Search

Now I want to tell y'all something and I hope it don't come out wrong. My granddaughter set me up on here back in 2019. She said "Mama, folks need to see these quilts." I didn't believe her. I've been sewing since I was nine years old and for most of that time the only people who saw my work were people who came to the house, or the church, or a funeral. That was enough. I wasn't looking for anybody to clap. Then a woman in Oregon bought one of my quilts off the internet and sent me a letter. A letter. Handwritten. She said it hung in her hallway and her grandbaby liked to touch the red pieces. That did something to me, I won't lie to you. But here's what I can't get right. I'll spend three weeks on a quilt and post it and get eleven likes from my cousins. Then I'll post a scrap of fabric on the ironing board with the steam still coming up off it and that thing goes everywhere. People want to see the work being worked. They don't want the finished picture on the wall. I don't understand it but I've stopped arguing with it. What I'm asking is this. Does anybody else feel like the thing you're actually good at and the thing the internet wants from you are two different things? Because I'm 63 and I've decided I'd rather be a little overlooked than start sewing for the algorithm. But I'd like to hear from somebody further along than me.

I don't know that I'm doing any of this right, so I'll just tell it plain. My granddaughter set me up a shop back in the fall. Said folks would buy my work online. So I put up four pieces, took the pictures on my kitchen table with a dish towel behind them for a background, and then I sat there and waited like a hen on a nest. March I sold one potholder. Five dollars. But here's the thing that's got me thinking. The quilts I post on here, the big ones, the ones I spent a year on? People look but they don't buy, and I understand it, you don't buy a quilt off a phone from a stranger in Alabama. What sold was the little thing. Something small enough to hold in your hand and cheap enough not to think too hard about. Then last month a lady in Seattle bought a quilt. Said she saw it on here and went and found the shop herself. I never once mentioned the shop on my page. Not one time. So I don't know what to make of that. I put the sign out front and nobody came in. I hung the quilt on the line and somebody knocked on the door. Maybe that's just how it works and nobody told me. Or maybe I'm still fooling with it wrong. I'm 63 years old and I've been sewing since I was seven. I know cloth. I do not know this. 🙂

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. 🙂

My youngest granddaughter got married back in June and I made her and her husband a wedding quilt. Double wedding ring, but I done it my own way, not quite even, the way I always do. She cried when she opened it and I told her hush now, that's just some old cloth. Well they came by the house Sunday after church and I walked in their little place and there it is, hung up on the wall over their sofa. Not folded in a closet, not on the back of a chair. On the wall, like it's something. My grandbaby said "Mama Gloria, we wanted it where we could see it every day." I sat down on their couch and just looked at it a minute. Thirty years ago they wouldn't have called what I do art. Now my own grandchild's got it hanging in her living room. I didn't say much, just sat there and let it land on me. The Lord's been good to let me see that with my own eyes.

She sent me the email back in March and I read it four times standing up in the kitchen. One of my quilts is hanging in a museum show right now. Not a church hall, not the library, a museum. I have been sewing since I was seven years old on my grandmother's porch, and I could not make my legs walk me through that door. So I sat in the car. Twenty minutes, engine off, watching folks go up the steps in their nice shoes. When I finally got inside I walked right past it and had to come back around. And here's what got me. They had it under that low light with the little card on the wall, and my name typed out, and I stood there thinking about the back of it. The back of that quilt is ugly, honey. Seams going every which way, thread knots, a piece of Mama's church dress I had to patch in crooked because I cut it wrong. Nobody's ever going to see the back in that museum. I don't know. I'm proud, I truly am. But I keep thinking about all the women who made beautiful things and never once got their name typed on a card. My grandmother never saw a museum except the one time we rode up to Birmingham. Anyway. It's up through January if anybody's near there. I'll be back to see it again when my hands stop shaking lol.

Honey. She meant well. She saw it on the back of the chair, said it smelled like cedar, put it in the machine on gentle and I came in the kitchen to find it spinning. That quilt is the first one I ever pieced by myself. 1979, scraps of my daddy's work shirts and a green dress my mother wore to my sister's wedding. The red in it has gone to a soft brown now. Nothing in the world matches that brown, and you can't buy it back. She pulled it out and it held together, thank the Lord, no seams gave. But it came out looking tired in a way it wasn't tired before. I stood there holding it and my eyes filled up and she felt awful and I had to put my arms around her and tell her it was just cloth. It is not just cloth. Now I'm sitting here wondering if I should stitch a little tag on the back of the ones that matter. Just a line on muslin, hand wash, cold, lay flat. Feels like talking to people who aren't here yet. Any of you all put washing instructions on your work? Or do you just let the thing go where it goes.

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.

She came by Sunday after church with a kitchen bag full of them. Four shirts, two of them that blue chambray he wore near every week, the collar gone soft as a dishrag. She said "Mama Gloria, let's put him in a quilt," and she had that look on her face like she'd already solved it. I sat there with that bag in my lap a good while. Half of me wanted to say yes right then. The other half wanted to take the bag back in the house and set it on the shelf where it's been. Here's my trouble. I've made memory quilts for other people for thirty-odd years. I have told many a widow, honey, cut it, the cloth is meant to go on living. And I meant it every time. But those shirts smell like him. Once I cut, that's done. There's no getting it back. I don't think she's wrong. I just don't think she knows yet that the cutting is the easy part and the sewing is where you cry. Any of you ever had a piece of somebody's cloth you couldn't put scissors to?

I always put a label on the back of a quilt. Name, year, and a few lines about where the cloth came from. My granddaughter put one of those labels on the internet for me, just the label, no quilt in the picture. Man from Chicago bought it. Two weeks later. Meanwhile the picture of the whole thing sitting on the fence out back got 41 likes and not one word from anybody. I don't know what to do with that. I really don't. I pieced that quilt out of my uncle's work shirts and a dress my mother wore to a funeral in 1971, and what moved him was me writing it down. I keep thinking maybe I been selling the wrong half of the thing all along, but I don't know how you show somebody the back of a quilt without showing them the front. I'm 63 and I only got on here because my granddaughter said folks should see them. So tell me plain. Is it the story or is it the cloth. Because I can't tell anymore.

Y'all, I finally broke down and let my granddaughter talk me into getting a brand new machine. The old Singer I been sewing on since I don't know when, it still works, but the tension's been fighting me something fierce for about two years now and I been cussing at it quiet so the Lord don't hear me too clear. New one came in the mail yesterday. Shiny. Got all these stitches I don't know what to do with. And you know what I did? Sat and looked at it for twenty minutes before I touched it. It felt wrong somehow, like I was cheating on a old friend. My grandmother's machine was treadle. Foot-powered. I ever tell y'all that? I learned on that thing, how fast you go is how fast your foot wants to pump. This new one don't even need me to guide the fabric straight, it's got a little arm that does it for you. I told my granddaughter that ain't sewing, that's supervising. But I used it this morning. Made a little test block, just scraps, nothing special. And I got to admit it sews real pretty. Real even. I still don't trust it though. Might keep the old Singer right there next to it for a while, just so it knows I ain't forgot where I come from.

Y'all, I don't even know how to sit still right now. Back in 1963 my grandmother made a crazy quilt, all those scraps, every shape you can think of, hand-stitched with that tiny perfect stitch she had. She used pieces from my mama's old school dresses, my uncle's Sunday shirt, a flour sack from a brand that don't even exist anymore. I grew up under that quilt. Slept under it when I was sick. Knew every patch like I knew every face at the dinner table. She passed in '89 and I kept it in a cedar chest for years 'cause I couldn't bear to have it wear out. Well, my granddaughter talked me into entering it in a show up in Atlanta. I sent it off with a prayer and tried not to think about it. Called me yesterday. It won. First place in the heritage category. I sat on the floor in the kitchen and cried. That's not like me. But I tell you what, my grandmother never got to see anybody call her work art. She just made beauty from what she had because that's what women did. And here's a room full of people sixty years later saying "yes ma'am, this matters." I know it's just a show. But it ain't just a show to me. Somebody finally saw her. That's all I wanted.

Now I'll tell this on myself. I drove up to a little gallery with my quilts folded in a plastic laundry basket, still smelling like the house, and stood there in the doorway like I was delivering somebody's dry cleaning. Girl at the desk looked at that basket, looked at me, and I thought well, I drove two hours. Long story short she called the owner out and the owner said "unfold them." So I did, right there on the floor. Turns out a laundry basket is not the sin I thought it was, but I want to know how y'all did it. First time you walked your work into a gallery, what did you carry it in? Portfolio case, cardboard, quilted bag, your arms, your husband's truck? And did anybody make you feel small about it? I ask because my granddaughter keeps telling me to buy a proper portfolio bag and I keep telling her I've got one, it's just green and holds socks. Tell me I'm wrong, or tell me you did worse.

I finished a double wedding ring two weeks back. Hand pieced, all of it, and I used up cloth that had no business being in there together. My mother's church dress from 1971, a cotton print so faded you'd swear it was tan, and some bright orange scraps left over from a baby quilt I made in 1998. My granddaughter says it looks like a sunrise fell down. I said well, thank you baby. Put it up on the wall in the front room this morning, over the sofa where the light comes in about four o'clock. Sat with it a good while. Here's the thing I can't settle. Every quilt I've made in my life I made for somebody. Wedding, funeral, new baby, somebody leaving, somebody coming home. This one I just made because the idea got in me and wouldn't leave. Now it's hanging there and I keep looking at it wanting to know who it's for, like the answer's supposed to come to me. My husband walked through and said "that's a pretty one" and kept going, so he's no help. I'm not sorry I made it. I just don't know what to call it. A quilt with nobody's name on it yet feels half finished to me, and I've been sewing long enough to know that feeling usually means wait.

Now listen, I want to hear how y'all do it, because I still can't decide what's polite. My first gallery, I didn't do either one properly. My granddaughter found the place, and I mailed them a letter with two polaroids of a quilt folded over the porch rail. Took five weeks to hear back and I had about given up. Turns out one of the ladies who worked there took the pictures home to her mama. Her mama said bring that woman in. So I walked in with a quilt on my arm and that was that. Not a plan. Just the Lord and a folded quilt. Now I've got a new one I'd like to approach, and I keep going back and forth. Part of me says send the email first, be respectful of their time. Other part says a quilt is a thing you have to touch. A photograph of a quilt is not a quilt. So which is it for you? Email first and wait? Or walk in and hope somebody's there who'll look? And I especially want to hear from anybody who walked in unannounced, because I think there's more of us than folks admit.

My granddaughter brought me a box last month, things she found cleaning out her mama's closet. In it was my grandmother's church dress. Navy, little covered buttons down the front, worn thin at the elbows. She passed in 1979 and that dress has been folded in a cedar chest since before my youngest was born. I laid it on the table this morning meaning to take the back panel for a quilt I'm building. Memory quilt, for my great-grandbaby due in November. I got the scissors in my hand and then I just stood there. Couldn't do it. Went and made coffee instead, came back, sat down. Finally I did cut it. Took a deep breath and went slow. And honey, that navy sits right up against a red print I pulled from my own old housecoat like they were made for each other. The Lord puts things together like that sometimes. Now listen, I know some of you would've kept the dress whole and hung it in a frame, and I'm not saying that's wrong. But cloth was made to be used. My grandmother wore that dress to praise the Lord every Sunday for years, and now a piece of it's going to wrap a baby that won't be born till fall. That feels like the dress finishing what it started. Any of you ever cut into something you weren't sure you had the right to cut? I'd like to hear it.

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. 🙂

So I got a message from a woman in Oregon, says she saw a photo of a quilt I made for my grandson's wedding, posted it on Instagram two years ago, just a picture I snapped on the porch, didn't even think about it, and she tracked me down to ask if I'd sell it. I told her honey that quilt's been slept under and washed and loved on, it's got a wine stain from the reception and a cat hair woven right in there somewhere. She said she wanted it more for that reason. So I called my grandson, he said he'd make me a new one if I wanted to let this one go. So I did. She paid me more than I ever charged for a quilt in my life and sent me pictures of it hanging on her wall like it was a painting. And I'm sitting here thinking, I been sewing sixty years and the Lord let me live long enough to see folks call my grandmother's way of doing things "fine art" and buy it off a telephone. I don't know what to do with that. But I know if you had told Grandma Viola her granddaughter would sell a quilt to a stranger in Oregon who saw it on a picture box, she'd have laughed and said you were touched in the head. Anyway. Anybody else got a sale that felt like it came from another planet?

Y'all ever catch yourself doing something in the studio that don't feel like much, but if you stop and think about it, it's practically prayer? I got this old tin cookie box my mama kept buttons in, and now I keep my smallest scraps in it. Every time I sit down to start something new, I dump em out on the table and just… sort em. Reds together, blues together, the browns and oranges that nobody quite knows what to do with, they get their own little pile. I ain't even decided what I'm making yet. But my hands need to do that first. Like saying hello before you launch into a conversation. My granddaughter watches me do it and says "Mama Gloria, you just playing with fabric." And she ain't wrong. But that's how the good ones start. You gotta let your hands wander before they know where they're going. Anybody else got a little ritual like that, something that don't look like work but you can't start without it?

Y'all, I been selling quilts my whole life, church bazaars, word of mouth, folks stopping by the house. Never needed much more than that. But my granddaughter got me on Instagram a few years back, and I tell you what, the folks I've met through there... mm. People from England, from Japan, from California, wanting a piece of what I do. I sold a quilt last month to a woman in Paris. Paris, France. She saw a picture I took on my kitchen floor and paid more than I used to ask for a whole summer's worth of craft shows. And I'm grateful, don't get me wrong. The Lord's been good. But there's something funny about it, these folks paying top dollar for what my grandmother did out of a flour sack because that's what she had. They call it "art" now, and I guess it is. But it was art then too, wasn't it? Anyway. I'm still figuring out what to make of it. Grateful, but figuring.

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.