Working within set limits or guidelines has always been helpful to my artmaking. The structure afforded by closing off some of the breadth of choices allows me to go wild with depth, if that makes sense. And this pandemic has certainly done that. I’m limiting myself to materials I have on hand while I’m sheltering in place as a way to frame my work and set myself a challenge. Making art is not just a thing I’m good at, it’s how I maintain my balance, process my life, and even keep mentally healthy. I’m also a self-diagnosed ‘Highly Sensitive Person’ who feels things in extremes, so I’m someone who can spiral into dire worry in normal times without creating barriers or escapes which artmaking provides. The changes to normal life wrought by COVID-19 are super stressful and we all react in our own ways. My self-soothing response is to set up the situation for a ‘flow state’ as much as possible.
The hallmark of being in ‘Flow’ with a capital F is that you’re immersed in a feeling of energized focus that comes from being totally involved in an activity for its own sake, often something challenging that demands your best. In the flow state time seems to fall away, as do other cares and worries. That’s artmaking for me. I get totally engaged-- sometimes it’s the extremely technical challenge, sometimes it’s working through a repetitive activity (hello, needle felting), and sometimes it’s the ideation phase. I’ve been working with wool for nearly twenty years-- shaping it into felt through repetitive hand work as well as more recently joining flat slabs of industrial felt into three-dimensional forms. Sometimes people ask me if I’m ‘still working with felt’ and I chuckle to myself because I’m certainly not done yet. I keep exploring what I can do with it, upping the ante, and pushing the material and myself farther. I like to stay on the edge of not knowing if I can pull this off, whatever ‘this’ currently happens to be. ‘Flow’ is about welcoming a good challenge because you know it may yield some satisfaction. I think there’s probably serotonin involved somehow, probably.
So. That brings us to eggshells. The flow state can also happen in tiny little seemingly insignificant actions, and when you’re primed to notice and pay attention to such things, you may make creative leaps that lead to more ‘Flow’ fun. I have been making myself an egg sandwich nearly every morning for about two years now. Somewhere along the way I noticed that I was getting really good at cracking the egg sharply against the edge of the frying pan juuuuust enough to create a break line all around so I could pry it open without crushing the shell. Not all the time, but that made it more satisfying when it was a success.
And then eventually I noticed that I could fit the two shell halves back together perfectly, and they’d stay attached if I used a bit of the liquid gelatinous egg albumen spread all over the eggshell like a clear glaze, then set it to dry on the windowsill. That was satisfying in and of itself, but it, too, didn’t work every time. Eventually my husband started doing it too when he’d make pancakes so we’d share our results with each other. It was like a very slow game: the collection of successfully broken and rejoined eggshells balanced in a teetering pile on the window ledge slowly grew until occasionally someone would knock a few down to shatter in the sink. No huge loss-- they were just eggshells, after all.
Eventually I noticed that the inside of the broken dried out eggshells were smooth, luminous, and gently reflective-- a perfect foil to the texture of felted wool. Aha- combining felt and eggshells seemed like it would be a tricky challenge that may be very satisfying in its process and results. Was it a coincidence that all the months of cumulative noticing and reacting to the eggshells spawned the idea to use them in my artmaking just as I was resigned to sheltering in place and using materials I already had on hand at my home?
I’ve been a ‘noticer’ my entire life; I think being a visual artist hinges on noticing things that others may overlook, and being open to weird ideas about them. ‘Weird,’ of course, here means ‘outside of the mainstream’ rather than a judgement of value. Combine having the ‘noticing’ gene with a disregard for ‘normal’ and a cultivated addiction to the flow state and you’ve got an artist. That’s my working theory, anyway.
So, I gathered a selection of eggshells and took the very short walk to my home studio to start experimenting with combining animal products in visually satisfying ways. I wanted to highlight the contrasts between the materials and play with intact areas of shell as well as intentionally broken pieces. Besides the visual appeal of the shells I was also feeling drawn to the oppositional associations bound to them: ideas of fragility but also strength, containment and escape, beginnings and endings, brokenness and wholeness. The open-ended potential for different interpretations is intriguing to me as well. I think that’s why I have moved in an ever-more-abstract direction with my work: I’m interested in the space between what I make and what the viewer brings to it.
There are a lot of technical challenges in bringing together felted wool and eggshells. To shape wool into felt I poke at it repeatedly and in particular directions with sharp, notched felting needles to compress and tangle the fibers into the shapes and density I want. It’s picky, gradual, slow work and this is a much smaller, more intimate size than I’ve worked in for several years, so details really matter. I started off with panels measuring 3.5 x 3.5 inches to scale well with the eggshells, picturing shallow relief pieces into which I’d set the shells or have them project outward. In some cases I create an indentation to support the curvature of the particular shell piece, and build up edges around it to contain it almost like setting a precious stone into a ring. I build up, shape, and smooth the felt while continually checking the eventual fit of the shell piece. After I’ve adhered it to the felt (yes, I use glue) I have to be extra careful about working near the shell with a rigid, sharp needle. If I come too close to the shell I can break it, sometimes with good results but often not the ones I’m hoping for. I need all of my focus, and I also need to be willing to go in another direction when the materials send me that way. I’m constantly making decisions and noting to myself what I’d like to try on the next piece. There’s a lot of responding to the materials and trusting my instincts, even if they change over the course of creating a piece. I’m playing with different colors of wool and mostly highlighting the inner surface of the shells so far.
The delicate, rigid shells placed on and in felted wool demand rigid support, so I repurposed some wood from old shelves to create backers. Some of the wood panels look best in their natural pale honey color set with the white wool, but I’ve stained a few black to go with darker tan or grey felt pieces, and sealed them with a subtle wax coating. Again, I like the contrast of materials and surfaces between the eggshells, wool, and wood. I’m attaching sawtooth hangers (BEFORE gluing up the shell/felt onto the wood, of course) because I conceived of these as wall pieces.
When I began with these eggshell experiments I thought they’d be interesting at the least, and probably appeal to others besides just me-- one of the wonderful things about putting my work out in the world is finding kindred spirits out there. I realized along the way that I was also aiming for something quick, small and satisfying. Well, they turn out not to be quick, despite their small size. But two out of three ain’t bad! More to come, I predict. That eggshell pile in the windowsill remains pretty steady with our egg consumption, after all...
