This blog started as a rage against the misuse of the word artisanal.
Artisanal somehow became a synonym for “unique” or “well made,” and this drove me crazy. I’ve seen it on products like corn chips and honey. Really?
But we wore out artisanal. Now the buzzword is hand-crafted.
My coffee from the local donut shop is apparently hand-crafted because the server made mine as I requested: no cream, no sugar. Just coffee. Coffee like I get everywhere.
My beer is hand-crafted because it was made in smaller batches than Miller. Look. I make beer in my kitchen. If you want small batch, that’s small batch.
Food from restaurants is hand-crafted and what you get on your plate is something that looks like a failed architectural model with a sprig of mint placed just so. Just for you.
Hand-crafted used to mean something substantial. Today, what it suggests is, “I made this just for you. You are unique and special. You deserve this.”
Am I the only one who finds this deplorable?
I don’t need to be made to feel unique in this world when I buy food or beverages or internet content or entertainment or clothing because hand-crafted is a lie. This stuff is mass-produced. And I’m okay with it. Really, I am. Just serve me the damn beer.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not asking for less quality. I’m asking for more honesty. Let’s let coffee be coffee and beer be beer. Let’s remember that bees make honey, not artists. I want my steak to look like a steak.
Who am I ? And why am I here? Two big questions. Hard to find anything bigger. You may know them in different forms: Why was I born? What’s the purpose of my life? How should I live? Essentially the same thing. I think about these questions from time to time. Life changes. I change. It’s good to assess. When I run out of answer pathways, I ask other people. But they usually have nothing for me. That is to say, you can’t get any closer to your answers by asking other people how you should live your life. How would they know? I mean, really.
These questions came up again for me just recently at the annual Holiday Folk Fair International in Milwaukee. This festival of ethnic heritage is a spectacular celebration in song, dance, food, ritual, history, and of course, craft. Although not as big as in recent years, it’s still an amazing collection of people sharing their culture. And these people have culture in droves. They are living it right before your eyes as they play music, cook, speak, sing, dance. It’s one of the best places to see needlework, too, because unlike a museum where you can observe a costume behind glass, people are wearing their ethnic costumes. It’s craft in action. Alive.
The festival describes it this way: “folklife . . . is the living expression of culture woven into everyday life – anyone’s culture – learned and passed on informally from person to person. It must be alive and current to be folklife, even though it may have existed over long stretches of time.”
To give you some example of this living expression at the festival:
Below is an example of Uzbek suzani, a traditional embroidery done entirely by hand using silk thread on a cotton/silk cloth. Traditionally, a woman began embroidering her daughter’s bridal bedspread as soon as she was born. The demand for these handmade pieces has gone up since the fall of the Soviet Union brought more travelers to Uzbekistan. From what I have read, new pieces are just as well made as vintage ones. An excellent example of a craft revival.
You can see it is handmade by examining the back. Machine work never looks like this. These pieces are made in long strips so that more than one woman can work on a bedspread. When they are finished, women sew them together and then embroider along the seam to hide it.
The pieces above were for sale in the bazaar. Many other people simply set up shop to show others their craft. Here is a woman in Pomeranian dress demonstrating weaving on a table loom.
And Darinka Kohl demonstrating the intricate techniques of bobbin lace.
When you see so many people celebrating their culture together, you realize something important about the Big Questions. Correction: I learned something. I learned that I’d been asking the wrong questions. Instead of asking “Who am I?” I should be asking “Who are we?” It’s the community that provides identity, direction, vision. It’s the community that sustains. If you want to know who you are, you simply look to your community; they will tell you where you came from and where you are going. You once ate this food. You once sang this song. You once survived this war. If you want to know who you are, learn how we do things: take up this needle and thread, carve this spoon, speak this language, repeat after me.
And after you learn these things, look around and see that all cultures have their versions. The egg roll is the burrito is the crepe.
Who am I? And why am I here? I am because we are.
To learn more about heritage crafts still practiced in Wisconsin, click here.
The entire series, Disappearing Acts, in the Guardian is good information for anyone who cares about craft. It hits exactly the points we’ve been discussing on this blog recently but does it 1000 times better and with great pictures. (It helps to have funding and a talented staff!)
My last post was a lament over lost arts, over how much of our craft / art heritage we lose over time. Reasons are myriad: failure to document, failure to generate interest, bad teaching. There are reasons related to cost, dearth of materials, lack of time. We can also talk about need. We simply don’t need many traditional craft products like we once did. Tastes change, new technologies replace old ones. Once, we relied on horse travel and we had a need for blacksmiths. Horses were replaced by cars and now we have a need for mechanics. Once you could find a blacksmith in nearly every town. Today, how many do you know?
What fascinates me is that we still have blacksmiths at all. We still have people who make bobbin lace, who paint china, who weave seats with slices of cane. Why do people do these things when they could simply go to the store and get a length of lace or a teacup or a chair? In my post, I said there was value simply in the doing. I still think this is true, but it can’t be the entire answer. If it was just about experiencing satisfaction in the doing, then we could stop at taking out the garbage, making the bed, and dusting the lampshades–all those mundane tasks that need to be done: we could do them and feel satisfied and we wouldn’t have to take up rare craft at all.
I’ve been pondering this for two reasons. A friend of mine recently asked me why I knit. The way he put it suggested to me that he thought knitting was simply about the amassment of sweaters, gloves, socks, and scarves. At the end of my life, I could look at this pile of garments and feel good–or maybe superior?–over the sheer size of the wool mountain I’d built. Clearly, this guy doesn’t knit, but he was sincere and his question struck me. It had never occurred to me that someone could not see the value of knitting. He thought it was about accumulation, like collecting records or paperweights.
Yarn stashes aside, knitting has very little to do with collecting. It’s visual, it’s tactile, it’s practical. Beyond this, simply ask any knitter: you’ll hear about self discovery, meditation, self-expression, the challenge of learning, and the joy of creation. It’s this last idea–the joy of creation–that struck me as I was engaged in conversation with another friend about the ornamental clothing of the Masai. Why do we embellish clothing? Or more broadly: why decorate? A thing can just be a thing. It doesn’t need rhinestones to make it purposeful. The rhinestones do not add to a thing’s utility. Rhinestones are extra. So why add them?
If we want to look at this from an economic standpoint, the answer is clear: decoration adds value. We pay more for decorated things. Part of that value is reflected in the artist’s time and materials. Talent also adds value. We pay premiums for well decorated things and even more for well decorated things that are scarce.
But what if you remove the market? It turns out that people still decorate. Even with no economic incentive, people will still make things beautiful. It’s like we can’t help ourselves. I’m thinking here of the thousands of people who–right now–are tinkering away at their craft without any hope of selling what they make. In fact, selling their work may never even enter their minds.
One might say that we decorate as a form of self-expression. Okay. But this cannot be–or shouldn’t be–the only reason. As proof, I submit my poetry students. Years ago, I used to teach creative writing to college students. In writing workshops, students share their work with each other and offer critique. Every semester I had students who would say, “It doesn’t matter that you don’t understand my poem because I understand my poem and I wrote it for me.” To which I would ask, “If you only write for yourself, why are you in this class?” If we write a poem that’s only meant for our eyes, then the poem can stay in the diary forever. Once we go public, even classroom-style public, we are writing for a reason beyond ourselves. We have pushed beyond our solipsism. We share what we decorate because we long for communion.
It is only in communion that we know who we are. It is only in communion that I see myself reflected in something bigger. Craft takes us out of ourselves. This is why I’m worried about the loss of our craft /art heritage. If I have to go to a museum to understand what a craft had to say about its people, that means it is no longer a living source of communal understanding. It speaks, but from out of the past. Or–my even bigger fear– it could be quite relevant today–but somehow we lost our connection to it. We failed at passing it down because we didn’t write about it enough, we didn’t expose enough people to it, we didn’t teach it well, or we just plain forgot. Maybe we even thought it was someone else’s responsibility.
My dad, Max Ranft, made his living as a fine artist. He really lived it. He had a studio. He taught life drawing. He sketched on every scrap of paper. He taught me how to draw. He taught my brothers. He set up his easel in the snow. He trekked through the forest preserves and churned out landscape after landscape after landscape. Before he got his job at J. Walter Thompson, he traveled the Midwest doing church murals. And he is one of the only people I ever met who knew–I mean really knew–how to draw the human figure.
He hated working from photographs, whether he was painting a portrait or a bridge. The light isn’t real. The shadows aren’t real. The colors are not real. Whatever he was trying to convey was not containable in a snapshot. He needed more than that to say what he had to say.
I remember when I finally got it. He was painting, I was sketching. I could see him from where I sat, measuring, looking, mixing, adjusting. We were out there for hours, a beautiful spot by a lake. The birds, the sunshine, the sound of leaves against the wind. I realized my father spent a good deal of his life observing nature. I thought he was just the guy I saw at dinner. You know, eating. Getting mad at world news. Fixing the gutters. But what I realized by the lake was that what was blue or white to me was not to him. He’d cultivated a way of seeing, a way of knowing the natural world that most people don’t know. He knew stuff, unique stuff, and he was trying to pass this stuff along to me.
Today he has Alzheimer’s. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about lost arts.
If there’s someone in your life with Alzheimer’s, then you already know what I’m going to say. Everyone’s personal or family disease is important: it makes its own strong and particular mark, it takes you down paths you don’t think you can walk. Alzheimer’s–I’ll venture to say–is one of the more stranger ones. What is it–what!–that allows him to play chess (and win) but not remember what he said five minutes ago?
Not long ago, we had a visit from the great nephew of my dad’s teacher, Louis Grell. Richard is doing research on his relative for a book and my dad was one of his closest pupils. (If you’ve ever been to the Chicago Theatre on State Street, you’ve looked at the murals inside–those are Grells.) My dad revered Grell. Mister Grell, as he called him even well after he died. I grew up with stories about Grell and the impact he had not only on my dad’s art, but on his thinking. It’s all lost. My dad couldn’t recall anything significant about his apprenticeship to this man. And no one in my family had written anything down.
You think the stories you have in your youth are the stories you’ll have your whole life. They are the stories you live with, that shape you, that make you who you are. If you forget a detail, no matter. The storyteller will tell the story again. You can have the story back in all its vivid detail any time you want. Or so you think.
So much else is gone, too. I’ve been wracking my brain to remember what he taught me about the color of clouds, about how to paint a sky, about how to measure the human form. What was I supposed to do with half tones? What exactly was I supposed to look for when the weight was on the opposite hip of a figure at three quarter turn? What did you mean when you said to soften the shadow? These are the stories I heard every day of my youth. Of everything he taught me about art, I internalized only maybe ten percent. The rest is gone. Just gone.
This sudden and desperate sense of loss has made me frantic about the lost arts of our world. Where does all the knowledge go? Who is keeping track? Who’s writing it down? Better yet, who’s practicing it, making it present? Here are a few on my current watch list (in no particular order):
Dark room photography
and, of course, hand spinning
Maybe you know some people who practice these arts. Maybe you practice some of them yourself. But let’s face it. These crafts are endangered. My list has a decidedly Western bent, but that’s the culture I know. Please send me more and I’ll add them.
Recently, someone said that she struggled with deciding when to consign an art to history. This really took me aback. I don’t want to lose any of these arts to history. But then I thought how many people I know who are looking to buy a hand-tatted collar. Zero. Who wants a hand-carved bed? Who needs their books rebound? There are reasons we don’t practice these crafts like we once did. But, gosh–is that the reason to let them go? Zip? Gone? Disappear forever like my father’s memory? Maybe I’m too emotionally invested here. If I am, talk me out of it. But somehow I don’t think so. Besides all the practical use I get from my spinning wheel, there’s another reason I make yarn by hand. I do it, damn it, because there’s value in the doing. Like my father standing in the forest, under the sun, measuring, mixing, creating what only he could create out there that day, there’s a knowledge in the doing that only comes from doing. Do we really want to lose that to history? Really?
This blog started as a rage against the misuse of the word artisanal. As anyone interested in American craft knows, this word has been bastardized by corporations to the detriment of true artisans honing real skills. It should only be used for handcrafted items, and I thought this blog was a way to protect that usage.
Wrong. That ship has sailed. Long ago.
I found I had more to say as a practitioner of craft than as a gadfly of language. I’m an urbanite practicing a craft that depends largely on rural capacity to raise, produce, and market my raw materials. I can’t even find most of what I need in the Chicago area. I must go rural. And much like the city kid who suddenly realizes where her food comes from, I’ve found great benefit in knowing what makes my yarn possible.
The Internet makes this rural dependency easy to ignore. What can’t you buy online? I could easily purchase everything I need in a few faceless transactions every year.
But spinning is tactile. It’s present. It’s immediate. It’s not a craft of intangibles. I could buy my fleece online or I could go out and get my boots dirty. I could–gasp–leave the city.
While this flipped dichotomy is not wholly unique (again, think of food production), it is unusual in a modern landscape that provides almost everything for the urban consumer within a few minutes.
The intersections of these flipped worlds–the urban handspinner and the rural materials producer–is what interests me. Towards that end, this blog will never be about my latest project. You won’t read details about why I only knit 8 rows last night. You won’t get updates on my latest random thoughts. What you will get are articles that touch on and around the relationship between urban practitioners of an ancient craft and rural producers of the raw materials we use.
It seems to me this is a largely contemporary phenomenon worth thinking and writing about. I hope you’ll join me.
Spin-OffMagazine recently sent out a survey to its subscribers. One of the things the editors wanted was ideas for articles. Here’s a few thoughts:
Fibersheds and the Work of Rebecca Burgess. To use her words, a fibershed is a “geographical landscape that defines and gives boundaries to a natural textile resource base.” Burgess founded the first such network in California after she spent a year of seeking out, making, and wearing only clothes made from natural fibers and dyes grown and made within 150 mile radius of where she lives. Think about that! Her work has inspired new fibershed networks around the country and even internationally–all with clearly established boundaries from which all labor and materials must originate. Read her blog or visit her profile in the August/September 2013 issue of American Craft. As spinners, we need to think more about this concept.
American Sheep Industry Overview. Not enough spinners know about the state of the American sheep and wool industry. They don’t know, for instance, that flock numbers are in slow decline. They don’t know how hard it is to raise sheep, that the flockmaster often struggles in times of drought or flood, and that these conditions impact the price of the wool (or even the lives of the sheep). They don’t know what goes into raising bummer lambs or keeping the sheep away from thistle or pooping pigeons in the barn. However, if we’re serious about sustainability and buying local, this is exactly what the spinner should know about the wool she spins.
Spinning in the Grease. I love this technique, but it makes most spinners go eew. They think it’s messy (yes!) and greasy (yes!). Many spinners think you can’t get beautiful results (wrong!) or that you can’t wash out all the grease (wrong!). Spinning in the grease yields beautiful, wearable, soft yarn. It’s an especially nice technique for anyone who lives in an apartment or simply doesn’t have the space to wash and dry a whole fleece. It’s my preferred spinning method and I’d like to see more spinners use it.
How to Pick a Fleece. Most spinners pick a fleece based on the ooh factor. We react to color, softness, and price and that’s about it. But go to any fleece judging contest with a knowledgeable judge and you’ll quickly learn there’s a lot more to it. A lot. Handle, staple length, second cuts, skirting, luster, crimp, breaks–all these factors should go into your evaluation before you buy. I was lucky with my first fleece purchase. I didn’t know a thing: I simply purchased one that looked nice and was affordable. Thankfully, it made beautiful yarn. But my second and third fleeces weren’t so wonderful because I was still buying based on emotion, not evaluation. Once I began my fleece education, I based my purchasing on data, bought better fleeces, and my spinning improved as a result.
The Hackle and Diz. Drum carders are great if you can afford them. A good hackle and a strong diz will do the same job at a much more affordable price–and they’re a lot more fun to use. Why doesn’t anyone use these tools?