Ancestral Invitation. Wooden chairs, handkerchiefs, shirt, and fabric scraps; May, 2023
Representing the dining table, this chair was created with my ancestors. Two chairs from my aunt and uncle’s 30-plus years old dining set became one chair. My dad’s shirt and the family handkerchiefs that dabbed sweat, wiped a tear, touched up lipstick and swayed with the music became the pillows. Cloth made, caressed and carried from the motherland became the seat.
My family is huge. My paternal grandmother and grandfather, mom and dad, sisters and brother lived in a three story twin in West Mt. Airy, Philadelphia. A house my mom and dad purchased in 1955. On most special occasions and holidays, the house was full with aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends too. We gathered around the dining room table, in the kitchen or in the backyard. And there was always room at the table for another. Hundreds of stories were told at the table. There was laughter, prayers, love, embraces, tears, and scoldings. There were stories of injustice, justice, and pressing on.
Exploring the materials and ideology of lynching. Rope, leather, crosses, and wood.
Postcard mailed to our family home in 1958. “If you continue to allow your children to break windows and do other things in the street they will end up just like the 11 - that are now awaiting trial for murder. A neighbor” Postmarked May 11, 1958. We were one of two or three Black families on the block. I was a newborn, my sister was 2 1/2 . (Background: bedspread on my parent’s bed.)
Untitled (Vessel for a message received) Boy Scouts of America badges, handkerchiefs, paper, and thread. 9” x 4.25” (WORK IN PROGRESS); July, 2023
A child’s handkerchief. After my mom passed, I found a collection of maybe over 20 handkerchiefs. The vessel (below) includes three of the handkerchiefs. This photo of a child’s handkerchief or hankie is one of the three (two children’s hankies and one man’s hankie) included in the vessel. As previously mentioned, handkerchiefs wiped sweat, cleaned up a nose or mouth, dabbed a tear and more. For me, they represent grace, toil, sorrow and love. (Background: scrap paper on which I made sketches of and notes about plants and drafted a map of the neighborhood in which I grew up. I was working quickly to find a light background for the photo. It also is a peak into what else I’ve been thinking of and working on.)
I found this bag of Boy Scouts of America badges (about 60), medals, paper scraps, and plastic USA puzzle pieces after my dad passed. My dad was a BSA leader for several years and, for a short time, my mom was a BSA den mother. Exploring our story, the BSA was an important part of my dad's life, our neighborhood and our family. (Background: scrap paper with sketches and notes about plants. Stuff I’m exploring.)
Untitled (Vessel for a message received)Boy Scouts of America badges, handkerchiefs, paper, and thread. 9” x 4.25” (WORK IN PROGRESS); July, 2023
View of postmark and address. Photo taken in my parent’s bedroom. The home they nurtured was in a working and middle class neighborhood. Purchased in 1955, the neighborhood was predominately white when they moved in. Immediately, they had a sense that they were not welcomed. This is a story of my parent’s response to the hatred they observed and experienced and their desire to create a safe place for their family to live. A story of their success in spite of the white patriarchal ideals they toiled in. Sewn in a manner which intends to represent the inconsistencies in the BSA mission, nomenclature and symbolisms. (Background: 9. white curtain sheers; 10. parent’s bed. Images of a home and a class.)
The table stands. We still gather. Ancestors nearby. The stories carry on. We press on. Sewn together. Joined together, bound together, woven together.
Lynda's Artist Statement: My primary tools are yarn, twine and crochet needles and my aesthetic is informed in part my dad’s activism, my grandmother’s crochet lessons, and unending stories of injustice. Through fiber I explore the concept of community, expressing some of the stories we have yet to learn, while attempting to help us unlearn some of the stories we carry. Occasionally, you may notice a lynch knot in my work – a reminder that fiber is not always gentle, comfortable, or beautiful to behold. Fiber speaks our truths. Knitted together or unraveling, falling apart. Deeply connected nonetheless.