I would like to be working on this head, any of my unfinished heads, but I have to continue with chapter 2 of my dissertation.
In the first chapter I was happy looking at the work of Elizabeth Parker (V&A) Lorina Bulwer (Norwich Castle Museum) and Agnes Richter (Heidelberg Museum) – going to see her jacket next week. They all stitched their narrative into fabric…..so obvious! to compare them to our Tracey Emin.
Not much written on my 19th century ladies but So much written about our Tracey. Her blankets are vibrant, crude, exciting, what would my ladies have made of them. Possibly died of shock, their angst was kept secret, not meant for others to see.
Our Tracey has turned her traumas into a Selfie, and we can all make one now.
This helmet is made from ripped up cardboard boxes, I like the idea of using packaging – referring to retail therapy and ripping it up, suggesting defiance. But the helmet will not protect or contain it is just putting on the style. Look fierce but not really.
Over the summer I have been exploring the idea of making helmets as a development of the fabric heads. I was thinking that women need to hide their thoughts sometimes, and sometimes their thoughts can be stuck inside the armour a patriarchal society has developed.
Some years back I was in USA and visited a Hunting and Shooting warehouse with my son in law. A huge and to my eyes strange sight/site. Amongst the dress up clothes, hides and many many varieties of guns I found a selection of dead birds, taxidermy. I suppose they might be used as decoys. They were tragic and beautiful, so I bought some and brought them home.
The feather helmet has a wing made of separated feathers, attached with glue gun and some hysteria as I pulled the bird apart. Does it remind me of the winged helmet of Mercury? It looks satisfyingly big and strong and now I intend to build the rest of the helmet from some kind of metal.
The head is made of walnut ink dyed patched fabric and looks quite antique……careworn.
Today my mind is over loaded it would be good to soar above it all on a strong win, but only one wing means I would just circle and crash, I need the strength of the helmet around me
Pain is a feathered thing
No
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
Emily Dickinson
but then she never went out of her room
maybe that is where I am going wrong
