Weaving, 'riting, and 'rithmetic

Blair Tate

The independent disciplines of weaving, writing, and arithmetic all inform my work. Besides being my medium, weaving is a resource: it is an organizing activity, a systematic construction, and an inspiration through the study of ethnic textiles. I see writing as a process analo - gous to weaving; my most recent work draws from this corres - pondence. And the use of arithmetic generated my work from the beginning.

I began weaving in the early 70's, under the influence of 60's Minimalism and modernist architecture. I believed that form should follow function, and accordingly, I sought an objective basis for my work. In this, I was reacting against the majority of the weaving that I saw at the time: weaving that seemed either unfocused and over - whelmed by an eruption of materials, or myopically and exclusively concerned with complex technique. Then Beyond Craft: the Art Fabric by Larsen and Constantine was published. Much of the work it covered was in marked contrast to what I had seen - the work was technically simple and based on clear ideas. I determined that my work in fiber should come from fiber and celebrate the medium. This led me to examine my working process.

It seemed to me that weaving was inherently mathematical. In winding warps I was always counting; in determining warps I was always calculating. The linear development of a fabric - that line-by­ line accumulation of wefts that creates cloth - is straightforward^ and predictable in the same sense that arithmetical progressions are; each line, each number, according to a predetermined system, generates the next. I was intrigued by the transposition of pure math into physical form. Number and thread corresponded; specific numbers of threads produced specific volumes. Form was the result of the physical com - pression of counted weft threads in successive rows of the weaving.

The progressions I chose were basic. I worked with straight addition - increasing row by row by cumulatively adding a thread each time.

ARS TEXTRINA 6 (1986), pp. 57-84

Figure 1 Square/1975 linen, jute 5"x5"(13 xl3cm.)

Initially this growth was dramatic - increasing from 1 to 2 threads is a doubling - but soon afterwards (from 11 to 12 threads, for example) the changes became imperceptible. I switched to doubling for its impact. I used numbers that were extreme - ranging from 1 to 2,000 - yet chose to work in miniature: I enjoyed the absurd contrast between the largeness of the numbers and the smallness of each piece. The first piece contained 2,000 weft threads within a 5-inch square (Fig. 1). The compaction of the weft threads within the warp gave this and other pieces a density and physical presence that far exceeded their actual size.

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Figure 2Double Spiral /1977 cotton, hemp 9" x 6" (23 x 15 cm.)

As mathematically pure and reasoned as this seems, I was not working in a visual vacuum. I lived in Rome for a year and was influenced by its visual complexity. I was inspired by the staircase in the Vatican Museum, with its parallel spiraling ramps which kept up and down traffic separated. In Double Spiral I used a Fibonacci progression, in which the sum of two numbers generates the next, and rearranged the sequence of rows to mimic the Vatican stair (Fig. 2). The beginning and end of the progression, the numerical extremes of 1 and 1,597, are directly juxtaposed.

The sensuous undulations of Baroque architecture, particularly

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Borromini's, inspired another piece. In it two identical progressions (first doubling and then halving) move in opposite directions, alter - nating row by row.

After that year I returned to the United States and became interested in working considerably larger, on a scale more commensurate with architectural commissions. Yet I could not simply blow up the minia - tures. Not only was it an intimidating and physically unappealing proposition to generate enormous form through counted threads, but even with increased weft size, the force of gravity would undermine the visual energy of each weft bend. Clearly, if I was to retain a mathematical genesis for my work, its translation into physical form would have to change.

Thoughts about size led me to consider proportions, and my interest in numbers became an interest in geometry. Geometric progressions parallel biological growth - in cell divisions, for example. When cells divide they increase in quantity, yet each cell remains the same: 2 cells become 4 become 16, etc. I began thinking about weaving planes and subdividing them, breaking a whole into parts, macrocosm verses microcosm (Fig. 3). I wanted to establish a clear relationship between parts and decided to work with proportional equivalencies: the size of woven areas would change but not their shape. Weave scale would correspond: heavier wefts would be used to produce the largest areas, giving them a coarser scale in keeping with their gross size, and more delicate wefts would be used for the finer scale sections.

As I was, in essence, working with subdivision, I chose to create the vertical boundaries between sections through actual separation. Each area had its own independent weft. But due to the vertical continuity of the warp, horizontal distinctions would have to be made with the weft - and through addition, rather than separation. Thinking about these fundamental differences encouraged me to delve deeper into the nature of weave construction.

At this time I was beginning to look at African textiles. To increase the overall scale of a piece I knew that I would have to circumvent the 45- inch limits of my loom and work with separately woven panels. African wedding cloths do this beautifully by joining two independent

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Figure 3Untitled/1918linen, cotton, jute, metallic gimp72" x 113" (183x287 cm.)

halves. They have a reason for their parts - they present a metaphor for marriage: the union of two individuals, sharing in a new whole, requiring each other for completion yet remaining forever distinct.

Gemelli III was a wedding cloth (Fig. 4). In it I began to work more directly with distinguishing the separate roles of warp and weft. I wanted to call attention to their visual impact upon each other by colorcoding and distilling them. Despite their structural interdepen - dence, I saw the warp as the controlling element - the continuous base into which the freewheeling weft was inserted. Generally the weft is independent only at the weaving's edge when it escapes, either briefly as it rounds the bend, or more explosively as an untamed eruption

Figure 4 Gemelli III/1 979 linen, jute 102" x 72" (259 x 183 cm.)

framing a piece at its border. It is only with the visual absence of the warp that the weft can truly assert itself; in Gemelli HI the dark vertical stripes are created through warp elimination.

I continued looking at African fabrics and began concentrating on those known as kente cloths, which are composed of narrow woven strips. In these the principal imagery is provided by matching or broken alignments between the horizontal bands on each vertical strip. These alignments imply connection; in order to emphasize the weft's role as connector, I made them physical, introducing weft cords which

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Figure 5

linen, cotton91 "x 36" (23 1x91 cm.)

could be tied to actually join adjacent strips. In this way I could construct a unified field from clearly independent parts. These cords are simultaneously pictorial and structural: while they visually sub - divide they structurally link. With this vocabulary I can draw on the surface of the weaving as I construct it.

At first I created unified fields. In Black II each subsection was pro - portionally equivalent to the whole (Fig. 5).

In Grey I used this vocabulary to address issues of composition. The piece included a scaled-down version of itself as a subset of the whole.

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Figure 6 Inset/1981 linen, cotton 20.5'x 11' (625x335 cm.)

With Inset, an architectural commission, I had the opportunity to work considerably larger - 20.5 feet by 11 feet (Fig. 6, 7). The piece was designed for a very long three-story atrium wall with strong hori - zontal brick coursing. It would be viewed differently from the three floors and would generally be seen while walking along it. The major

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Figure 7 Inset/1981 installation view

cords were intended to correspond with the brick banding and include interruptions to relieve the almost oppressive horizontality of the wall.

After Inset I made a series of pieces in which I focused on the center. In Offset I used the central strip as the compositional and structural hinge.

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Figure 8 Zip 11119m linen, cotton 108" x 9" (274x23 cm.)

With Zip II I pared back to the barest minimum to refocus attention on each element (Fig. 8). I reinstated proportional consistency by using equal amounts of woven and nonwoven fabric and making each area proportionally equivalent to the whole. The joining knot established the distance between the two strips, causing them to frame the wall and thereby give it a visual importance corresponding to that of the cord tie. The extreme columnar shape - 9 feet by 9 inches - towered above the viewer, forcing one to relate physically to the piece. The single

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Figure 9 Equals/1981 linen, cotton 96" x 15" (244 x 38 cm.)

knot held Zip II together like a package. Placing it at actual ma the - matical center created a visual discordance with the usual higher (and more comfortable) visual center.

The works that followed each employed a single tie. They were simplified twin pieces with either equal or proportionally equivalent halves. Their shape was generated by geometry and their profiles necessitated engaging the wall (Fig. 9,10).

Although by no means exhausting the possibilities in this approach, I began to want change. I wanted to create woven fields that were more expansive and more involving, less restricted by a tight self-referential

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Figure 10Ix2/Reverse (#2)/1981 linen, cotton 16"x 19" (41x48 cm.)

logic. I again sought to learn from ethnic textiles and went to Morocco to immerse myself in the study of Berber carpets (Fig. 11). I saw in these carpets balanced, almost conventional overall compositions en - livened by seemingly impulsive, quirky elements. These quirky details or motifs relate to each other in size or color or placement, but in con - figuration they are independent and unique. They animate the surface and involve the viewer in comparative wanderings. Yet the related - ness of these details keeps them in check, subservient to the whole, and their frequency prevents memorization, permitting continual redis - covery of relationships without the disappointment of redundancy.

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Figure 11Zemmour carpet/mid-2Qih century wool 108" x 54" (274 x 137 cm.)

The decisions in these carpets are personal rather than objective, and experiencing them compelled me to deviate from the mathematical consistency of my earlier work.

I returned with a specific project and purpose: I had received an award to enable me to create a tapestry for Lowell, Massachusetts. The city was experiencing a revitalization of its downtown historic mill-building district with the influx of new industries, particularly computer companies. I had proposed making a large tapestry and publicly placing it in one of the mill buildings to encourage the city to

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Figure 12 Building Bologna, Italy

institute a program for commissioning textiles - and in that way to celebrate its textile heritage. Since computers are, in a sense, modern developments from the textile industry's jacquard loom, I thought it was important that the textiles being promoted be contemporary. My piece would serve as an example.

As I looked at the mill-building facades with their regular and ir - regular fenestration patterns, I sensed echoes of the quirks I had so admired in Berber carpets. My travels were confirming ideas about order that had already been germinating inside me; once attuned to

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Figure 13Unfilled (Lowell)/l982linen, cotton108" x 76" (274 x 198 cm.)

these new ideas I saw visual manifestations of them everywhere. I realized that Italian walls embodied the same principles: centuries-old window patterns were reconfigured (one supposed) because of more modem interior developments (Fig. 12).

Untitled (Lowell) translated these interests into my weaving vocabu - lary (Fig. 13). I created two halves through the use of different weight wefts corresponding to the two sizes of woven areas. Each half is proportionally 1 by 3, and so are all the subdivisions. Sections from both sides crossed over into one another in order to keep the eye

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Figure 14Crossover (left side)/1985

linen, cotton 10.5' x 16' (320 x 488 cm.)

wandering, searching. At the same time the overall simplicity and uniform color enabled the eye to relax.

As a result of the One-Percent-for-Art program in Connecticut, I had the opportunity to further these interests on a considerably larger scale. Crossover consists of two independent halves placed on splaying walls of a stepped lecture hall, with each half measuring 10 feet by 16.5 feet (Fig. 14, 15). Because of their size and distance apart, one cannot closely examine both halves at once. Each half s mirrored profile and the corresponding location of both the colored blocks and the regions created by the two woven scales create an initial impression

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EXI1

Figure 15Crossover (right side)/1985linen, cotton10.5' x 16' (320 x 488 cm.)

of identical symmetry. Yet more careful examination reveals rever - sals and shifts in relationships that undermine this reading. The distance between the two halves inhibits memorization of the dis - crepancies between them, and one is encouraged to engage in this visual play and discovery.

It was at this point that I became a writer. The opportunity to write a book came about accidentally - as a consequence of some misplaced words at a booksigning party. Had I not been offered a signed contract and had I realized the immensity of the task, I don't think I would have gone through with it. The Warp: A Weaving Reference analyzes the

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elements of weaving, focusing on the preconditioning role of the warp and its visual impact on a woven piece. It is actually two books in one - a general text that discusses the basics (qualities of different yarns, the effect of different densities, warp end finishes, etc.), and a collection of separate essays analyzing individual works by well-known artists in the field. By intersplicing these two I hoped to give the reader a more thorough understanding of the issues that need to be considered when producing a woven work of art.

This two part structure - a general theme and related digressions into specifics - reflects my approach to ethnic textiles: I look at the whole and then analyze the parts. It was only logical that the activity of writing - like the arithmetic activities of counting and proportioning before - would become an illuminating source for my work. I began to see writing as parallel to weaving. Both are ordering activities: they depend on simple components and commonly accepted structure; grammar and plain weave are each so basic that one no longer thinks of them but through them; both are background frameworks that enable creative expression.

I began thinking about language - the etymological relationship be - tween text and textile - and how references to weaving as a metaphor permeate our language: the intertwining of fate, networks of com - munication. I began thinking about these visual word references and how they give us handles that facilitate comprehension. This rein - forced my belief in the fundamental, essentially universal, gathering activity which is weaving.

An interest in this parallel structure between disciplines and my residence as a fellow in an interdisciplinary community of scholars at the Bunting Institute of Radcliffe College encouraged me to seek different approaches to order. A presentation on the Spanish Anarchist movement raised questions about anarchy being order with - out hierarchy, and not chaos as I had presupposed. A paper on pica - resque heroines stimulated thoughts about consistent, unchanging ele - merits playing against a permuting ground. I read Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, a novel that mischievously deviates from the literary conventions of novels. Its framework is several independent books, or beginnings of books, ingeniously related to each

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Figure 16 Traveler/1984 linen, cotton 96" x 16" (244 x 41 cm.)

other by the narrator's pursuit of their conclusions. Its structure flits back and forth between involving the reader in these several stories

and the quest for their continuation, self-consciously calling attention to the ingredients of writing.

In my weaving I am similarly pulled between an interest in creating engaging composition and in emphasizing structure. Seeing this correspondence between my weaving and Calvino's writing enabled me to regard my woven strips as sentences, or partial sentences, that could be easily rearranged or recomposed. I recognized a new editorial freedom to embellish or discard, and realized that just as an

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Figure 17 Departure/1984 linen, cotton 32" x 42" (81x107 cm.)

author does in writing, I could quote - in weaving - the textiles that inspire me.

I based Traveler on the lessons I drew from Calvino's book (Fig. 16). I saw the fabric's evolution as essentially narrative and worked within a two-part structure (halves again) to enable an ongoing dialogue. Parts began to refer to other parts. I inserted a paraphrased version of a kente cloth.

In Departure I was more expository (Fig. 17). I began by making independent kente strips and transforming their rhythms into my

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Figure 18 Passage/1984 linen, cotton 21 "x 29" (53x74 cm.)

structural cord joins. To refer to my earlier focus on structure I in - corporated a paraphrased version of Zip II. At the end I introduced a color switch to unsettle the composition and imply continuation.

Passage was less rational in its composition and fused all these referen - ces (Fig. 18). The introduction of a man was intentionally ambiguous: he could be either a reference to ethnic textiles or a computer image - a space invader.

With Merge I wanted to create tension between parts and establish two centers that would vie for attention (Fig. 19).

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Figure 19 Merge/1985 linen, cotton 48" x 15" (122x38 cm.)

Which brings me to my dual emphasis on structure and composition as they relate to cross-cultural influences. Last summer I sought the opportunity to spend time in Kyoto. I have long been aware that my work bears a strong resemblance to things Japanese. Yet my visual references have not been from Japan, but from Africa and Italy. Traveling to Japan confirmed and clarified this stylistic affinity. The Japanese aesthetic celebrates structure (in tied bamboo walls surround - ing Katsura Rikyu, for example) and delicate proportions in grid rela - tionships - as exquisitely manifested in tea house walls (Fig. 20, 21). Simple and natural materials are used to draw attention to the

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Figure 20 Outside wall Katsura Rikyu Kyoto, Japan

Figure 21 Tea house interior Murin-an Kyoto, Japan

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Figure 22 Dispatch/1985 linen, cotton 57" x 68" (145x173 cm.)

careful arrangement of parts. Visual harmony and balance is achieved through intuitive adjustments and never through measured symmetry. Natural elements are refined and celebrated, as can be seen in the irregular edge of this tea house wall: the branch is meant to refer to nature and is used as a counterpoint to the clean geometry.

In Japan the natural variations - among bamboo ridges, for example - help to relieve the compulsion to conformity. To me that structured randomness bears a close relationship to the look of spontaneity in African kente cloths. The African mismatches seem accidental yet the

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Figure 23 Itariago/19%5 linen, cotton 94" x 68" (239 x 173 cm.)

consistent alignment of stripes at the cloth's edge reveals the weaver's skill.

In Dispatch I contrasted areas of contained order with more random, spontaneous sections (Fig. 22). But thoughts about Italian layering and fragmentation began to surface. I remembered the walls of San Francesco in Arezzo where visual information is both imbedded within and superimposed on the fresco surface. Itariago includes references to African strip weaving, Japanese order, and Italian anarchy (Fig. 23). It harks back to kente cloth with the inclusion of different scales of kente striping; there are spare areas of clear order,

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Figure 24 Kente 7/1986 linen, cotton kente cloth 67" x 67" (170 x 170 cm.)

which focus on structure; and the whole underwent considerable editing to find its final configuration. There were numerous additions and deletions and a window was cut through the weaving to reveal the wall beneath.

Finally it seemed I could take these references one step further by working directly on an African kente cloth - in this case a Mossi cloth from Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso) (Fig. 24). In Kente 11 am responding directly to a specific cloth - in a sense working site- specifically as one would in responding to the given elements in an

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architectural setting. The original cloth is reconfigured by relocating some of its strips and interspacing them with my reverse color, linen, woven additions. I have temporarily abandoned my customary structural tie joins in emulation of the African sewing which attempts to fuse the strips and homogenize the visual field. The horizontal joins are splices, exhibiting a shadow line where the two warps - African white cotton and my grey linen - share the same path.

In conclusion, I would like to raise some questions about the role of the artist in the act of creating. In Calvino's book he economically describes the situation as follows:

"At times I think of the subject matter of the book to be written as of something that already exists: thoughts already thought, dialogue already spoken, stories already happened, places and settings seen; the book should be simply the equivalent of the unwritten world translated into writing. At other times, on the contrary, I seem to understand that between the book to be written and things that already exist there can be only a kind of comple - mentary relationship: the book should be the written counterpart of the unwritten world; its subject should be what does not exist and cannot exist except when written, but whose absence is obscurely felt by that which exists, in its own incompleteness." (pp. 171-2)

If the subject of weaving is substituted for writing, this statement accurately expresses my feelings. Paraphrasing:

"At times I think of the subject matter of the [work] to be [woven] as of something that already exists... At other times... I seem to understand that between the [tapestry] to be [woven] and things that already exist there can be only a kind of complementary relationship: ... its subject should be what does not exist and cannot exist except when [woven], but whose absence is obscurely felt by that which exists, in its own incompleteness."

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REFERENCES

Larsen, Jack Lenor, and Constantine, Mildred. Beyond Craft: the Art Fabric. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1973.

Tate, Blair. The Warp: A Weaving Reference. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1984.

Calvino, Italo. If on a Winter's Night a Traveler. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1981.

249 A Street #41 Boston, Massachusetts U.S.A. 02210

Photo Credits

Photos 1-3, 5, 7-10, 12, 20, 21: Jeffrey Schiff, Boston

Photo 4: Herb Engelsberg, Boston

Photo 6: Willa Heider, Boston

Photos 11,13-19, 22-24: Stanley Rowin, Boston

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