Blush

I am deeply honored for the opportunity to share my work in the latest edition of Creative Maine Magazine.

I hope you enjoy reading the story behind each piece.

Much gratitude to the editor and publisher Nancy Gordon.

When We Remember (detail)

Watery World

I am 70% water. 

Swimming at age 5.

(And so are you.)

The Earth is 71% water.

I’ve been thinking about the qualities of water a lot lately.

Water is flexible – easily fits and flows around other more concrete objects. 

Water is open to change --  rapid change. 

Water reacts and responds to the environment around it – the wind, shoreline, air temperature. 

Water can gently changes the shape of things over time.

Water can wear down things that are difficult, heavy and resistant, such as stones at the beach. 

Water flows easily, goes where there is least resistance.

And yet there is so much hidden under the surface of water.

I can immerse myself in water. 

Submerge. 

Rounded Maine Beach stones.

Float, sink.

Swim through.

Dive and dip.

 

Detail: “One Bright Island”

Water has been a muse for my work for a long time. 

And so on this breezy March day – I tip my hat to water. 

 Without water, I could not make my art, dye my threads, or paint.

Without out water, I would not exist.

Thank you water.

Detail “Dissolving Boundaries”

Material Meaning

The materials we select to make our art are embedded with many layers of meaning, metaphors, messages, political implications, historical connections and more. I’ve been exploring this topic with my textile colleagues and giving it much thought as I work alone this winter in my studio.

The material I use to build my art is thread. Threads in general are a metaphor for connection - the threads that bind us, our common threads. Thread also is a line - a continuous line of thought (the thread of a message), a line of reasoning, a continuous element. 

A thread is a group of filaments twisted together to make a long continuous strand. And within the realm of threads there are many fibers from which to construct this long line, this connective strand, this flexible linear element. 

My preference is to use fibers that have organic origins such as paper, linen, cotton, silk and rayon (made from cellulose fibers). Threads made from these organic materials are effected by humidity, light, wind and abrasion. I find the susceptibility to change of these organic fiber materials parallels the changes I observe in my own changing/aging body. Exploring these parallels of impermanence, I treat my hand woven linens to rust dyeing, weathering, bleach and compost dyeing. These transformative and dye processes allow me to be a witness in the process of metamorphosis and to challenge my attachment to what I once deemed as precious. 

These materials are not only metaphor for change but a vehicle for personal growth and reflection. This avenue of thought about materials and meaning is only one of many. What does the material you use mean to your message, to your process, to your growth as an artist?

My interview with the Handweavers Guild of America can be found on FaceBook (no account needed). Enjoy!

Stone Cozy: Beach stone with crocheted madder dyed linen

Native Tongue

I just completed a four month course on Natural Dyes from Maiwa School of Textiles.

I sing high praise for this amazing on-line class - with concise easy to follow directions and videos, easily accessible support, well written PDFs and community with other students.

I am grateful the Maine Arts Commission who supported my pursuit to learn a new palette with a Project Grant for Artists. As an experienced artist, it is daunting to take the risk to forge a whole new direction - and this foray into natural dyes is just that. Although as a young weaver/artist in the 1970s I did natural dyeing, it was a half hearted attempt with out the technical support and knowledge that is available now.

In a recent interview with Warp And Weft Magazine I explain my love for color, nature and woven threads.

https://www.warpandweftmag.com/field-notes/sarah-haskell

“Weaving answered questions that were elusive with painting, sculpture and printmaking. As a medium that is built with three dimensional lines (threads), weaving offered me a method to build texture, pattern and most importantly to manipulate color. Because weaving is constructed of many threads that intersect and over lay each other, I found that I could create a surface of pixelated colors that mimicked the multidimensional color I saw in nature. The natural world around me has been my inspiration, my teacher and my solace for as long as I can remember.  With the language of threads and the structure of weaving I felt like I was finally able to bring what I felt and saw in nature into my art.”

The entire palette of over 80 dye samples.

My dye journal with notes and samples.

This palette feels like a home coming to the colors of nature that inspired my first forays into weaving - a return to my native tongue.

So now it’s time to begin a narrative with this palette… time to make art.

Seeds

Last fall I received a Fellowship from the Maine Arts Commission . Over the past winter I used these funds to build a dye so that I could expand my dye skills and create new methods of using color in my work. Color inspired by the natural world is central to my work — and now I have the equipment and space to dye my handwoven cloth or threads with botanical dyes. And this summer I received a Professional Development grant from the Maine Arts Commission to learn more about natural dyes.

So here I am …. deep into the learning curve. Starting with planting dye plants this spring, to harvesting the flowers and dyeing - I’ve been experimenting and playing in the dye lab like a mad scientist. I’ve taken two on-line workshops learning a variety of techniques for indigo vats, shifting colors with iron and methods for mordanting to assure long lasting colors. And this month I’ll take another on-line workshop to learn about making paint from dried indigo leaves.

Drying the harvested marigolds.

Drying the harvested marigolds.

All this activity is building a foundation for new work. Like the seeds I planted last spring for dye plants, the seeds I’ve planted in the dye lab are just starting to blossom into projects and ideas.

My very first effort in the dye lab has been a baby blanket for my first grandchild due in mid-October. The warp was dyed in an exhaust bath of marigold and weld then quickly immersed in the big indigo vat. The color came out a gorgeous light sea green. The weft was dyed in the same exhaust bath (only more exhausted!). I used an 8H undulating twill for the structure.

Cotton baby blanket in 8 H twill.

Cotton baby blanket in 8 H twill.

And next up — some art! I’m so eager to see what I can make of this new palette and new methods for using color to tell the stories that tug at my heart.

One year since

For most of the past year I felt disoriented, lost, in a fog, in murky waters. Time was fluid - days, hours, weeks all seemed to have the same weight, density and duration. I took up cooking and gardening like I was responsible for feeding a small village. I cleaned and organized long overdue places at home like closets and the basement. I wove simple linen cloths for drying dishes and rag rugs from discarded clothing. I found solace in simplicity and in the ordinary. These actions and chores gave me a sense of purpose and I felt like I was contributing to a greater good.

And I went outside. I walked miles.  Going out into the woods or along the shore line, gazing up at the birds and watching the clouds move overhead gave me grounding. Watching a hawk raise her brood in a tree above my studio gave me hope.  There was no pandemic in the woods or in the ocean. There were no politics on the moon or heavens above. The wind and sun know nothing of racial or religious divide. Being close to Nature was not only an escape but medicine. 

And yet I want to stay informed and be engaged with the world. So I watched the news.  Politics, the election, covid statistics, the racial divide, climate change and civil unrest made me anxious. The immensity of these issues colliding together felt like the building pressure of an imminent volcanic eruption.  This unease created a compression in my body and my spirit…like a tourniquet was tightening around my chest.  

I felt stuck between wanting to stay informed and longing for relief from this physical constriction. I couldn’t gain perspective. I yearned to tether myself to the hawk’s feet, to fly above all this earthly chaos, to gain some insight. I ached to be free of this narrowing feeling.

Making art has always been my pathway to process these larger than life issues. I kept thinking – what can I make of this?  But this past year felt so much larger than anything I have ever experienced. I just couldn’t focus or create a meaningful community art project, something that might help me and others find a way out of these dark and constricting times. 

So I just kept making the art that appeared to me in dreams, on long walks or winter x-skiing.

I wove long horizontal blues to mimic the ocean horizon. I wove a sunrise inspired by a Rumi poem about unconditional love. I wove trees with moonscapes and trees with bodies buried deep below, tangled among the roots. I wove a body floating in a sea of blue and one in a field of dark orange. I embroidered many flocks of birds and a galaxy of stars. 

And now…one year since we stepped into this drama-filled time ….. I am untangling the past year of living and art making. I am beginning to understand what has been calling to be me.

In seeking relief from this this narrow, constricted perspective, I long for a wider perception and expansive view. Not just a wider vision in the physical realm  – but a viewpoint that illustrates a different way of looking at our world. A bigger picture or a wider view that might lift us from the minutia and constrictions of politics, the pandemic and socio/economic divisions. 

Nature reigns in this expansive place. The ever-present song birds, the trees that reach to the firmament, the sprawling sky, the deep earth, the endless ocean, the many galaxies of stars and the wisdom of the human body reside in this spacious realm.  

I show up in this place of unlimited dreams and unconditional love.

I look, listen and make art. 

 

Work in process May 2021. Hand woven, indigo dyed, linen and rayon.

Work in process May 2021. Hand woven, indigo dyed, linen and rayon.

Field Notes

FIELD NOTES

observations and reflections on the explorations and experiments of the past two months

The basement dye lab.

The basement dye lab.

Crushing eggs shell to raise the PH in a dye bath.

Crushing eggs shell to raise the PH in a dye bath.

In the Gardens: seedlings sprouting in the greenhouse and studio flats.

IMG_9995.jpg

Warm and bright in here for the lettuce sprouts.

Shuttles at rest.

Shuttles at rest.

In the Dye Lab:

Years ago I used natural dyes - I even taught classes at UNH on these processes. But I let my skills fade and for decades focused on fiber active dyes for their consistency and light fasteness. Now I am eager to rekindle my skills of these living, organic dyes. The science and information around natural dyes has exploded - and even the nomenclature has changed — they are now called eco-dyes!!

This winter I built a dye lab in my basement - I am so fortunate now to have a dedicated space for these processes. I’ve outfitted this space with second hand pots, pans and other equipment for dyeing yarns and fabric.

And so it is one experiment after another ~ kitchen waste (tea, avocado pits, onion skins), including my attempts at an organic indigo vat - with the dehydrated indigo from Bali

Dehydrated indigo from Bali.

Dehydrated indigo from Bali.

Linens dyed with onion skins and first attempts using natural indigo.

Linens dyed with onion skins and first attempts using natural indigo.

Woven brocade piece fresh off the loom. Next steps include rusting, and over dye with indigo.

Woven brocade piece fresh off the loom. Next steps include rusting, and over dye with indigo.

In the Studio:

Playing with engineered woven design that will later be over-dyed (once I master the organic indigo bath!)

Mixed media collage in process.

Mixed media collage in process.

And on the collage table, always a work in process.

Milestones and horizons

Our transition from Pollywogs to Shellbacks - at the Equator.

Our transition from Pollywogs to Shellbacks - at the Equator.

Dye Lab in process of getting set up. Indigo vat ready to grow, awesome double sink, inversion burner on wheels, shelves, rust table and big work table covered with yoga mats.

Dye Lab in process of getting set up. Indigo vat ready to grow, awesome double sink, inversion burner on wheels, shelves, rust table and big work table covered with yoga mats.

The wide “Blue Horizon” detail. Indigo warp. Monofilament weft.

The wide “Blue Horizon” detail. Indigo warp. Monofilament weft.

“The Blue Horizon”

“The Blue Horizon”

This month I honor a couple milestones and I’m expanding my horizons.

Ten years ago this month I sailed across the Atlantic from Cape Town South Africa to Barbados in a 43’ boat with three other people. On March 1st, we crossed the Equator. In maritime lore, there are traditions and rituals that mark the first time a sailor crosses this watery line. Usually Neptune appears, along with some rum and a few lashes. The ceremony observes a mariner's transformation from slimy Pollywog, a seaman who hasn't crossed the equator, to trusty Shellback, also called a Son or Daughter of Neptune. This ocean passage was pivotal in my self confidence as a sailor, my art work, and a few life lessons. Some day you can ask me about that.

Another milestone - I have completed setting up a new dye lab in my basement! This is the first time since art school days that I have a dedicated, safe, year-round space to dye, rust and paint my handwoven cloth. I’ve got a massive sink, an inversion burner, shelves, buckets, table space and amazing lights. I’m just getting into projects there — so stay tuned for more stories and images.

As a sailor and a swimmer, I often have my eyes on the horizon. This elusive thin line that separates earth from infinity is a source of serenity for many. With a longing to hold this line in my sight as often as possible, I recently wove a 15” tall, 9 feet long strip of indigo blues.

Gazing at this wide blue horizon frees my mind from the particulars of modern life. I hope you find some of the same.

Wishing you wide horizons and good health, Sarah

So much

November is the month of Thanksgiving.

And I have so much to be grateful for.

I have a solid roof over my head.

I have family that loves me unconditionally, especially my dog.

I have food, warmth and clothing.

I have a studio filled with equipment and supplies.

I have the time to work in my studio.

I am healthy.

But honestly between you and me, I still feel a teensy bit anxious. A bit on edge.

So, I weave towels.

I make art.

Walking my dog.

Walking my dog.

And I walk the dog.

Here’s some news for which I am grateful:

Detail “All This Time”

Detail “All This Time”

“Below, Through, Above and BeyondThe Datum Level” “When We Remember” is included in the juried on-line exhibit. Are is what the curator wrote about my piece -

Sarah Haskell - When We remember, 2018. The narrative of memory, loss, lived experiences and passages lies within the cells of this work. The way the eye is led to read the work is well thought out and the patterning seductively repetitive but then it is not…so much like the operation of our recall. The palette works with popular notions of embedded information - nostalgic. The subtlety of the lettering in conjunction with the outreached hands is hopeful, gentle, supportive in counterpoint to the rusted symbols of the pins and hooks.The pathways of the stitch work enhance the feeling of the organic, soluble nature of memory.

Maine Artist Fellow - I have been awarded a fellowship in Fine Crafts from the Maine Arts Commission. Here is a link to the MEAC website with all the details.

New art in my gallery - Please check out my latest piece in my gallery. It is inspired by the words of Persian poet Hafiz “Even after all this time, The Sun never says to the Earth “You owe me.” Look what happens with a love like that. It lights up the whole sky.”

Morning sunlight on my loom.

Morning sunlight on my loom.

How do you know?

How do you know when a piece is done?

“All This Time” detail of work in process.

“All This Time” detail of work in process.

For me it is part trial and error. One of the beautiful aspects to textile work - is that you can rip something out, undo your work, add/subtract stitches or fragments of cloth.

This gives me a sort of liberal courage. I feel comfortable making marks in one direction - knowing that I can always reverse my steps.

This is not always the case - especially with dye, bleach and anything that I cut. But the courage to move, to possibly mess things up is what propels my art - and I think all innovative art — to new directions.

Growth as an artist demands that we cut old patterns, take risks, and expand perceived boundaries.

“All This Time” detail of work in process.

“All This Time” detail of work in process.

And yet at some point, all this motion has to cease.

Knowing when to stop working on a piece, is just as important was knowing when jump in and to keep messing things around.

There comes a time when the piece “tells me” it is done. My job is to listen and observe, to know when it is time.

Today this piece titled “All This Time” feels done.

But just to be sure…..

I’ll listen and look for a few more days.

Off shore by ten miles.

Off shore by ten miles, Monhegan Island is a small chunk of rocky land that’s 1.7 miles long and .7 miles wide. I’m out here for a two week retreat.

I’ve hiked for hours every day with Frieda (my dog). I stitched golden thread on kelp, sketched in my travel journal, drilled tiny holes in three crab shells, wove small webs on twisted juniper roots, re-read two favorite books, sent hand made postcards to loved ones, stared at the horizon, cooked dinners for one and was in bed most nights by 8:30.

Mostly I’ve taken time to be away - to gain perspective.

To just walk and walk and walk.

Somehow this walking, one foot in front of the other, with slow deliberate steps over rocky and root covered trails helps me feel anchored in the present. In a chaotic, unpredictable world, where I get wrenched by headlines, this feeling of being grounded in beauty and nature is potent medicine. Medicine that I suspect will reverberate for some time.

The full moon has come and gone. There is a perceptible shift in weather. It is time for me to return home. Leaving tomorrow on the 12:30 ferry, I will keep my eyes on the slowly receding island of Monhegan, feeling grateful for this opportunity to step away.

White Head cliffs from Burnt Head, Monhegan Island, Fall 2020

White Head cliffs from Burnt Head, Monhegan Island, Fall 2020

Gull Pond, Monhegan Island Fall 2020

Gull Pond, Monhegan Island Fall 2020

Looking west from Monhegan, the setting sun. Fall 2020.

Looking west from Monhegan, the setting sun. Fall 2020.

Maine crab shell with indigo dyed linen. September 2020, C.Sarah Haskell

Maine crab shell with indigo dyed linen. September 2020, C.Sarah Haskell

August slipped away

August slipped away.

But not without notice.

It was a month of bi-coastal collaborative projects, sailing, swimming, stitching and seaweed.

Collage, drawing, dyeing, and weaving.

Might sound busy - but I have taken a huge note from the Covid-19 slow down. This quiet pace, this slower being in the world…suits me. It’s healthier and more conducive to creative pathways. So I will do my best to be anchored in this place of quiet and creativity.

Here are some news and highlights from the last month (follow the links below for more info and Instagram for more images)

Exhibits:

“Mandatory Color” Surface Design Association Juried Exhibit, Museum of Texas Tech University

October - December 2020

“Members Juried Biennial” Fuller Craft Museum. New Bedford, MA. February - October 2020

Collaborative Projects:

“Call and Response” Round 4 and 6 - a cross country distance, rapid fire collaborative project. Fun way to get creative juices flowing and to loosen up one’s attachment to medium, method and materials.

Circle Q Collaborative Book Project with Textile Arts LA. Ten artists, ten books with ten pages each. These books traveled across the country from Boston to LA. and finally returned home filled with amazing and creative expressions.

Please find many images on Instagram

In my own studio and beyond:

I found sea weed makes a great fiber, that drawing birds can be meditative, that swimming is my escape.

I stitched on birch bark and shells.

I wove yards and yard of linen to over dye with indigo for towels.

I printed with rusty objects and elderberries on paper.

August has truly slipped away. Our September full moon has waxed and waned.

I’m ready to call the names of migratory birds.

Let’s fly home.

"Where ever I look I see you". Seaweed and grass 2020
Detail of "She tried toehold on to the calm eye at the center of the hurricane" Mixed media collage 2020
Detail: Circle Q Book collage/mixed media 2020

This I know.

Every day I hear that we are living in unpredictable, unprecedented, uncertain times.

For months I have been trying to gain perspective on the nature of what’s happening and where it all might lead. I feel like I am swimming in murky waters – there is no clarity.

However, there are a daily actions that help my mental balance and my perspective. 

Gardening. Planting, watering and waiting. This reminds me that there is hope and renewal – and nutritious food for our family.  

Swimming.  The rhythmical movement of my arms and legs in the cold, salty waters calms my breathing and psyche. 

Observing the natural world.  In particular, observing a hawk who is nesting in a tree above my studio. She flies high, calling out, soaring above the earth, searching for food – all with a higher vision/perspective.  

Making art. The act of creating with color, pattern, texture has been my refuge for decades. Please check out my gallery and my instagram feed for what’s new.

What do you know? What’s helping you navigate these murky and fluid times?

I would love to hear from you. Please connect.

 

Suspended, supported and safe.

Suspended, supported and safe.

One Human Family, One Planet, One Universe.

Like it or not - we are all together in this world as it slowly transitions before our eyes. I guess I’d like to feel lucky to be living in such interesting times - but frankly I am often anxious, unnerved and off balance.

At a time when our world feels like it is spinning out of control - the steady rhythm of textile techniques calms my anxious mind and brings balance to my inner energy.

When I hold thread in my hand, slowly letting it spin out of my fingers, or stitch on my handwoven linen, or weave row by row at my loom - my heart settles. Akin to the rhythm of rocking a baby, I rock myself with these practices, reminding myself that change is in the air — and change is never easy.

And change is sorely needed.

No one is free until we are all free.

My art practice is dedicated to all those who have suffered and continue to suffer from racism, oppression, poverty, ignorance and illness. We are one family, one human race, one planet.

May all beings be lifted from oppression and feel loved.

May all beings be lifted from oppression and feel loved.

Pondering The Invisible

“It is only with the heart that one can see….

what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

And here we are, April 21, 2020.  

Invisible to the eye, a tiny visitor has captured our world.

This realm of the unseen has long been at the heart of my work.

Through material that is ephemeral and subject to the influences of time and weather, I pose questions, diving into this void. 

The exhibit catalogue from my recent exhibit “Pondering The Invisible” is available through my website. Please purchase it here – and I’ll ship it right out to you!

Much gratitude,

Sarah 

Letter P from HELP Detail. Handwoven linen with embroidery floss.

Letter P from HELP

Detail. Handwoven linen with embroidery floss.

Lessons

Lessons

I have just returned home from a nearly three month sabbatical in Bali and SE Asia.

We cut our trip short and arrived home on March 20th to a very different scene than the one we left in January.

This trip was a true sabbatical - a time away from my life here in Maine.

I listened to new bird sounds, looked at how people lived in many countries, tasted new and strange foods, touched and fed an elephant, felt the water spray from an amazing waterfall and explored the twisting paths of Ubud. 

I met people that have never gone more than a few miles from home. I prayed in temples built thousands of years ago. I walked bare foot on beaches with black sand. I learned how to breath underwater and swam with hundreds of colored fish. I tasted honey made by an insect I cannot name. I dipped my hands into indigo dye vats following traditional Indonesian recipes. I sang with grasshoppers at sunset. And I calmed my heart by listening to the ocean.

And now I have this incredible gift of time (thanks to social distancing regulations) to reflect and process this sabbatical.

And yet - how strange it is to be contemplating this wealth of experiences in a time of great pain and suffering. Covid-19 knows no boundaries - it does not separate us by the color of skin, the size of our bank account, or our education or profession.  We are all vulnerable to this virus.

Since I choose to work with organic materials that are especially vulnerable to weathering and aging, I have reflected on the quality of vulnerability both in my art and myself.

If there is one lesson we can learn from Covid-19, it is that we are all vulnerable - it is our common human mortality.

My prayer is that our human family grows an awareness of our common vulnerability and develops a wider compassion for all beings. 

Be well, stay at home. We are all in this together. 

Make art to tell your story.

Sarah

April 4, 2020

Piles of bright colored textiles at a market in Denpassar, Bali.

Piles of bright colored textiles at a market in Denpassar, Bali.

Young weaver in a village in Vietnam.

Young weaver in a village in Vietnam.

View of Mt Agun from across the rice fields. Bali.

View of Mt Agun from across the rice fields. Bali.