Space as a Methodological Site

Figure 2: Studio space. Photo: Cat O’Neil (Image description: A view of the

Contemporary Textile Studio Co-op looks from one end of the sewing table across the length of the printing table, with two large windows at the end of the studio space. In the foreground to the right is the corner of the sewing machine, and scattered throughout the workspace are various pieces of embroidery, quilting tools, and pieces of fibre art. At the far end of the table on the right is Jenna, ironing a patchwork block.)

At this point in my academic and artistic careers, my work happens predominantly in two² separate spaces, which I understand as my office and my studio. As a contract lecturer and PhD candidate, I have access to office space in two different universities in the city of Toronto, but as a mad person these are largely inaccessible to me for various reasons. Because of this, I do a large amount of my written work in my home office. Situated on the third floor of my rented apartment, my home office is in a room on the west side of the house. With a west-facing window, the sun seems to shine bright and hot into the office all day. On one wall I have my desk, which is littered with books, articles, magazines, and drawing materials. Here is where I sit to read and write. When the office gets too hot or I feel as if I am slogging through the workday, sometimes I move myself around my house – and one of the first places I go is my bed in the room across the hall. Writing in bed reminds me of my days in my undergraduate and my master’s degrees; there is a nostalgic comfort I get when working on academic writing while wrapped up in the quilts that I have made. Another place you could expect to find me typing is at the dining room table, for no other reason than I feel less cut off from the rest of the happenings of the house while sitting in the middle of the main living spaces.

Alternatively, my studio is a space that has recently shifted from being inside my house to a cooperatively shared textile studio. The shift into rented studio space occurred when my creative endeavours expanded in a way that I felt I could not work efficiently in my home. This shift from creating art in my home to a shared studio outside of my home happened around the time that I began linking my creative work with my community and academic work. After taking

2At one point I considered the community to be a third site where my work happened, but the difficulty of navigating a doctorate degree as a mad student has meant that I have not been able to centralize that component of my work for a long time. This can feel both very isolating and deeply disheartening. At best I deal with this disconnection and incongruence by rooting most of my professional contract work in community-based projects.

a natural dye printing textile workshop in the studio, it made sense for me to join a cooperative that fostered community and learning while sharing equipment I would not have had access to on my own. In the centre of the 1,200-square-foot studio is a full-length printing table. At the end of this table is where I have my sewing table – an Ikea drafting table fashioned into a drop-down tabletop, which allows my sewing machine to sit flush with the work surface. Surrounding the perimeter of the room are the shelves where members store their individual materials and tools.

Also available on site is an exposure unit, light table, dye area, washer, and dryer, among other amenities.

There is a crossover of tools between my workspaces. In my home office I have cutting mats on my desk, a hand quilting frame in front of my office window, and various fabrics and sewing tools such as pins, needles, and cutting utensils. In my studio I also have books and articles, and I often bring with me my computer and manuscripts-in-progress. My sketchbook contains just as many illustrations and visual sketches as it does notes from readings and written sketches. While the spaces are geographically separate, the work that happens in one bleeds into my work in the other. This is a significant aspect of my methodology – understanding that the creative work informs and unsettles the written work and vice versa. Not only is it impossible to separate one from the other, there is no clear beginning or end. Some ideas start in my office and transform in the studio, while others begin with the act of making and completely change as they interact with the reading and writing.

I’ve spent years gathering resources; books have piled up on and around my desk, articles are saved in countless folders on various USB drives, meetings are journalled in notebooks, and community conversations are scrawled on random pads of paper. My work stations – my desk in my home office, my bed, and my constantly rotating offices on the various university campuses

at which I work look much like my studio shelves: covered in material at various stages in the processes of de/re/construction.

The practice-based component of this dissertation develops knowledge through studio-based work. With this component I explore what it means to create knowledge primarily through the processes of 1) nature-based dyeing (the use of natural materials to dye unbleached cotton muslin) and 2) quilt making. I have integrated other fibre-based techniques in less central ways to add depth and complexity to the aesthetic elements of my work. I’ve hoarded specific pieces of fabric for years, waiting to cut into them until just the right moment. Similarly, I have

containers full of scrap pieces, used again and again, until only very little remains of the original yardage of material. I have jars full of carefully foraged dried plant matter waiting to be

processed into dye liquors. And I have yards of fabric moving through the countless steps it takes me to get from thought to pattern to finished object.

Figure 3: Studio shelves. Photo: Cat O’Neil (Image description: Metal shelves; on the lower shelf are two clear plastic containers filled with naturally dyed cotton. On the middle shelf are books, sketchbooks, a tea cup, various sewing notions, and fabric scraps. On the next shelf up is an assortment of dried flowers, mordants in powder form, and plastic containers. On the top shelf, just out of sight, are dye pots, rinsing bowls, rulers, and hot plates.)

This is not unlike the way that I work with the research that happens outside of and alongside my studio work. There are books that sit waiting to be read, articles that are heavily dog-eared, and those that are pulled apart into tiny scraps – quotes, ideas, themes, and concepts.

Much like quilting, I oscillate between relative antipodes: first, an obsession with learning the skills, techniques, and patterns that set out clearly defined rules and ways of doing things the

“right way.” I spend months and years reading works start to finish, pouring over every last word so as not to miss an important point or a necessary lesson. And then I reach a state of saturation where I become so overloaded with the “how-tos” that I experience a rupture.