Street Photography

street photo TEGWatching some YouTube videos on the art of photography led me down a rabbit hole.  I’ve fallen into the world of street photography, past and present.

My photographer husband and I started out looking at videos on focusing technique with various cameras and lenses.  We viewed first one, then the other online tutorial with a master, and ended up exploring a lot of street photography.  Wikipedia confirmed my notion that today’s street photographer makes art using his camera lens to capture images of life.  People going about their daily lives, or a combination of line and light,  might be all it takes to record a thought-provoking image that transforms the viewer.

But I recalled evidence of street photography of a different sort in our drawers and boxes of old photos.  Every family probably can find images like these I’ve included of family and friends. Black and white images printed on heavyweight professional paper; all of ours measure 4” x 6”.

street photo with dogIn the 1930’s, ‘40’s and maybe into the ’50’s, studio photographers could be found snapping photos of people on city streets.  I wondered if there was some forerunner of Polaroids that allowed instant printing of the image, but a bit of research said that was not the case.  These photographers were sometimes hired by big department stores, but more often were from local portrait studios.  The candids were taken and a business card was given to the subject. The hope was that a visit to the studio to collect the photo would result in more portrait appointments.

street photo Jim & ConnorI am thoroughly intrigued by the notion of both kinds of street photography.  Just what I need; another hobby.  But, the memories of the old images we have led to the discovery of some newer ones we have made already and I’m already incorporating one into an art quilt.  Oh, my, what have I started?

Photos:  black and white images are Jim’s Dad, Edwin Gilreath in Atlanta, and family friends somewhere I don’t know.  The color image is one I shot of two guys on their way to watch a bicycle race in downtown Macon, GA, in 2006.

People Watching

SatterfieldsEating lunch at a local restaurant, I couldn’t help but imagine the story behind the man sitting behind my husband.

This man was alone.  He was neatly dressed with not a hair out of place.  His wardrobe was casual blue collar – a sports shirt advertising motorcycles tucked into neatly pressed blue jeans.  His hands were clean, but probably not professionally manicured.

He was tearing up a garden salad while intently listening to his phone.  The restaurant was a bit noisy so seeing the phone held with the speaker right in his ear was not surprising, but he never talked, just listened.  A podcast, perhaps?  Audio entertainment for dining alone? No, maybe voicemails.  Someone working outdoors couldn’t hear his phone and might use lunchtime to catch up on missed contacts.

Had he been wearing galluses over a white shirt and pleated trousers, I would have thought he was waiting for a jury’s verdict.  Or getting dirt on a witness from his private eye in the field.

I was impressed with his power lunch.  Then the waitress brought the rest of it.  One-half of a roasted chicken, three vegetables and bread.  With his trim physique, he doesn’t eat like that every meal unless he is doing some physical labor somewhere.  But not a sign of sweat anywhere.

Hmmm…  “the man in the gabardine suit is a spy.  His bowtie is really a camera.”

 

Father’s Day Singing

Mama Daddy & me 1952My Daddy was a church-going man; an old-line, foot-washing Primitive Baptist.  Most Sundays (and some Saturdays) were spent going to one of the churches in our regular rotation.  Each church held services only one weekend per month, having a service and conference on Saturday, just worship on Sunday.

The third Sunday of the month was not the weekend for “his” church, the one where he was a member and church clerk, so we often visited different churches on that weekend.  Sometimes on the third Sunday in June, Father’s Day, we would go to Damascus Methodist Church in the community where locals would gather for a gospel sing.  Gospel groups from all around the area would come and sing.  There would be a mix of congregational singing, too.

It was always a memorable day with friends and relatives and friends of friends and friends of relatives coming in and out and visiting and listening to great harmony.  It was especially joyous for me and my mother if the Oakes Family came to sing.  L.A. Oakes was Mama’s first cousin.  He and his wife sang beautifully and were joined by other strong voices over the years.  It was always a thrill to hear them and to visit with them.  And to tell people, “I’m related to them.”

Some of these groups were accompanied on a piano, but never any other instrument.  And some of them sang a cappella.  We were accustomed to that.  Primitive Baptists do not use musical instruments in their song service, so the pure harmony of humble voices sounds more heavenly to me than any other.  Nonetheless, a good gospel quartet with an ivory-pounding accompanist thrilled me, too.

I miss being with my Daddy on Father’s Day and every day, for that matter.  I know the image our culture has portrayed of Heaven includes harps.  But for the corner of Heaven where my parents are now, I hope there is some good, soul-stirring, a cappella harmony being lifted today.

Not Wet

Not WetAs I approached my fourth birthday, I was looking forward to kindergarten at Miss Emily’s little red schoolhouse.  My only sister was 19 years old and away at college, so I didn’t have playmates of my age around all the time.  My mother recounted hearing me ‘talking to myself’ while playing alone on the front porch of our house.  It seems I was describing the fun I would have with other children at this fantasy land.  According to my mother, I included an outhouse as part of my description.  She was amused and horrified that I added that detail.

Nonetheless, I like to think of the behavior as conversing with my imaginary friend; it sounds less  like a diagnosis of some sort that way.  At the time, I didn’t know what the big deal was anyway.  My spinster aunt who lived next door could be heard engaging in conversation with unseen friends all the time.  I loved Aunt Nellie, so if she talked when no one else was around, what could be wrong with doing that?

I no longer talk to imaginary friends, but I do enjoy imagining stories when I’m observing perfect strangers.  What did that mother say when her son came home with that tattoo?  Does that lady know her boots don’t match?  It seems like she would notice they are different heights.  What does the future hold for the couple huddled over paperwork in the doctor’s office?

Today, while browsing in an antique store, I looked down to see “Not Wet” painted in the midst of s shiny spot on the floor.  I can only imagine how many times the owners were informed that there was “something spilled over by the chalk paint.”  I think they should have just planted a mop nearby and watched to see what happened.

The Calm that comes with Needle and Thread

blocks in blue work on porchThere is something soothing about the pulling of thread through cloth.  I find myself out of sorts if days (okay, even one day) go by without some time spent stitching.

Some say it’s a prayerful experience to sew.  Some liken it to Zen meditation.  Maybe it’s the rhythmic motion of the needle penetrating layers of fabric.  Whatever it is, it soothes my soul.  The ritual of pulling needle and thread through fabric has been a part of my life since childhood.  Even when very busy with demands of family and motherhood, I had some sort of needlework project in the works.  Then days might go by without much time spent with a needle in my hand, but just knowing it was waiting promised serenity.

During years that my mother and later my mother-in-law were in failing health, I learned to keep a sewing basket in the car at all times.  Since each of them had also been seamstresses, I saw it brought peace to each of them to see me with a project in tow.

In the basket was always a project with a threaded needle in the midst of a stitch.  That is still my strategy – without having to find the spot where I stopped, match the thread, locate the needle threader, I’m ready to take the next stitch.  In preparing for a trip, I sometimes spend more time ensuring that I have enough to keep me busy than I do planning my wardrobe.  I might not ever open the basket while away from home, but most times I do find some stitching moments.

I look at Ollie Jane’s Flower Garden and remember visiting with my mother while sewing those hexagons together.  I look at Granny Zee’s Scrap Baskets and remember sitting with my mother-in-law as I stitched the fabrics she had kept from her mother’s stash.  Both of these mothers of mine were suffering from confusion and dementia, but if words weren’t to be had, we communicated through our love of sewing.  I stitched my soul to each of them during their last years of life.

blocks in blueThe top photo is one of me working on Blocks in Blue while staying at the Inn at Iris Meadows in Waynesville, NC.  That quilt was hand pieced and machine quilted in 2005.  It finished at 27” square, and was one of my early attempts at free motion machine quilting.  I used invisible nylon thread in the top, a matching cotton thread in the bobbin.

 

Never Say Never or Dye

prewashing fabricsToday I find myself doing two things I thought I wasn’t doing anymore.  Prewashing fabric, and dyeing fabric.

Once upon a time, I prewashed all my commercial quilt fabric.  I loved seeing the colors up close at the ironing board, I found myself reshuffling fabrics to make new groupings as they hung on a rack to dry, and I planned all kinds of projects during that stage of the process.  Lately, though, I’ve enjoyed piecing with the crisp fabrics as they came home from the store.  And, I enjoyed having the time spent sewing rather than washing and ironing.  I do only buy quilt shop quality fabrics and haven’t had a problem with colors bleeding.  Well, I have had one problem red fabric, but it was a top quality brand, and it had been prewashed.  So, there is that.

I’ve lately bought some vintage linens that were heavily starched and I didn’t want the bugs to attack.  Recently I’ve been doing a lot of hand stitching, exploring more of Jude Hill’s techniques, and like touching the soft rumpled linen and cotton in that process.  I wanted to use some Irish linen handkerchiefs I recently bought which had never been used (I removed the Rich’s label before throwing them in the washer) and wanted to be sure the creases were not yet holes.

mb wool with snailAnd, last week I stitched the wool piece you see here from a Maggie Bonanomi pattern.  I was anxious to work up another one of her pieces, and grabbed a piece of silk matka for the background of the next piece.  To complete the load, I added a few pieces of Japanese woven fabrics I had bought in Paducah.  They needed softening a bit, too.

Maybe dyeing isn’t the right word to describe the process you see in the bowl.  Staining might be more like it.  Some of the fabrics I’ve been working with lately are a bit too WHITE for my taste.  And, I had this set of blue linen napkins that I’ve been working with and wondered what I could do to give them some visual interest.  Yes, the weave is nice.  The color is nice.  It’s just a bit flat.  And, I admit to being spoiled by using hand-dyed fabrics; I’ve gotten accustomed to their subtle variations.  blackberry dyeingSo, I had some blackberries we weren’t eating as fast as we should, I boiled them with some water in the microwave, and added some fabrics.  If you think you see bits of berries in the bowl, you are right.  I’m hoping for a mottled effect.

I love hand-dyed fabrics.  I’ve said that before.  But I don’t like the chemical nature of synthetic dyes and the equipment needed to dye my own fabric.  However, I have recently embraced watercolors on fabric and like to alter the color a bit myself.  So, natural recoloring might be something I can do with rust and berries and nuts and dirt.  Think of it as a country girl’s approach to hand-dyes.

Stay tuned for the outcome.

Rescuing Vintage Linens

linens my purchasesWhen antiquing, I keep my eye peeled for vintage linens like the ones I found today at Blue Moon Antiques and Vintage Junktion (both stores in Warner Robins, GA).  I’m always hoping to rescue a treasure from the trash bin.  I look for linen or cotton, and pass up any that have a polyester feel to them.  I want hand embroidery or appliqué, but don’t turn up my nose at some older pieces that were machine made.

Sometimes, if the price is right, I buy a tattered piece for the lace or tatting on the edge.  And, yes, I do buy the occasional doily.  One antique dealer commented to me last week that “doily” was the most creatively spelled word he saw on dealer’s tags.

I know which booths often have nice linens in the antique markets we frequent regularly.  I know those which often have pieces that aren’t marked and have learned to make a fair offer–it’s usually accepted.  I don’t plan to pay top dollar for my treasures because I do intend to eventually cut them up and sew them to something else.  But I often use tablecloths, tea towels, and napkins for their intended purpose first, giving the pieces a personal memory to attach to the art being created later.

Today’s outing found me bringing home some lovely treasures at bargain prices (and a couple that weren’t really bargains, but were just too lovely to leave behind).  I bought dresser scarves, napkins, tea towels, doilies, a couple of linen bridge table cloths, a baby’s dress with delicate blue embroidery, some vintage handkerchiefs, buttons, and ribbon.

linens store displayAs I’m looking and touching and plundering, I’m dreaming.  I’m planning and scheming projects galore!  I love it when a vendor asks, “what are you going to do with these?”  Today I pulled out my phone, shared a few photos of recent pieces, and gave them some ideas to ponder. I could see their wheels turning as well as mine.  After all, they love the vintage cloth, too.  That’s why they have so much on hand.

Photos:

At the top, some of the treasures that came home with me.  Yes, the Longaberger basket was a bargain buy, too.  These double pie baskets make great sewing baskets.

Lower photo:  a booth in one of the stores showing just a small portion of the treasures I viewed today.

Skinny-Dipping Quilts

mimi's boys skinny dippingChildren are so observant.  They see details that we adults pass right by.

Some of the first quilts I made were for grandsons.  There are now three teenagers, but at the time of the quilt you see pictured at the end of this post, there were two toddlers.  I saw an episode of Simply Quilts in which Judy Martin demonstrated the large block which dominates this quilt.  I had bought some Tom Sawyer themed fabric and companion pieces, and I went to work.

I made the largest block, (24” square, I believe) using two different scenes from the toile print in the center.  One was of the boys fishing, the other of them painting the fence.  I made smaller blocks using the fabrics I had in the collection and coordinates from my stash.  Now that I think about it, I was using my version of improvisational piecing from this beginning.  I laid blocks on my design table (otherwise used for eating dinner; the design wall came much later in my quilting life), measured spaces, and inserted filler pieces or blocks.

Now I sometimes lay out such a design on grid paper, calculating dimensions using the squares, but in 2002, I wasn’t so deliberate.  I gave the two quilts titles based on the toile, “Mimi’s Boys Fishing” and “Mimi’s Boys Working” and presented them as Christmas gifts.

Several years later, one of the grandsons attended a quilt show with me. I’m not affirming or denying if bribery was involved.  I saw a quilt with familiar fabric, and exclaimed, “look, this quilt has fabric like yours.”  I was quickly corrected, “Well, not exactly.  This boy has pants on.”

“Yours aren’t wearing pants?”

“Not the ones going swimming.”

His mother was as surprised as I was.  She hadn’t noticed either.

Back at their house, we all examined the quilt to see that, yes, indeed, the fabric I bought prior to 2002 had skinny-dippers.  I don’t know the manufacturer’s storyline, but I’m guessing someone was offended, and subsequent yardage was more modest.

Yes, I have scraps of the risqué print, even a bit of yardage.  Hmmm, I think there’s a story quilt idea.

Mimi's boys quiltQuilt details:  Finished measurements: 36″ x 50″, batting was probably 80% cotton, 20% polyester, quilting was straight lines with walking foot.

Whistle of Home

train jg photoSome part of my soul goes home every time I hear a train whistle.

I grew up near a railroad track parallel to US highway 41 in south Georgia.  I now live near a railroad track near US highway 41 in middle Georgia.  A lot has changed about me, the highway, and the sound of the trains.  But the constant is that the rumble of a train on the tracks, the predictable ‘two longs, short, long’ blast of the horn brings a smile to my face.  Every time.

My parents brought me home from the hospital and put me in a crib less than fifty yards from the railroad track.  Yes, I’m still a sound sleeper.  I grew up waving to engineers as the train came by, counting cars, learning something about motion and direction and the hauling of goods and people.

There were passenger cars, flatbeds hauling pulpwood and granite headed south, tanker cars, box cars with freight and hobos, and stacks of automobiles headed north.  Occasionally the train stopped in front of our house.  Occasionally a hobo would come to the door looking for work, or food, or both.  Once the engineer came to the door and borrowed some of my mother’s clothesline to make a repair.  A coupling had come uncoupled, so that train pulled away with two cars attached with a makeshift linkage.  My mother often wondered how far her clothesline traveled.  And, forever after, we made do with two rows of clothes drying instead of three.

And, cabooses.  There were really red cabooses at the end of every train.  With a conductor who wore a striped cap and sometimes stood on the porch and waved.  Recently, we have begun stopping at every retired caboose we see and Jim snaps a photo of me onboard (or trying to get onboard if there are “crazy women should not climb on the train” signs).

My nephew Woody explored the inside of a caboose when he was about six years old.  He was visiting with us and announced over the suppertable that “there’s a lot of room in those little cars.”  My mother was horrified, my Daddy tried to hide his smirk, as we learned that the train had stopped and Woody had climbed aboard for a look-see.

As I recounted yesterday’s trip to the JugFest in Knoxville, GA, I realized there was a train theme.  We collect southern folk pottery, and seeing all the new work was certainly a thrill, especially that of Shelby West.  But the non-clay purchases I made seem to all be related.  There is the crow, Heckle, made from a gear, a pair of pliers, and a railroad spike.  There are earrings which are hammered, fold-formed, and enameled pewter.  The artist’s anvil is made from a piece of rail from a train track.  And, we shot the requisite photo on the retired caboose in downtown Roberta.

During the forty-something years I lived out of earshot of a train, I never lost my love of their sounds.  Thankfully, I’m married to a man who loves them too.  Though I do recall on the first night he spent at my parents’ house (in the same bedroom I first slept), he woke me at 3:00 a.m., sitting straight up in bed and exclaiming, “what is THAT?”  My reply, “what is what?” revealed that I heard nothing out of the ordinary.  Once awake, I realized the shaking of the house, and in fact, the very earth beneath, was nothing but the train.

Over the years, we have both delighted in finding a B & B near the railroad tracks.  When weather conditions were right, we could hear a distant train when living in our first home together. The sound of the whistle at night came to mean peace to Jim, as it always had to me.

The proximity of the railroad was a plus for us when deciding to buy this house.  Shortly after moving here, we were returning home from a trip with friends and we stopped to get lunch in a small town. Jim and I heard a faraway whistle and shared a smile across the group, knowing only we appreciated the sound – and realizing how we had missed hearing that during the week away from home.

Photos:  Jim Gilreath’s photo of the Nancy Hanks steam locomotive in Gordon, Ga. Fall, 2015.

train play paducahSandra Dee playing on the caboose in Paducah, Ky. Spring, 2016.

Annie Mae’s Lace

Annie Mae's LaceSome of my quilting sisters think I’ve recently “gone to the dark side.”  Now that I’m taking art classes with artist Mark Ballard and incorporating my drawings onto fabric and into quilts, it seems to them that I’ve left the world of traditional quilting to become an art quilter.

If there is a threshold to cross between those worlds, I don’t see it.  I have recently been experimenting with the above-mentioned technique, crayon rubbings on fabric, watercolor on silk, and using fabrics that are not limited to quilting cottons.  But that’s not new to me.  And traditional quiltmakers have, for centuries, looked for interesting ways to bring images into quilts.

Look at Annie Mae’s Lace, a quilt I made in 2006.  I created blueprint images of Queen Anne’s Lace on pretreated fabric and made a quilt.  This piece measures 40” square, the botanical image is 25” square.  I actually made this quilt to refine the border technique.  I had seen photos of borders with vines with the inside and the outside of the vine being different fabrics, but had not seen any instructions on how to do it.  So, this experimentation worked and I then used that technique on the larger Ollie Jane’s Flower Garden.

I’ve used the same sunprinting technique on several quilts; and on fabrics still in a box waiting to come out and play.  I’ve printed feathers, leaves, scrapbooking stencils, and more.  So far I’ve used two techniques – one dry process and one wet.  Both processes involve spreading the fabric out flat, placing the masking object (leaf, stencil, whatever) on top, securing it so it doesn’t blow away, and exposing it to the sun.  Then, when the “developing” is done, you quickly wash it to stop the action.

I’ll note the obvious here:  this has to be done on a sunny day, and the image is sharper if you expose the fabric while the sun is high in the sky.  I began playing with this technique before I retired.  So, I spent some lunch hours securing big branches and leaves (and Queen Anne’s Lace) to the fabric atop foam board or something firm, waiting 15 minutes, washing it and putting it in the dryer.  Lunch was en route to and from my office, I guess.

The dry process entails purchasing pretreated fabric for sunprinting (also known as cyanotype).  These fabrics have been chemically treated to react to the sun and produce a negative image.  If you are old enough, you’ve seen plenty of blueprints made the same way.  The company from whom I bought my fabric is now known as blueprintsonfabric.comDharma Trading Company also sells some.  Both of these vendors also sell the chemicals to prepare your own fabric.

The wet process involves using some type of paint on fabric which produces a negative image when drying.  It is more labor intensive, but there are more colors available for the final outcome, and it can be applied to a printed fabric to add more interest.  I used SetaColor paints available at any hobby shop.

Note that this quilt is ten years old.  Yikes!  There are lots of videos on youtube showing details of how to make a sunprint if you are interested.

I’ve taught the sunprinting technique to my local guild, and luckily, it was a sunny day and we made some successful prints.  The process is fun, and if the wind blows, the worst that can happen is that you end up with some beautiful blue fabric!

Documenting my quilts and their stories is one of my goals for this online journal.  Slowly, I’m doing that.  But I’m also reminding myself of fun things I’ve neglected for a while.  Excuse me while I go dig through my pile of sunprints to see what I might play with next.

Annie Mae closeupFurther details of this quilt:  This was early in my life as a hand-guided, freemotion machine quilter.  I had previously used matching or transparent thread attempting to make my irregularities less noticeable.  Here, for the first time, I dared to try the continuous curves using a heavier, contrasting thread.  I marked a one-inch grid and used that as a guide.   The border fabrics are batiks, the vine is a quilting-weight cotton cut on the bias,  batting is Dream Cotton request, and threads are cotton.

Annie Mae was the name of the beautiful lady who was my teaching assistant when I taught Head Start at Bruce Elementary in the summer of 1973.  I was 22 years old, knew nothing about little kids, had been trained as a high-school teacher, and was surrounded by five-year-olds.  She was my lifesaver!  So I played with the plant name to give homage to the woman who kept me from exiting the teaching profession.