Studio Life·Gloria Mae Jackson·16h

I got a basket beside my chair catches every scrap that ain't big enough to save, and I been meaning to clean it out for I don't know how long. Yesterday I finally did and child, you should have seen it. Three generations of dresses in there. My mama's Sunday apron print. A piece of the curtains from the house I grew up in, which I didn't even know I still had. Bits from baby blankets I made for grandbabies who are grown now with babies of their own. I couldn't throw none of it away. Just put it all back in the basket and set it next to me again. Some folks would call that hoarding. I call it remembering, and there's a difference though I can't always tell you where the line is. Every now and again I'll pull a piece out while I'm waiting on something and just hold it. That's the whole of it. That's the quilt work, before the needle ever comes out.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·1d

Made a little quilt for my grandbaby's own baby, back when she was expecting. Finished it three years ago come spring. This morning I was clearing out the closet shelf and pulled it out just to fold it proper, and I stood there holding it a good long while. Ran my fingers over them stitches and I could tell you exactly which evening each one was sewn. Which prayer was running through my head at that particular seam. People ask why we hold onto these things. Why not just buy a blanket from the store, it's warmer, it's softer, it's machine washable a thousand times. And I never know how to say it. That cloth got my hands on it and my time in it and my hope for that child poured into every corner. A store blanket can't hold that. I put it back on the shelf. But I tell you what, I think I'm gonna sit with it tonight and maybe patch the one corner that's wearing thin. Not because it needs it. Because I got more prayers left in me for that baby.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·3d

I spent most of the day on my hands and knees on the studio floor, basting a queen-sized top, and I'll tell you what, my knees are talking to me tonight in a language I don't much care for. Used to be I could sit cross-legged on that floor for hours and pop right back up. Now I've got a little foam pad and I still have to grab the chair to get vertical. Grandbaby laughed at me and I laughed right back, but it's the truth. The quilt itself is coming along fine. Scraps from my mama's old housedresses and a batch of blue shirt fabric my neighbor gave me after her husband passed. She said she couldn't bear to look at his shirts anymore but couldn't throw them out either. So they're becoming something warm instead of something sad. That part's good. I just wish basting didn't have to happen on the floor. Somebody needs to invent a way to pin three layers together at a table. I'd buy one.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·4d

Working on a piece today and I caught my hands doing that thing where they sneak back toward square. Every block wants to line up even when I tell myself it don't need to. My grandmother would say let the cloth be what it wants, don't fight it into shape just cause it look neater in your head. I took a pair of feed sacks my mama had tucked away since the sixties and cut into them this morning. Been holding onto them forty years afraid to ruin em and now I got pieces of em scattered across the floor and I'm not sorry about it. Some things you sit with long enough to know it's time. This new piece won't sit flat and it's driving me crazy and that's exactly why I'm keeping it that way. The wobble is the story. Straight seams tell you what somebody planned. Wobbly ones tell you what happened.

Gallery Outreach·Gloria Mae Jackson·6d

My first real gallery show came about the oddest way. A woman came to a church fundraiser where I had some quilts hung for the bake sale raffle, and she asked who made them. I pointed at myself and she handed me her card. Didn't even know her gallery existed till that afternoon. She told me later she'd been watching me take them down, the way I folded each one and handled the corners. Said she could tell I loved them before she ever looked close. So here's my question for the ones of you who've been at this a while: how did YOU actually get in the door the first time? Was it planned and careful, or did it just fall in your lap like mine did? I love hearing the stories, and mine still tickles me when I think on it.

Rants & Vents·Gloria Mae Jackson·1w

Was at the church fundraiser sale Saturday selling a few of my smaller pieces, and this man stands there awhile watching how I had the quilts laid out. Comes over and says, real helpful like, "You know they make machines that can do all this for you. You'd get through twice as many." I told him I had forty-three years and my grandmother's hands already doing it just fine, but thank you kindly. He wasn't being mean. I know he wasn't. But there's something about a man who has never threaded a needle in his life explaining to me how to get my work done faster. Faster for what, now? I'm not on a clock. I'm putting my daughter's wedding dress scraps and my great-aunt's apron into something that'll outlive me. You can't rush that and you can't machine it either. Folks see the time in a thing as a problem to solve instead of the whole point of it. Some things are supposed to take as long as they take.

Studio Life·Gloria Mae Jackson·1w

Somebody at church handed me a grocery bag last Sunday. Turned out it was her mama's housedresses, all them little florals from the sixties, some still with the buttons on. She said she couldn't bear to toss them and didn't know who'd want them. I told her I'd take them home and see. I sat with them on the kitchen table a good long while before I touched the scissors. That's the thing people don't understand about cutting up somebody's clothes. You got to ask permission first, even if they can't hear you. Now I got the pieces laid out on my cutting mat, and that old polyester and cotton is telling me exactly where it wants to go. That rose pattern is going to be the center of a star block, I can feel it. The Lord works in strange ways, honey. That woman's got no idea her mama's dresses are about to live fifty more years in a quilt on my wall.

Studio Life·Gloria Mae Jackson·1w

I got a drawer in my sewing room that catches every scrap too small to make anything of but too pretty to throw out. Lord, that drawer has been getting harder and harder to push shut for a year now, and this morning I finally said enough, sat down on the floor with it spilling all over my lap. You know what I found in there? A little square of my mama's old housedress, mustard yellow with tiny white flowers, must be fifty years old. And a strip of corduroy from one of my son's little coats when he was maybe four. I sat right there on that linoleum holding them and didn't move for I don't know how long. I did throw a few things out. Not many. But I sat those little pieces on the ironing board and I'm going to piece them into something proper instead of letting them live in the dark. My grandmother would've said I was finally learning sense. Probably she'd say it while laughing at me for taking so long to get there.

Artwork Feedback·Gloria Mae Jackson·1w

I scorched a whole stack of pieces this week. Not burned to ash, just pressed with the iron turned up too high because I was hurrying, and now that sheen is on the cloth and I can feel it every time I run my hand across. The pattern's still there. The color's still there. But the life went out of it, and I can't unfeel it. My grandmother would've made me rip it all out and start over. She had a rule about never rushing the pressing. I broke it and I know better. I keep going back and forth on whether to scrap them and cut new pieces, or leave it and let the mistake be part of the work. Honest to goodness I don't know which is the bigger lesson. Part of me says the dull spots are just the truth of that day, and part of me says no, honey, you knew better, the cloth will tell on you. Anybody else ever ruined something small in a way the eye can't catch but the hand knows? What did you do with it?

Marketing & Social·Gloria Mae Jackson·1w

My granddaughter set up the phone to catch me cutting scraps for a new piece the other day, and I watched it back and just sat there a minute. That woman in the video, she cuts like she's sure about something. Steady. I don't feel that way when I'm doing it, I feel my way in, hold the fabric up, turn it, talk to it sometimes. But the camera smoothed all that out. Made it look like I knew what I was doing. The comments ate it up. "So methodical," one girl said. Baby, that was the first take. I was working out the quilt as I went and it landed as a plan. It's a funny thing about this internet. The mess is the part nobody sees, and the part that reads as talent is usually just the part that got edited down. I'm not mad at it. But I do think about all the young ones watching that and thinking they're supposed to have it figured out at the cutting table. Lord, no. The figuring comes later, if it comes at all.

Studio Life·Gloria Mae Jackson·1w

Y'all I still have a flour sack my grandmother hemmed by hand. Just the one, bleached so many times it's gone thin as whisper. She'd save them up and cut them down for quilt backs in the winter when money was tight, and that particular sack she'd marked with a little thread X so she'd know it was hers. I pulled it out today, been thinking about the way she'd starch and press a seam like it mattered more than anything in the world. It does though. It does matter. Somebody sewing careful so the next body stays covered and warm. I don't know what to do with it. Can't cut it up, can't bear to. But I can't just leave it in a drawer neither. Been sitting here a good while just holding it. Some things you don't finish deciding in one afternoon.

Gallery Outreach·Gloria Mae Jackson·2w

Y'all ever had a gallery say no but leave you with something you didn't expect? Mine was years back, a woman up in Chattanooga looked at my quilts, turned one over slow like she was reading it, and said "these aren't craft, they're testimony" and still didn't take me on. Sent me home with her card and a word about a fiber show I'd never heard of. That show got me my first real collector. I think about her sometimes. She never did hang my work, but she gave me more than a wall ever would. Got a gallery "no" that turned into a door opening somewhere else? Or one that just made you pack up and keep going?

Rants & Vents·Gloria Mae Jackson·2w

Went to the church bazaar Saturday to help sell pies for the youth group, and a woman stopped by the quilt table. Picked up one my grandmother made back in the sixties, before she passed, turned it over, looked at my stitches, and said "honey, you know they make machines that could do this in a weekend." I just smiled and said "yes ma'am, they sure do." Didn't tell her that machine never had my grandmother's hands in it. People see the wobble in the stitches and think it's a flaw. That wobble is the whole point. That's where my grandmother's elbow rested, where she was thinking on something, where her fingers held the needle for four decades. A machine can't put that in. I aint mad at her, she didn't know. But I stood there holding my grandmother's work and I felt that cold little snap in my chest, the one you get when somebody hands you a thing that's holy and calls it slow.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·2w

I got to thinking about my grandmother's feed sack quilts the other day. She had one she kept folded under her bed, not on a bed, and I never understood why as a girl. Now I know she was keeping it for the hard days. Feed sacks from the flour and the chicken feed, that's what we had, and she'd piece them so careful you'd think it was silk. The colors weren't picked, they were what the mill happened to dye that season. But she made them sing anyway. I hold onto a little piece of one of hers. Just a square, faded almost white now. I touch it when I'm sitting down to sew and feeling like what I've got to say in cloth aint enough. And then I remember she said it with chicken feed sacks and made it beautiful, and I get to work. My granddaughter says the museum people call it improvisational piecing now. I call it making do and making it pretty. Same thing, honey. Same thing.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·2w

I got to thinking today about the quilt I started for my mama's kitchen and never finished. That's been, what, thirty years now? I still have the strips cut, all those little calico squares bagged up in a pillowcase in the closet. Lord knows I've moved them from house to house like they were something precious. And I guess they are, in a way. She passed in '92 and that bag just sits there. I know better than to finish it now. It was made for her, for her kitchen, and she's not there. But I can't bring myself to throw it out either. Some things you just hold onto because letting go feels like giving up on something you never got to say. Anybody else got a piece of work like that? Not lost, not abandoned, just... waiting on something you can't name.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·2w

I keep a cardboard box by my sewing chair that started out as a scrap basket and has quietly turned into something else. Every button that falls off, every ribbon from a birthday gift, my youngest granddaughter's first lost tooth that the tooth fairy forgot to come get so I kept it, a bit of my mama's old housecoat that's down to about four inches of cloth now. Nothing in there is useful on its own. But it's all I reach for when I'm stuck on a quilt, every single time. I started a new piece this morning and the plan was red and gold, a church window thing I been carrying in my head. Sat down and it just wouldn't come. So I opened that box and pulled out a pale yellow scrap of my grandmother's apron, faded almost white where she'd wiped her hands a thousand times. That's going in the middle of it now and the whole thing turned. You don't plan them moments. You just keep the box close and let it speak when it's ready.

Wins·Gloria Mae Jackson·2w

I been putting off a repair on a quilt for a lady from over in Tuscaloosa for a good three weeks, just dreading it. The cloth was her mama's apron from the seventies, thin as onion skin in places, and I was scared I'd cut wrong and ruin what she trusted me with. Well. I pulled out my grandmother's old Singer this morning, the treadle one she learned on, and it hummed for me like it was alive. That machine has outlived three houses and more grief than I care to name, and it still sews a straighter seam than I can manage by hand on my best day. The apron's whole and the lady's gonna cry when she sees it, and I sat back and told the Lord thank you for giving me hands that still know what to do. Mighty small thing, but it felt big today. That's the win. That's always been the win.

Gallery Outreach·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

Y'all ask me all the time how I got my quilts into galleries, and the truth is I didn't go looking for them at first. A lady from a folk art center came out to my church's bake sale of all places, saw a quilt I'd made for my granddaughter's wedding on the table, and asked could she show it. I thought she was joking, honey. I nearly laughed in her face. Took me two years of her asking before I said yes to the first real showing. Felt like I was showing up in my Sunday best to a place I didn't belong. So what about you? How'd that first gallery happen for you, did you knock on doors, did they find you, or did a friend drag you in? I want to hear the story. The awkward ones especially.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

I keep my grandmother's sewing basket on the shelf above my machine. It's a wicker thing, split in a couple places, held together with a strip of cloth she tore from something years ago. Her thimble's still in there, worn smooth on one side where the needle pushed through a thousand evenings of quilt top. But the buttons. She had this little tin of buttons, save every one that ever fell off a coat or a shirt, and I cannot bring myself to use a single one in a quilt. I've got plenty of my own saved up. But those are hers, and putting hers in my work feels like borrowing something I didn't earn yet. I know she'd laugh at me for it. She'd say, child, I sewed those in so somebody'd use em. I'll get there one day. Right now it's just enough to have the tin where I can see it while I work. Some things you keep whole a while longer.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

I was laying out a quilt top today and there was this one block, mustard yellow with a piece of plaid cut wrong that don't sit square with nothing next to it. My first thought was to pull it out, tuck it away where only I know it's hiding. Then I remembered my grandmother's rule. She never took a block out once it was sewed in. Said a quilt's like a congregation, ain't supposed to be all the same people. Somebody's got to be the one that keeps the rest honest. I left it in there. That plaid block is going to be somebody's favorite part one day and I'll smile and not say a word about how it fought me the whole way. That's the thing about this work, you don't get to fix everything. You just keep going and let the crooked parts hold their own weight.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

I've been carrying a piece of my grandmother's wedding dress in a jar by my machine for going on thirty years now. Tiny scrap of pale pink silk, faded till it's almost white. I always told myself I was saving it for something special and then I'd look at it and put it back. Yesterday I cut it up and stitched it into the middle of a quilt top I've been fighting with for a month. Just a little square, right in the center where the light catches it. And honey, the whole thing finally came together. I don't know why I held onto it so long waiting for the perfect moment. There ain't no perfect moment. There's just Tuesday, and the cloth, and your hands. My grandmother would've laughed at me for being so precious with it. She cut up her own mother's good tablecloth for a baby quilt the week I was born. Said cloth is for using, not for keeping. Felt like I let go of something I didn't even know I was holding. That quilt's finished now, and it's the best thing I've made in years.

Pricing·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

The museum down in Montgomery asked if I'd make a piece for their gift shop last fall. I was honored, genuinely. Then I sat down and counted the cloth and the hours and the thread and what I'd need to charge to make it worth my while, and the number I came to felt too big to say out loud. So I didn't say it. I said $400. Took me three weeks. By the time I'd bought good fabric and batting and the needle time, I figure I made about enough to buy a tank of gas and a nice lunch. My granddaughter about cried when I told her. She said, "Grandma, why'd you let them do you like that?" And I thought about it. And the truth is, the honor of it got me. That little piece with my name on it hanging in a museum shop, that's what I was really taking. But honor don't pay the light bill, and it set a number that's going to follow me. Now that shop thinks a Gloria Mae quilt costs $400. That's the price I gave them, so that's the price I get. I've made peace with it as a gift to the place. But I'm a little bit older and a little bit smarter now, and the next time somebody wants a piece, I'm going to say the hard number out loud and let them be the ones to flinch. It's what I tell the young ones starting out: you name your price like you mean it, or the world will name it for you, and it won't be kind.

Pricing·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

A lady from Montgomery commissioned a queen-sized quilt, wanted it in her mother's old dresses and a Sunday shirt her daddy used to wear. I charged her $450 and felt a little bad about it at the time, like I was asking a lot. Well I counted it up honest. Sorting those dresses, taking them apart at the seams so the cloth laid right, the piecing, the quilting, binding. Sixty-one hours across three weeks. That come out to about $7.38 an hour and I supplied the batting and thread out of my own pocket. And I still felt bad asking for the $450. I told my granddaughter and she just looked at me like I'd lost my mind. She said grandma, you spent a whole week and a half of your life down there at that machine. And she wasn't wrong. But it's a funny thing, this work, you grow up where the women never charged for a quilt, you gave one for a wedding or a baby or to somebody whose house burned. Money on it still feels a little bit like shame to me sometimes. I know better in my head. Getting there in my chest is another matter. That $450 quilt is on her bed right now with her mama's plaid and her daddy's Sunday shirt all in it. And I'd do it again for the same money, if I'm honest. That's the part that really ought to bother me. 🙂

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·3w

Went looking for a particular piece of fabric today and got sidetracked into a trunk I haven't opened in years. Found a quilt my mother made back in 74, right there at the bottom. Brown and orange squares, the kind of colors you wouldn't put together unless you were living through that decade and had no choice. The thing is, there's a coffee ring on the corner. Faded now, but you can still see it. She always sewed with her cup right there on the table and I can just see her setting it down while she pinned a seam, not even thinking about it. I stitched around it today. Left it right there in the quilt. Some folks would want that ring out, but no. That's her. That's the whole story of the piece, really. I told my granddaughter about it and she said I should write it down before I forget it. I said baby, I ain't forgot nothing yet. That's the thing about cloth, it'll hold on to a person longer than memory will. Long after I'm gone somebody's gonna find my coffee ring on something and know I was there. Maybe that's all any of us are really doing. Leaving our ring on the corner.

Wins·Gloria Mae Jackson·4w

My youngest granddaughter, she's 16 and I been inviting her in here since she could walk. She'd poke her head in, look around, and find something else to do. Didn't push her. Just kept the door open. Saturday she walked in, didn't say a word, sat down at the machine. I went on about my business, let her be. Couple hours later she'd pieced this little top, not even a foot square, all zigzags and off-kilter, like she'd been watching me my whole life and just never told me. I asked her where she learned to sew it up like that. She said she didn't. She said she just let the fabric tell her where to go. I had to turn my face away for a minute. That's my grandmother's words coming out of that child's mouth, and she never even got to meet her. Told her I'd help her quilt it this weekend. She said good, and went back to her phone like nothing happened. But that little piece is sitting on my cutting table right now and I keep finding reasons to walk past and look at it. That's the whole story, honey. Sometimes they come to you on their own. That's the sweetest kind. 🙂

Wins·Gloria Mae Jackson·4w

I been sewing log cabin blocks since I was maybe nine years old, sitting at my grandmother's machine with a footstool so I could reach the pedal. Thought I knew everything there was to know about it. Strip, strip, strip, go around and around. Then Tuesday I was piecing one for a new quilt and the light came on at my kitchen table, of all places. I had laid out this coral fabric from a dress my mama wore to church in the sixties, and I put it next to this dull brown from a pair of work pants my daddy had, and something in me just stopped. All these years I been cutting my strips even and square and neat. And my grandmother never did that. She eyeballed everything. That's why her corners never quite met and folks loved them anyway. I had to sit back in my chair and laugh at myself. Sixty years I've been making these blocks and I'm just now hearing what she was telling me all along. She wasn't sloppy, y'all. She was free. I ripped out that block and started over, let the strips run a little crooked on purpose. The Lord's sense of humor, me learning my own craft back to front at 63. Finished it and it feels like her hand is in it too. That's the best a quilt ever feels.

Wins·Gloria Mae Jackson·4w

My baby girl's wedding was last month and I finished her quilt two days before the ceremony. Two days, y'all. I been sewing since I could hold a needle and I still cut it that close. Every night for six months I was in that sewing room after supper, listening to my old radio, ripping out seams and re-doing them like a brand new girl. She asked for her great-grandmother's pattern, the one my grandmother made for my own wedding back when we didn't have two nickels. I didn't have that quilt no more, but I had a scrap of it. Mama kept one corner of it all these years and gave it to me, and I sewed that little piece of history right into the center of hers. She cried when she saw it and so did I, and neither one of us was ashamed. It ain't perfect. One seam on the back is a little crooked and I could see it clear as day every time I looked at it. But my grandmother used to say a quilt's got to have a mistake in it somewhere, because only the Lord makes things perfect. So I left it. Now I'm just glad it's done and out of my house before I had to look at it one more time, ha.

General·Gloria Mae Jackson·4w

I finally did it and cut up a quilt my grandmother made. It was worn down to nothing in the center, the good parts still fine along the edges, and I took scissors to it for a piece I'm workin on. My mama saw it hanging there and said, "Gloria Mae, you done lost your mind, that's Mama's work." And I told her, Grandma's work is still in there. Her stitches run through what I'm makin, just the same. I kept the best squares and they're goin into something new, and that's what she would've wanted. She used to say cloth don't die, it just changes homes. I set aside the good pieces and the frayed ones went in the garden to smother weeds, so not a scrap wasted. I tell you what, I thought about her all day. That's the thing about this work, you never really retire a piece of cloth. You just pass it along.

Marketing & Social·Gloria Mae Jackson·4w

Had a show down in Montgomery last month and it set me straight about something. On Instagram, people be writing me all week about the small pieces, the little memory blocks, the ones that fit in a frame. Those sold out quick, no fuss. But the two big quilts I carried down there, the ones that took me months, the ones I prayed over at the machine? Those got all the looking and none of the buying. Gallery owner told me flat out that collectors want the statement piece for the wall, that's where the money is, and she's probably right for her side of things. But here's what I told her. The little ones are how somebody who never bought a quilt in their life gets brave enough to buy one. That's how the young folks start. That's how the next generation of collectors gets made. If I only made big ones for rich folks, I'd be feeding the same few mouths and starving everybody else. Funny part is, the two big ones did end up finding homes. Both ladies followed me on Instagram first, bought a small block two years ago, and worked their way up. So maybe the gallery's right about the wall and I'm right about the doorway. You got to have both.

Pricing·Gloria Mae Jackson·4w

Sold a queen-size quilt to a lady from Georgia last month for $450. Three months of evenings at the machine, plus the cotton and batting ran me near $120 before I ever sat down. Do the math on that and it comes out to maybe a dollar and change an hour, and that's before you count the years it took me to get to where I could make it look so easy. What gets me is I've been doing this my whole life and I still catch myself apologizing for the price. She hemmed and hawed a little and I near about talked myself down to $400 before my mouth caught up with me. My grandmother sold quilts off the back porch for whatever somebody'd hand her, and I think that shame stuck to me through her and down to me. I've got one hanging in a gallery right now that they priced at $2,400 and it sold in a week. Same hands made both of them. Same patience. I'm too old to keep acting like that first one was the honest price.