Studio Series: Dress Work in Progress

Darling Ranges dress WIP © Karen Thiessen, 2016

My mom was my primary sewing teacher. She studied tailoring at night school and I loved poring over her binder of samples. In a four generations family photo of my great Oma, my grandpa, my mom and a four-year old me, mom and I are wearing matching dresses that she sewed. Mom was an excellent teacher but because we were broke, there was no room for mistakes, so she was often tense when we sewed clothes together. I internalized this and carried it forward, so I stopped sewing my own clothes after I left home to attend university. 

My indie fabric shop recently offered a Megan Nielsen's Darling Ranges dress class. Determined to overcome this mental block, I took the class, using old fabric that was not precious. I was mindful of when I tensed up: sewing bust darts and buttonholes. To get around the darts issue, I hand-stitched them before machine-sewing them as I find hand-sewing to be soothing. The button holes are unfinished. The weather is warming up and I need clothes, so I'm either going to overcome my button hole block, or, for ten dollars my local alterationist will do them for me. In my excitement of sewing clothes again, I cut out two more dresses, so I have not one, but three unfinished dress projects on my hands. If I learn how to make my own button holes, I'll save thirty dollars, money that I can spend on more sewing tools (like an ironing ham and a button hole chisel) and fabric. 

On another note, I did take the Megan Nielsen's Virginia leggings class and learned how to sew knits, how to sew with a twin needle, and how to use a serger. They are finished and look great!

Studio Series: Zwieback screen prints

Zwieback screen prints a © Karen Thiessen, 2016

Early this year I set up my ironing table to be a print table. It's only five feet long, so I can only print small runs of textiles. Of my designs that I've printed so far, the Zwieback pattern is my favourite. It's looser and more open than my usual designs. Layering the prints in various colours has been fun. I'm printing on cotton fabrics that I dyed using plant stuffs: black walnut, avocado pits and skins, and honey locust bean pods.

Zwieback screen prints b © Karen Thiessen, 2016

Above is a printed textile in progress. I'm printing with Speedball fabric inks on cotton that was dyed with honey locust bean pods. On its own, the honey locust colour colour is rather bland, but is a nice backdrop to colours like off-white, mocha, and rust. I'm curious to see how the Zwieback prints change once I stitch them into tags or piece them into larger textiles.

Studio Series: future tags + small disaster

Great Opa B's notes; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2016

Last fall my mom handed me an old cookie tin that contained documents belonging to my late great-grandparents. One item was an old notebook that my great grandfather kept. He wrote with a fountain pen and his hand-writing is elegant and beautiful. Unfortunately it's written in an old German script that I'm unable to read. I scanned a few pages and digitally printed them onto fabric. After rinsing the fabric, I painted it with washes of walnut ink and black tea. In a few days I'll rinse the fabric again and then stitch them. Working with my great-grandfather's words is very special.

To digitally print the text, I used C. Jenkins Miracle Fabric Sheets and they are best used for black-and-white images (colour is a bit washed out on them). I thought it would be cool to feed my own fabric through the printer, so I ironed grocery store freezer paper to fabric that I cut to size and fed it through the printer. Big mistake. The fabric came away from the freezer paper and wrapped around the printer's roller. Thankfully my very patient husband is mechanically adept. With great care he took the printer apart, fished out the fabric, and put it all back together and it works! I will never do that again. C. Jenkins sells a strong freezer paper, but I am not going to test fate (although I am slightly tempted).

Studio Series: Slides collograph

 Slides collograph on Shoji paper © Karen Thiessen, 2015

My grandparents were avid photographers. Grandpa documented family gatherings and travels with their Airstream trailer. Grandma documented flowers... thousands of them. They died six months apart, in 2007, and once my uncle scanned Grandpa and Grandma's slides, they came to me. Over a few Christmases I had slide show marathons, viewing several thousand slides. I then set out to edit and organize the collection, only keeping the best. I tossed over 2000 slides (yes, I really did count the discards), many of them flower photos, over and under exposed images, duplicates, etc. The slides are from the 1950s to the 1990s and the oldest slides have beautiful cardboard mounts with nicely rounded corners. I kept these. One day I'll collage with them. I took a handful and glued them to an illustration board mount and created this collograph. It is beautiful in its simplicity. As a bonus, I only had success making this print. Could it have been grandparent karma?

Studio Series: space to dream

Roll top desk; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2015

My parents are down-sizing and this roll top desk now calls my studio home. The desk is embedded with stories: it occupied an important place in each of the home offices in the three houses where we lived while I was growing up. My parents ran their businesses from this desk. I'm not sure where mom and dad found it. As it was in poor shape and old-fashioned, it was probably free. Mom painted it with an antiqued finish that was popular in the 1970s.

Roll top desk; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2015

As a nosy child, I would look through the various drawers. Three things captured my imagination: an old iron skeleton key; a black-and-white photograph that dad took of his dog Shakes laying on top of a reclined Bessy the cow; and a newspaper article highlighting that dad won an award for this picture. The drawers were empty when I received the desk. I've added some washi tape accents to make it my own.

Roll top desk; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2015

Since the desk entered my home, I've worked at it almost daily. It's become a magical thinking space where I record ideas and reflections in my sketchbook. Now I just need to find an old iron skeleton key to tuck in one of the drawers and it will be complete.

Studio Series: natural dye pots

Copper boiler; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2015

My parents are down-sizing and my studio is the beneficiary of two of my mom's pots. I don't remember the copper boiler every being used when my parents had it, but now it holds five pounds of black walnuts, water, and fabric. It straddles two burners when I'm heating the dye liquor. The copper pot acts as a mordant. Note to self: unless it's empty, it's too heavy for me to lift on my own. But of course I lifted it anyway.

Iron pot; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2015

I have a vague recollection of mom buying the iron pot and a stand at an antique shop many moons ago. I think she planted red geraniums in it and it adorned our front lawn for a time. To my surprise, it's not as heavy as I previously believed. Like the copper boiler, it now holds five pounds of black walnuts, fabric, and water and the pot acts as a mordant. Apparently iron saddens and copper gladdens. A kind neighbour saved the black walnuts from her backyard tree and now I have about 40 pounds to play with. 

Merry Christmas 2014!

Winter barn scene; Photo © Karen Thiessen

I wish you all a blessed 2014 Christmas season!

Zwieback

Making Zwieback with mom; Photo credit: Karen Thiessen's husband, 2014

On a recent visit, my mom saw my dried lumpy Zwieback (purchased at a Mennonite Relief sale) on display under a cloche in my dining room. She told me that the person who made it didn't let it rise properly or didn't use enough flour. Mom has super powers like that. I shared my fantasy of having enough Zwieback to fill a cloche. That's when Superwoman decided that she would teach me how to make them the next morning. We dug the recipe out of a Mennonite cookbook and I made copious notes. Mennonite cookbooks are pretty cryptic for the novice. Thank goodness for mom's directions.

My favourite part was the pinching of the dough. To be honest, my mom mixed and kneaded the dough before I was fully functional. She's an extreme morning person. I'm not.

Zwieback rising; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2014

Zwieback is a big deal among Dutch German, a.k.a Russian, Mennonites. It dries nicely and is very light so one can tuck them into pockets and eat them on a long journey while fleeing for your life. Zwieback nourished my grandparents and great-grandparents on their long treks out of Russia, across the Atlantic on the ship Minnedosa to Canada in the 1920s.

Zwieback straight out of the oven; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2014

Clearly my pan wasn't big enough for the Zwieback to double without touching each other.

Zwieback on Oma's cooling rack; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2014

When my aunt died, I inherited my Oma's baking rack on which thousands of Zwieback, brown bread, and cookies likely cooled. My unMennonite allergies don't allow me to eat Zwieback, but according to my husband they were very, very, very good. I set aside the seven best looking Zwieback and have been drawing them as I continue my Lenten Intuitive mark-making practice. One day I'll share  the images. I'd like to bake Zwieback with my mom again, next time with larger baking pans: I have a cloche to fill.

Grave Ampersand

Brother's Grave Ampersand; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2014

On a recent visit to my late brother's grave I noticed the ampersand for the first time. Since then, I've been drawing multiple versions in my sketchbooks. At first I tried to draw the fancy version of the ampersand from memory and discovered that I couldn't remember how it looked. Now I've got it down pat.

Studio Series: Ampersand repeat pattern

Ampersand grave rubbing repeat pattern © Karen Thiessen, 2014

My Lenten intuitive mark-making practice continues. Here's a repeat pattern that I made of a rubbing of the ampersand on my late baby brother's grave that I made during a recent visit. It's a fairly bland pattern, but it's a beginning of a thought process. We all have to begin somewhere.

Mother & daughter lines

Mennonitemare 3 quilt back © Karen Thiessen, 2014

These lines are brought to you by happenstance. Lately I've been thinking about stitched lines. A few weeks ago I pulled out a bundle of quilts for an exhibition and Mennonitemare 3 was among them. I didn't need it for the show, so I set it aside upside down. The machine-stitched lines caught my eye. This is useful information for my new work.

Boy fishing; Photo credit © Karen Thiessen, 2014

This textile of a boy fishing is a kit that my mom stitched up a lifetime ago. It's probably the only example of my mom following instructions. As a fellow redhead I get this quality from her. The embroidery is next to the guest bed at mom & dad's place. On Easter morning I noticed it in a new way. The minimal lines suggesting water spoke to me. Minimal lines would be good for me to try. I'm a maximal kind of stitcher. We'll see what happens.

Amsterdam: Random Goodness

Café Thijssen; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2013

While in Amsterdam, I was delighted to see the alternate spelling of my surname. From what I understand, Thiessens started in Flanders in the early 1500s, were kicked out thanks to being radical Anabaptists (Mennonites) and then landed in Friesland and Holland for a few hundred years before making their way to Prussia, South Russia (present-day Ukraine) and finally to Canada and elsewhere. Café Thijssen is named after author and teacher Theo Thijssen. I confess that I had not heard of him until our Amsterdam trip. I love the font.

Milagros; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2013

The cool thing about the canal district in Amsterdam is that the side streets and alleys are as interesting as the main streets. I found this shop in an alley after a delicious Thai meal. You may think you have seen it all, and then you realize that there's more to discover. These milagros are quite large. 

Doggie in the Window; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2013

Looking at these pictures of summer light and open windows give me hope that spring will arrive for a long stay. I have my fingers crossed for a slow spring, where the temperature remains above freezing and warms gradually. One can only hope, right?

Week 79: Adobe Illustrator + Photoshop

Farmhouse with Birch repeat pattern © Karen Thiessen 2014

I spent my first eight years living in this ramshackle rented house. The driveway was a long walk for short legs to the main road, but the trek was well worth the effort. At the road was a ditch where my brother and I would collect tadpoles in glass peanut butter jars (and ruin our shoes in the mud, much to our mom's dismay). The yard surrounding the house was large. In one corner stood an overgrown common lilac bush into which I could wriggle to its core and hide, a natural fortress. My brother would climb up into the pear tree and pretend that it was a combine. I would sit under the elevated Fina oil tank and eat the ants. The fence along the driveway was electric (to keep the neighbours' animals contained) and for fun my brother and I would dare each other to touch it. We didn't need amusement parks or playgrounds – we created our own excitement ... and survived it.

Week 74: Adobe Illustrator

Birch 1 © Karen Thiessen 2013

Birch 1 is for my late brother. On his birthday I picked a few leaves from the weeping birch that shades his grave. I love the negative spaces. This week I played with my "leaves of significance" collection in Adobe Illustrator. There'll be more leaf patterns to come in the next few weeks. 

I confess that I've been rather lazy in my AI practice. Although I've continued to practice, it hasn't been rigorous enough to advance my skills. Right now I'm in a curiosity rut: I'm creating designs to suit my current passions instead of moving through the book.

Oma's quilt textile pattern

When I first began making quilts, I assumed that I was drawn to make them because it was in my Dutch/German/Russian Mennonite DNA. My NSCAD professor, Naoko Furue, challenged me to look into this, to explore my aesthetic heritage. What I discovered, after interviewing over twenty women who had immigrated to Canada from South Russia (present-day Ukraine) that I was wrong. I asked each of these elderly women what they slept under in the old country and I learned that they slept under Federdecken (duvets) or Wolldecken (wool blankets). When they arrived in Canada in the 1920s, they were given quilts by local families and they didn't know what to do with these strange "English" textiles. 

Thanks to Naoko Furue, I learned that Russian Mennonites only started making quilts upon their arrival in Canada and that unlike the Swiss Mennonites who are known for their gorgeous pieced quilts, they mostly made whole cloth quilts in the early years.

My dad's mother, my Oma, made several whole cloth quilts for our family and I slept under this one for about ten years, until I left home to go to university. The quilt was probably made in the early 1970s and may have kept my parents warm at night before it was passed down to my bed. It remains in my parents' collection. The fabric is timeless.

Visual Research

Crosses studio wall © Karen Thiessen 2013

Logo

Crown crock logo; Photo credit © Karen Thiessen, 2013

According to some online trolling, this logo is from a Robinson Ransbottom Blue Crown 3 Gallon Stoneware crock, made in Roseville, Ohio. I snapped this pic on a recent visit to my parents' place. Mom used the crock as a planter for a large aloe vera plant that, according to family legend, my klutzy brother sat on. The plant, although broken, survived, as did my brother. Isn't the logo a beauty?

Week 73: Adobe Illustrator

Oak leaves 2 © Karen Thiessen, 2013

How did November sneak up on us so quickly? Wasn't it August just the other day? I continue to play with oak leaves and I like the irregular negative spaces and the colours in this pattern. Fall is definitely in the air and the smells remind me of camping with my late grandparents.

Remember that Daylight Savings Time ends Sunday November 3 at 2 a.m. here in North America. Turn your clocks back one hour before you go to bed on Saturday night.

Notice what you are noticing/ One thing leads to another

Mulberry leaf pattern © Karen Thiessen, 2013

It's cheesy, but I succumbed to the bucket list syndrome in April. It's a nerdy list: read certain books, learn the Roman numerals past 40, do a leaf collection, etc. Yes, I likely did a leaf collection when I was in public school, but that was a while ago. Early this year I noticed that I collect leaves that are significant to me or are simply beautiful. Above are mulberry leaves in a repeat pattern. I think they are "male" leaves and mulberries don't grow on those branches. This summer I discovered that one tree can have two different kinds of leaves. I collected the "female" leaves and will create a pattern with them at some point. Mennonites had a thriving silk industry in south Russia in the mid to late 1800s and this knowledge helped them survive in the early 1920s when all manner of calamity befell them. Silk worms feed on mulberry leaves and every farm was mandated to have mulberry bushes on their property to support the silk industry. Three out of four of my parents' properties had mulberry trees and when we were young my brother and I used to indulge until we were a sticky purple mess. I still like mulberries and enjoy going on urban mulberry walks when they are in season. 

Weeping birch; Photo © Karen Thiessen, 2012

Birch trees have historical and personal significance. They were a common tree in south Russia and my Opa planted them on this property in Ontario to remind him of the home that he fled. His grandchildren (including me) loved to peel bark from his trees and that was a no-no. My brother is buried under this weeping birch. When I spot this tree in the cemetery, I know where to find his grave. I collect leaves each year to mark my visits with him. One day I'll play with these leaves in Illustrator or Photoshop.

Chortitza oak leaf bouquet; Photo © Karen Thiessen 2013

I have no personal connection to the Chortitza oak. Its significance is purely historic, but I do find the leaves to have a pleasing shape. I plan to play with them in Illustrator. This summer I visited a number of trees several times and took rubbings from some of the leaves and pressed others for later use.

Chortitza oak leaves; Photo © Karen Thiessen 2013

One thing leads to another. Now I look at trees and if the leaves are unfamiliar to me, I wonder what they are. My curiosity has been aroused. My interest in natural dyeing has been rekindled and all summer I was looking for Black walnut trees. I see a book of trees in my future as well as a leaf collection that won't look anything like the one I likely did in grade 7.

Week 69: Adobe Illustrator

Hatmouth 2b © Karen Thiessen, 2013

As an artist, I see beauty where others do not. This has been true since I was a young child when I was fascinated with my infant brother's cleft lip and palate. I called it his Hatmouth, since to my 5-year-old mind it resembled a hat of sorts. Working with the tracing of his mouth has been profoundly moving. He died young but he continues to have an impact on my life.

Catherine Heard's dolls with birth defects (Case Studies, Efflorescence, and others) resonate with me because they acknowledge my late brother and others like him.