QUILT
ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French cuilte, from Latin culcita ‘mattress, cushion.'
I am happy to find that there is Old French in the etymology of “to quilt”. This is because I am unable to separate my love of my crazy quilts from my love for my friend Rebecca who made them for me and our collective love of steak frites at Rue Clare, a favorite downtown Durham haunt. (The casual kind of French, not fru fru French, not too snooty not too saucy.) “This pleases me” is one of my favorite Rebecca-isms and it is declared most often in praise of food worth savoring. She once defined dark chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joes as “one step away from heroin.” Laughter and tears from time spent in her kitchen rank as Sabbath for me. This strikes me as no small thing in a world gone wild with work. If her cooking is legendary (and it is), her quilting is non-perishable soul food, prêt a porter.
I met Rebecca at five am on Easter morning, of course, in the kitchen. It was the kitchen of our church and it was Easter morning and I was put immediately in charge of biscuits. This was the South and I was a tad intimidated by the task. Like any good intuitive leader, sensing my hesitancy, Rebecca with good humor and gusto took over as lead chef. I remember thinking, “This woman has fed the five thousand.” Although I cannot remember exactly how many biscuits we made that morning it was more than I ever imagined making in my entire lifetime. The quantity as well as the quality was remarkable to me. I feel the same way about the vast number of quilts I have seen her churn out since I have known her: the quantity and the quality astound me. One of my favorite things about a hang with Rebecca at her house is inevitably: “Want to see the new quilt I am working on?” This would lead inevitably to the event that the quilt was being created in honor of, who and why this person was important, how and when she acquired fabric for each square. For me Becca’s quilting means storytelling at its best, laced with visual aids from international locations.
I happen to know that quilting is a spiritual discipline for her because she told me so. Songwriting is mine. She also asked me if I wanted to learn how to quilt—but I had to confess I quit brownies, never made it to Girl Scouts, because of the sewing. So instead, I sang and strummed in her studio while she quilted. Time in her quilting studio feeds my image well, it is what Julia Cameron would call an “artist date.” I remember the first time I saw the quilting wall where she throws up squares to look at patterns and rearranges them while she talks to you (the wall is covered with felt so squares will stick but can also easily be shuffled around for visual brainstorming.) I remember the first time I saw this, how open and free she was with the colors, patterns and squares…I knew immediately I had to find a way to think about song structures this way. I went home and decided that what I thought was a chorus to a song was actually a verse: the squares were just not in the right place, the colors were there, the pattern was good, it just needed to be shifted around. So perhaps because I have been in my friend’s quilting studio I cannot help but think about my quilts from her differently. I have a deep respect and gratitude for my quilts. When something has been lovingly handmade for you that is one thing; when someone has prayed for you with every stitch… it becomes downright sacramental.
A blanket, a throw they are not: this would be like fast food. Just as a meal with Rebecca is a work of art, a quilt from Rebecca is both talisman and heater. When I got my first one I asked about hanging it: she said simply “I intend for my quilts to be used. Thank you for wanting it to be art, but I do make them to be used.” Far be it from me to disrespect the master of all things fabric.
I was separated from my partner of 20 years when she gave it to me. Most people think of a quilt as a gift for babies, or for weddings, but in this case Rebecca said, “Yours is for new life.” She actually said: “to celebrate the new life I see in you Kelly.” When you have just moved all your earthly possessions out of your house and put them into storage, dividing up what is yours from what is ours from what is his, if you’re me all you see is massive destruction, loss, tearing apart. The fact that anyone, let alone someone as smart and gifted as Rebecca sees new life was enough to make me cry. But I also really really loved the quilt: full of colors I never would have thought actually “go together.” I loved this brilliant mish mash of bold prints, loud primary colors like for a kid but stitched with grown up intensity and MOMA-like shapes.
In her kitchen Rebecca has a bunch of clear 3x5 frames with photos in them connected by colored wire that is twisted and coiled and curved in a zillion directions. It is a photomontage but looks more Matisse during his cutouts period than Macys or Pottery Barn. The first quilt she made me reminds me of that, still. I love that wall in her kitchen. So my quilt takes me there when I look at it. When I curl up with it on a cool fall night I remember all the times in her kitchen, and how important I felt when I made it on the wall as one of her “people.”
My quilt travels well. Just seeing it in the rear window of my Audi every time I stopped for gas when I made the cross-country trip alone from North Carolina to California made my heart smile. Symbols of my new life all over in blocks of color: bright red and black Chinese characters in honor of my study of Thai massage, duo-colored orange stripes (bright and brighter), green and blue guitars, golden dragonflies, green alligators and monkeys, purple spirals, yellow tea cups, black and white cows. I do not know exactly what the cows were meant to represent but the cows have always cracked me up. I love the cows. Maybe because she always drinks a glass of milk in the morning when on vacation and goes back to bed? This is what I decide even though I know it was probably more about the fabric and its playfulness. The cows are flaring their nostrils. There is no bull, maybe THAT was the intention-- since she knew I was done being BULLied.
Ma cuilte me plait [my quilt pleases me]. Flipping it is a sort of ritual: different sides mark seasons. They mean change. When I started making my first batch of songs without my former best-friend-co writer-producer husband at the helm I flipped my quilt. My quilt marked the ritual of daring to record without him… I slept under the side flooded with quarter notes, knowing I was prayed for. Knowing there was something larger than me at stake. Right now it’s back on the other side for fall, cows nostrils folded front and center. Still, I wrap myself in this quilt sometimes when I meditate; it has helped me endure during lonely seasons of wondering if I’d ever be partnered again.
Rebecca calls it crazy quilting. I don’t really know jack about what separates a good snowflake pattern from a Mennonite masterpiece. But when I look at Rebecca’s quilts I see fragments of my life: I think of one of my own lyrics, “pieces of grief, what will the puzzle be?” Her quilt makes me think that the puzzle itself is simply beautiful: even if it is unfinished. I think the fact that she prays so much while she stitches is part of why the quilts continue to “speak” to me. It’s like an ongoing conversation, the best kind, like in the kitchen late at night.
I met Rebecca at five am on Easter morning, of course, in the kitchen. It was the kitchen of our church and it was Easter morning and I was put immediately in charge of biscuits. This was the South and I was a tad intimidated by the task. Like any good intuitive leader, sensing my hesitancy, Rebecca with good humor and gusto took over as lead chef. I remember thinking, “This woman has fed the five thousand.” Although I cannot remember exactly how many biscuits we made that morning it was more than I ever imagined making in my entire lifetime. The quantity as well as the quality was remarkable to me. I feel the same way about the vast number of quilts I have seen her churn out since I have known her: the quantity and the quality astound me. One of my favorite things about a hang with Rebecca at her house is inevitably: “Want to see the new quilt I am working on?” This would lead inevitably to the event that the quilt was being created in honor of, who and why this person was important, how and when she acquired fabric for each square. For me Becca’s quilting means storytelling at its best, laced with visual aids from international locations.
I happen to know that quilting is a spiritual discipline for her because she told me so. Songwriting is mine. She also asked me if I wanted to learn how to quilt—but I had to confess I quit brownies, never made it to Girl Scouts, because of the sewing. So instead, I sang and strummed in her studio while she quilted. Time in her quilting studio feeds my image well, it is what Julia Cameron would call an “artist date.” I remember the first time I saw the quilting wall where she throws up squares to look at patterns and rearranges them while she talks to you (the wall is covered with felt so squares will stick but can also easily be shuffled around for visual brainstorming.) I remember the first time I saw this, how open and free she was with the colors, patterns and squares…I knew immediately I had to find a way to think about song structures this way. I went home and decided that what I thought was a chorus to a song was actually a verse: the squares were just not in the right place, the colors were there, the pattern was good, it just needed to be shifted around. So perhaps because I have been in my friend’s quilting studio I cannot help but think about my quilts from her differently. I have a deep respect and gratitude for my quilts. When something has been lovingly handmade for you that is one thing; when someone has prayed for you with every stitch… it becomes downright sacramental.
A blanket, a throw they are not: this would be like fast food. Just as a meal with Rebecca is a work of art, a quilt from Rebecca is both talisman and heater. When I got my first one I asked about hanging it: she said simply “I intend for my quilts to be used. Thank you for wanting it to be art, but I do make them to be used.” Far be it from me to disrespect the master of all things fabric.
I was separated from my partner of 20 years when she gave it to me. Most people think of a quilt as a gift for babies, or for weddings, but in this case Rebecca said, “Yours is for new life.” She actually said: “to celebrate the new life I see in you Kelly.” When you have just moved all your earthly possessions out of your house and put them into storage, dividing up what is yours from what is ours from what is his, if you’re me all you see is massive destruction, loss, tearing apart. The fact that anyone, let alone someone as smart and gifted as Rebecca sees new life was enough to make me cry. But I also really really loved the quilt: full of colors I never would have thought actually “go together.” I loved this brilliant mish mash of bold prints, loud primary colors like for a kid but stitched with grown up intensity and MOMA-like shapes.
In her kitchen Rebecca has a bunch of clear 3x5 frames with photos in them connected by colored wire that is twisted and coiled and curved in a zillion directions. It is a photomontage but looks more Matisse during his cutouts period than Macys or Pottery Barn. The first quilt she made me reminds me of that, still. I love that wall in her kitchen. So my quilt takes me there when I look at it. When I curl up with it on a cool fall night I remember all the times in her kitchen, and how important I felt when I made it on the wall as one of her “people.”
My quilt travels well. Just seeing it in the rear window of my Audi every time I stopped for gas when I made the cross-country trip alone from North Carolina to California made my heart smile. Symbols of my new life all over in blocks of color: bright red and black Chinese characters in honor of my study of Thai massage, duo-colored orange stripes (bright and brighter), green and blue guitars, golden dragonflies, green alligators and monkeys, purple spirals, yellow tea cups, black and white cows. I do not know exactly what the cows were meant to represent but the cows have always cracked me up. I love the cows. Maybe because she always drinks a glass of milk in the morning when on vacation and goes back to bed? This is what I decide even though I know it was probably more about the fabric and its playfulness. The cows are flaring their nostrils. There is no bull, maybe THAT was the intention-- since she knew I was done being BULLied.
Ma cuilte me plait [my quilt pleases me]. Flipping it is a sort of ritual: different sides mark seasons. They mean change. When I started making my first batch of songs without my former best-friend-co writer-producer husband at the helm I flipped my quilt. My quilt marked the ritual of daring to record without him… I slept under the side flooded with quarter notes, knowing I was prayed for. Knowing there was something larger than me at stake. Right now it’s back on the other side for fall, cows nostrils folded front and center. Still, I wrap myself in this quilt sometimes when I meditate; it has helped me endure during lonely seasons of wondering if I’d ever be partnered again.
Rebecca calls it crazy quilting. I don’t really know jack about what separates a good snowflake pattern from a Mennonite masterpiece. But when I look at Rebecca’s quilts I see fragments of my life: I think of one of my own lyrics, “pieces of grief, what will the puzzle be?” Her quilt makes me think that the puzzle itself is simply beautiful: even if it is unfinished. I think the fact that she prays so much while she stitches is part of why the quilts continue to “speak” to me. It’s like an ongoing conversation, the best kind, like in the kitchen late at night.
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