that did not resolve well. So I cut them up into 5” equilateral triangles.

Though I am jazzed about the work and feel that I really have no choice in the matter—I have to do it— I still have that consistent question hanging over the work at all times: I make art—so what? Some people see it—so what? So what now?

I experimented with a lot of different configurations of these triangles with the underlying thought of what the hive mind can do to ideas. Here they became a beast.

It’s not a self doubting thing. On the contrary I believe the artist mind is critical to society. Its more like I am conscious of other things that seem so much more important. There are people shooting people down in the streets in this country. Lots of them. The government is relaxing standards for environmental stewardship and doubling down on fossil fuels. Our newspapers are failing and fake news is everywhere. Racism, bigotry, nationalism, terrorism, etc. etc. etc. The chaos of all these threats brings a foreboding reality.

Since the precut quilt pieces already have stitching on them the challenge I faced was how to connect the diverse patterns. I was thinking that ideas and communications can be like viruses, floating through space. But also how we suture together a narrative based on our own biases. Standing alone in the midst of forces that are hard to define.

I channel these worries into the art but feel like a micro blip when it comes to reaching an audience. Is it just therapy for my unsettled mind? Do I obsess over stitch to treat the anxiety I feel with regards to the future? How do you process these thoughts? Do you have them?

Hive mind, Paula Kovarik, 40” x 43.5”, 2019

My act of making art is cerebral, logical and also intuitive. The sense of play is important to me. Seeking meaning through pattern and stitch allows for connections that are not always apparent at first glance. Letting the medium tell me what to do feels spiritual and mysterious. But am I acting in a vacuum? Does art become important only after it is released to the public? Or does the act itself activate an individual wholeness that the artist seeks and therefore adds to the cosmic underlayment of society?

On expectations

May 16, 2019

Recently my son unearthed my case of Barbie clothes from the attic and brought them to me. I don’t remember playing with this doll. My memories of early adolescence are og building forts and planning getaway destinations.

My Aunt Emmie provided most of the clothing for this doll with her expert knitting. I’m amazed at her skill now though I don’t remember admiring that skill then. We took it for granted. She had a thing for pink.

All the essentials of a 60s girl were there: swimsuit, cocktail dress, wedding dress and housedress. The clothes gave us a map of expectations. I can see by the rat’s nest of hair that dear Barbie went through some tough times. She ditched the three piece red knit outfit for a mini-skirt and tights. I don’t see any professional clothes or workshop gloves. There is no briefcase, no computer. Yet there are two aprons, one practical with a matching chefs hat and one frilly one to greet her husband upon his return home. I do love to cook.

It’s a box of propaganda that made sense to the executives at Mattel at the time. I’ve heard that Barbie has evolved over time with scuba gear, ski togs and business attire. But she was not evolved while I grew up.. We tried on these women’s uniforms to suit society’s norms. We told these stories to each other through dating games, house play and dress-up. We learned how to walk in heels, put on make-up and wish upon a star. There is probably a version of this narrative out there for girls under 16 to this day.

I’m glad I didn’t follow that pathway. I’m glad that I grew up during a time of questioning authority — a time when women fought for equal rights, a time when civil discourse turned to difficult subjects. The subjects are getting even more difficult now. Our planet, our rights, our nations, our health….all at risk.

So when I look at this little box of expectations I am thinking about how we’re still swimming up stream in a one piece suit, constrained by expectations, overruled by rulers. I think we might need to add some armor to the closet. We’ll need resilience and a fierce belief in each other. We’ll need to put on our big girl pants and stand up, move forward and speak out loud.

Now where did I put that rotary cutter?

On Collaboration

September 26, 2018

I went to an artist talk last night that reinforced my ideas about collaboration. He said that if you put a professional engineer and artist in the same room to solve a problem the outcome won’t be the same as having an artist with a pretty good knowledge of engineering figure it out herself.

Each time I have been involved in a team approach to a design solution I am energized by the discussions, motivated by the goal and hopeful about the outcome. Yet, there are challenges. Every step along the way brings a set of compromises and a new way of looking at those goals and outcomes. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

What have I learned? I prefer doing it all myself.

I can take the blame, find the alternatives and be responsible for the outcome. I can throw it under the table when it doesn’t work out. I can meet my own timetable. I can re-evaluate without stepping on toes. Not so easy when others are involved.

But this process of locking my doors to others is self-limiting. Pushing away my expectations while entertaining alternative ideas broadens my vision of the end product.

So I will continue to find ways to play well with others. And collaborate. In events, in art, in thought. Even if it makes my nerves nervier.

That tiny blip of understanding

June 1, 2017

We may not be immortal. Life is fast, challenging and unpredictable.

My husband is undergoing treatment for a (curable) cancer.

Stop.

You know that feeling of your mind going blank? White out. Black out. Everything fuzzy gray? Can't remember your name? I'm there -- blank, buzzing, and slow-witted. The blank is that blip. blip. blip. of realizing that we may not be immortal. The buzz from anxiety. Slow-witted because changing our daily focus to include radiation is a gruesome choice. One we did not want to make.

My husband is undergoing treatment for a (curable) cancer.

Stop.

Think.

Re-focus.