Conversations in Art: ‘Feral Stitching: Four Artists Go Wild’ | Vermont Arts

The long tradition of innovative exhibits was upheld when the gallery featured “Feral Stitching — Four Artists Go Wild,” March 25-May 7, the debut of experimental fabric art by Sarah Ashe, Janet Fredericks, Kari Hansen and Lily Hinrichsen.

Fredericks, a longtime gallery artist, introduced the other three to Maloy and Sardet with a proposal for the exhibit. Maloy states, “The positive energy of their creative camaraderie was very evident when Nico and I first met with them at the gallery to explore a sample of their fabric pieces and meet up in person. Now, I have to admit that fabric art has never been peak on my radar. I think it’s challenging to see it in the same respected light as other mediums, but I’d like to dispel this bias. The pieces in this exhibit completely refused to be limited — hence ‘Feral!’”

This is a quintessential Vermont story, one of personal connections creating new opportunities. Four experimental painter-friends with varying degrees of sewing skills from zero to accomplished, embarked on a journey together in Spring 2021. Their “manifesto” states, “There is a wildness in our approach to this age-old art of needlework. With little experience and much enthusiasm about this medium we decided, in our initial gathering, to jump in and follow our instincts. We came to it as painters — free of conventions, unencumbered and joyfully fierce. We let our minds and needles wander, exploring a new territory of pattern, color and process, which we call feral stitching.”

Needlework has traditionally been the purview of women throughout history and was an important part of women’s identity in the Victorian Age. In fact, it became a mode of social interchange with the lady of the house engaged in executing fancy embroidery work while entertaining guests. This decorative stitching was distinguished from the plain sewing executed by hired help.

During the COVID pandemic, Zoom became the “living room” and domain of exchange. Just as Victorian women expanded their limited lives through creative stitchery, Ashe, Fredericks, Hansen and Hinrichsen took up the challenge of reduced contact and used the space provided to expand their art forms. The combination of the artists’ generative energies and the gallerists’ open minds created this absolutely unique and stunning exhibit. The artists words are revelatory and share with us their open-ended process of exploration.

B.A.: You talk of being an interior woodwork designer. What was your studio practice before Feral Stitching?

K.H.: Designing interior woodwork, an intense fast-paced and very detail-oriented work, took up 30-plus years of my life, and I loved it. One of my favorite parts was meeting new people, seeing them in their homes, listening to what they wanted and what was important to them. Everyone is so uniquely different. I was lucky because I got trained to understand and learn both the design and the construction of what we were building. I have always worked in my studio, squeezing in time for painting, drawing, calligraphy, book-making, pottery, sewing, knitting, embroidery, tinkering.

B.A.: What is the relationship to fabric in your own life and the tradition of women stitching together?

K.H.: When I was a little girl, I would imagine other women learning handwork and the sewing skills I have, and the knowledge being passed through the ages. I have a beautiful 1864 sampler from my great-great-grandmother. A few of the letters are not in the correct order and some are missing. I understand that when one completes a beautiful intricate letter it may be too painful to pick out the tiny stitches!

My Norwegian-born mother was a great influence. She was an incredible seamstress and supplied me with mounds of all sorts of materials for me to experiment with. One high school summer, working from 6 in the morning to noon, I sewed over 250 custom bikinis for a bikini boutique. I’d drop the finished pieces off after lunch, pick up a new batch, and then I’d spend the afternoons playing beach volleyball. Back on the 6 a.m. schedule the next day.

My father, an artist, worked at home. All sorts of artistic characters would troop in and out. That certainly made a great impact on me. In my childhood, I learned a lot about art making, design, and techniques without realizing it at the time. I was soaking it all up.

B.A.: What is the difference between painting and stitching in your art? You seem to use a collage technique.

K.H.: I can see that both the detailed woodwork design I did and the freedom I felt growing up with the exposure and the variety of art and sewing supplies have played a part in my feral stitching. I appreciate the freedom of not knowing where I am going but moving ahead and stitching on. The feral stitching is similar to painting for me. In both I am focused on composition and color, but the pace of stitching slows me down. Instead of swiping a paintbrush across a broad surface, it’s a single stitch at a time. There is a quality of collage in it too with the piecing of fabric. Sometimes, to feel complete, all I need is just one more little stitch.

This collaboration has been delightful working with these wild, wonderful feral women artists. We all generously brought our own uniqueness to share with each other.

B.A.: What was it like to embark on this process with no experience in sewing?

L.H.: Curiosity is my life force so embarking on new experiences isn’t difficult for me. It can be frustrating or disenchanting but not difficult to make the leap. And with these three supportive friends sharing the experience with me, the landing was made all the more smooth and delightful. We all owned up to lack of measurable experience in this medium of needle and thread, so our/my expectations of perfection or precision went out the window. Instead, we agreed on letting the imperfections reveal themselves. Be visible for all to see. Holes, knots, frayed edges, loose threads, crooked borders — all of it an expression of our creative voice, my creative voice, unattached from society’s expectation of what art should be. Thus, the term “feral” was born. I really like this idea of wildness with a “domestic” craft. Great play on words.

B.A.: How did you learn different techniques? What was the role of the group in sharing, assisting you?

L.H.: It was quite natural that the regular meetings of our foursome would result in mutual trust, support and guidance. So, as each of us found a relevant book or website, art exhibit, or article, we would share that with each other. This was definitely true of stitching methods, hanging and exhibiting systems and where to find resources for repurposed fabric, floss, thread and other tools and materials. Within the first few weeks we began swapping and sharing fabrics from our stashes or thrift-store finds. That’s how the collaborative pieces came about — each of us using the same fabrics to see how we’d interpret them into a piece. I loved that part.

B.A.: What is the relationship of this work to your usual studio practice?

L.H.: In some ways I think it’s dramatically different because, generally, I do oil painting, monotypes on paper, and collage, but in reality when I step back, I can see similar motifs, shapes, colors in my hand stitching as in other mediums. That was a surprise to me. I initially found the stitching to be so slow as to hamper my usual impulsiveness —streaks of paint dashed across the canvas, for instance. But soon I found a rhythm in the slow pursuit of punching needle and thread in and out of fabric. I struck a more pensive and reflective cadence with plenty of time to change fabrics, change thread color, change the design. This contemplative approach reminded me of my knitting practice, which has served as healer of my soul and saved me many a therapy appointment.

B.A.: Could you talk about your history with fabric?

J.F.: My mother sewed outfits for my sister and me when we were young. I used to play with the fabric scraps draping them on her dress form and making my doll clothes from cast off pieces of colorful material. When I learned to sew using her new Singer sewing machine, I made some of my own clothes inspired by fashion magazines like Vogue and other magazines my mother had.

There was a small room in the attic of our old house that must have informed my love of textiles. It had one small window and a bare light-bulb illuminating those garments put away for safe keeping or a special occasion. It smelled a bit musty, but this dimly lit space was a treasure trove of textures, exotic clothing so inviting to explore that I loved to visit it often. I remember my mother’s wedding dress and an old silk-embroidered Chinese robe, part of which is in this exhibit, my father’s white-linen tux, furs and old coats all hanging together. Their stories were untold but fertile and nourishing for my feral imagination.

B.A.: Do you think you would have used fabric in your art if not for COVID?

J.F.: Yes, I had already used fabric in my artwork before COVID and before working with my friends stitching. My drawing and painting tend often to be layered whether with paint or something else. What was new was the experiment in embroidery. Our collaboration has taught me a lot about using the medium as another way of drawing.

B.A.: How did you come to use cyanotype?

J.F.: I’m drawn to the deep hue of indigo; for me it is a spiritual color. Cyanotypes historically are the original blueprints and as a photographic medium are useful to me for documenting the ferns and other plants along my road and in my gardens. The cyanotypes on exhibit are made on photosensitive fabric exposed outside in the sun. I use actual plant material laid directly of the fabric and let the sun turn the fabric blue. I have also used high-contrast negatives to get an image as well. It is quite a simple process.

B.A.: Why did you leave your painting practice during COVID?

S.A.: I think I was ready for a break, having had a show of my work at the Green TARA space gallery in North Hero, and being in a kind of in-between place afterwards. I had recently joined the SDA (Surface Design Association) and was pulled by the use of fabric and stitches, the intimacy and warmth of holding the work in my hands, its portability allowing me to work anywhere and a revisiting of the work I did 45 years ago, when my children were young when I made fabric and stitched masks.

B.A.: What draws you to your inventive use of materials and their relation to your art practice?

S.A.: Much of the art I do is created out of found items — the insides of garlic heads, teabags, pods. I’ve enjoyed making collages as well, finding images and textures that can be turned into something new. Searching for fabrics and materials to collage into to a canvas for stitching offered a wonderful opportunity to open my eyes further, stretch boundaries and experiment. There is a satisfaction in bringing a familiar item into new focus, exploring properties and suggestions outside of the assumptions one makes about the things we encounter and live with.

B.A.: Can you elaborate on the Japanese tradition of Boro and the practice of dying fabric and its place in your work?

S.A.: The story of the beginnings of Boro started with people in a very poor community in Japan patching their only pair of pants or kimono with whatever fabric they could find to ensure something to wear. Patch upon patch, and now these simple garments hang in museums, a testament to the craftsmanship, beauty and resilience of the human spirit. I also connected viscerally to the indigo color and discovered Japanese fabric in various prints that I also incorporated.

Faced with the luxury of materialism, owning too much and losing touch with what is essential, I wanted to learn something from Boro. Could I find and use what was available to me? The onion skin and black walnut dyes came from this idea; also, that rust stains made new patterns. I connected to these self-created patterns and want to continue to explore them. It also relates a bit to the art I do concerning refugee populations, using and finding beauty in what is available — adding one’s own marks.

I can’t leave this writing without mention of the Feral Sisters. The connection and exploration through the isolated months of COVID was a gift to my creative soul. Exploring this medium, new in varying degrees to all of us, created an excitement and equal playing field in which we could unselfconsciously share our discoveries, bits of knowledge and materials. The energy created kept me up into the late hours of the night, with an engagement so intense I’d often wake with a whole new set of ideas that needed to be pursued. Lily gave us our name in a burst of humor — it worked!