even*cleveland: park avenue armory

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stitchwork

Some details from a couple of embroidered quilts. The first was covered in a fantastical assortment of bearded men, dour ladies, exotic birds, butterflies, flowers and unidentifiable mammals. The second was a field of disembodied children's hand prints with names and ages embroidered inside, none older than about 3, and some as small as 3 months.

patterns

Details from a few quilts at Infinite Variety.

infinite variety

Yesterday, I took my camera and walked over to the Park Avenue Armory to see the American Folk Art Museum's satellite installation, Infinite Variety: Three Centuries of Red and White Quilts.

The Armory has one of the biggest unobstructed interiors in Manhattan, and the quilts hover in space, hung in massive spirals and cylinders, pattern against pattern. As you walk around, the shifts in perspective let different quilts pop to life. It's absolutely amazing. (You can click the photos for larger views.)

On view 'til Thursday, and free.

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.

Italo Calvino

Why didn't she try collecting something? It didn't matter what. She would find it gave an interest to life, and there was no end to the little curiosities one could easily pick up.

Henry James

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