Making a Life: Twenty-five Years of Hooking Rugs

by Deanne Fitzpatrick, Sheree Fitch (Foreword by)

Overview

Celebrated textile artist Deanne Fitzpatrick learned early that traditional rug-hooking is so much more than just making mats for old houses. This intricate art form has given her the chance to speak without words. It has built her a supportive community, a successful business, and an international reputation. But most of all, hooking rugs has allowed Deanne to live a life she loves.

Reflecting on her twenty-five-year career, Deanne shares lessons gleaned both at the frame and away from her studio. Whether it's dealing with an artistic block, or balancing running a business and raising a family, Deanne has navigated it all with frank humour and grace. Containing over 75 full-colour photos of projects past and present, Making a Life is an ode to the joys of leading a creative life.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781771087230
Publisher:	Nimbus Publishing
Publication date:	10/30/2019
Pages:	128
Product dimensions:	7.40(w) x 9.60(h) x 0.60(d)

About the Author

Deanne Fitzpatrick is renowned worldwide for her stunning rugs and patterns. Her work is in the permanent collections of the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia and the Canadian Museum of Civilization, and she is the author of East Coast Rug-Hooking Designs, Hook Me a Story, and Inspired Rug-Hooking. She works from her studio in downtown Amherst, Nova Scotia, and she writes and teaches on her website, hookingrugs.com.

Sheree Fitch is an award-winning poet, storyteller, and educator. Her picture books, novels, and plays have delighted both children and adults since 1987. Sheree lives with her husband in River John, Nova Scotia, on their hobby farm. They run a seasonal book store, Mabel Murple's Book Shoppe and Dreamery, which highlights storytelling, literacy, Atlantic Canadian books, and writers. Visit her at shereefitch.com.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

ACCIDENTAL ARTIST

I never imagined being an artist. As a child it sounded silly, and as I grew older it just sounded haughty. Honestly, it still sounds a little haughty to me after all these years. Art and rug-hooking were not part of my life growing up; they were both things I grew into. When I was about thirteen or fourteen, I was in a group called the CYC: the Catholic Youth Committee. It was a funny little group; a bunch of teenagers would meet in the town hall without any adults leading us. We just looked after ourselves and planned our own little events. Amazing really. We were left to our own devices. That would never happen today.

One weekend we put on a talent show, and one of my childhood friends and I were the actors. We had to dress up as men, sit at a table, and have a beer. Her line was, "What are you working at?" Mine was, "I am an artist."

Then she said, "An artist, an artist, you're not an artist!"

I replied, "I am, I am indeed."

She said, "Well if you are an artist what do you draw?"

And then I delivered the punchline: "I am an artist ... I draws me unemployment."

This was rural Newfoundland in the late 1970s. We knew all about drawing unemployment and very little about drawing anything else.

There were no artists where I lived. The closest thing was Sister Sarah Beresford, the principal of our school, who used to walk out to the track by the local watershed to sketch and paint. Honestly, we all found it a bit odd. I remember people gossiping about it. But I also remember imagining what she was doing out there all alone on the track with her brushes and paints, and what her pictures might have looked like.

Sister Sarah was the first person I ever knew who made art of any kind. I was never friendly with her — she kept herself at a distance in her position as principal — but I did wonder about her. Sometime over the few years she was at our little Catholic school, she introduced art classes: they were held in a basement room with long tables and dark hardwood floors. I loved being in that basement with the dusty old floors and the late-afternoon sunlight floating down from the high windows. I loved the big, round, red pots of hardened watercolour paints and the endless reams of newsprint. To me it was one of the most beautiful places, that art room. I loved it there.

There in that basement was the first time I saw art supplies. Before that "art" to me was drawing in the extra pages of my father's paperback novels. I would go through his Zane Grey novels and tear out the extra blank pages at the beginning of the book. I would use them for drawing or sometimes to keep score for a game of cards. Unlined paper was at a premium; we just never had any. There was no stack of bond paper to draw upon, no thick creamy-papered sketchbooks — just our lined Hilroy notebooks for school.

I would also pore through my older sisters' discarded textbooks and see that they, too, drew in the margins or on the extra pages. Mostly they drew women's faces and dresses. I was a lot younger than my sisters, so I would look at these little sketches in their high-school texts and try to draw like that. My older sisters were probably the first artistic influences I had.

That was the extent of art I saw in rural Newfoundland. I never in the world imagined that I would ever be an artist. In fact it seemed utterly impossible.

Then again: it's not like I was pining to become an artist. Even as a young woman, I never considered art school. The thought just never occurred to me. I imagined a job of some kind, of course, but that was all I ever wanted: a job that would allow me to look after myself. I dreamed of owning a house, having a car, and being a professional of some sort. I was always worried about being able to pay the bills, even as a young child. I watched my mother struggle at times to make ends meet and never wanted that. I wanted extra money at the end of my paycheque and I wanted security. It never occurred to me that you could be an artist and have that. It was a long time after I started hooking rugs that I even considered myself "an artist."

Sometimes I would roll that word around in my head, and honestly I just thought it sounded pretentious. Somewhere along the way I came to the idea that it was more important to act like an artist than it was to actually be one. I just figured if I started acting like an artist — that is: making stuff, going to galleries, reading about art, all the things I imagined artists do — that it might be more useful than wondering whether I was one or not.

I remember visiting John Neville, a really good artist whom I have a lot of respect for. He lived in Halls Harbour, Nova Scotia, for years and operated a studio with his wife, Joyce. One afternoon I was in their studio looking at John's work when he walked in, and it was only through the conversation he was having with his wife that I figured out he was the artist. He was so unassuming. There was no beret, I can tell you that. John was plainly dressed, and looked like he might work part-time in a hardware store. That visit, along with many others to working artists throughout Nova Scotia, helped clarify for me that most artists are head-down, hardworking people. Most are not the stereotypical divas we have been taught to believe they are. They are worker bees, compelled to make stuff.

I figured I could be that. I loved to make rugs. The biggest thing about being an artist is making, whether it's hooking rugs, painting, or writing songs. You gotta do the work. So I got to be an artist by acting like one, and by making my rugs. I just did the things I imagined artists doing. I read about them. I studied the work of artists I admired. I went to galleries. I bought art. I immersed myself in a world of art. But most importantly, I tried to make rugs that were unmistakably art. Once I decided I was one, I worked every day at being an artist.

I can hardly believe I have done this for more than twenty-five years. At my best guess, I have made a couple thousand rugs. I have had the grace of a life of making something beautiful. It was never what I set out to do, but once I started hooking rugs it just happened. I could not stop it.

I went to the frame every day with that hook in my hand and pulled loop after loop until I became an artist. As magical as it seems to look back upon it, it really was more of a practical transformation. There was no magic dust sprinkled on me, unless you count being blessed with desire and the willingness to do it.

I simply made rugs, and eventually those rugs became art, and because of that I am an artist.

CHAPTER 2

BEAUTY EVERYWHERE

The first time I came to Cumberland County I was twelve years old, going into grade seven. We rode over on the Ambrose Shea ferry. I remember helping my mother pack a lunch for the eighteen-hour ride but being too seasick on the Shea to enjoy the Ritz crackers and egg salad sandwiches on my mother's homemade bread.

We drove from Sydney to Amherst and I got lost in the lush green fields. It was the first time I had left Newfoundland, that hard and strong terrace of rock where I belonged. This was something different, this soft plush earth that could grow corn and cucumbers and beans. It was like the land itself was blessed. Very few people at home — with the exception of Leo Smith who lived up the hill from us — could grow anything except turnip and cabbage.

These two landscapes of my childhood are so different, yet each have a terrific beauty. I love them both, and I want others to love them too — to see them as I see them.

I love it here in Cumberland County, this unspoiled, undeveloped, unrecognized triangle of land barely hanging on to the rest of Canada by the Chignecto Isthmus. It's divided from the rest of Nova Scotia by a toll highway called the Cobequid Pass; the only toll in Nova Scotia. Why are we so special, you might ask, that we charge to get here? We are rural. Beautifully so.

Things slow down once you cross the Pass. A sparseness comes upon you that makes you sensitive to the landscape around you. There are fewer houses, more trees ... and then of course there are those crimson blueberry fields that compel you to pay attention. This county is a work of art.

I say all the time how beautiful it is here. It's like I am trying to convince people. Like I want to own their eyes so they can see it the way I see it. I sometimes wonder why. Why do I care? Why do I want others to believe what I believe, to see what I see?

Well, I suppose it might be because I am an artist in the first place. That is what we are like. We are bound and determined to show what the world is like through our eyes, through our words, through our song. We have this infinite desire to show others how we see it. I don't understand it, that desire. It is just something that wells up inside of me and starts pouring out. Gushing even. Sometimes.

Is it just ego? Well, maybe. I have enough of that. I am always a little disappointed when I am introduced to someone and they do not recognize my name. I am a little embarrassed to tell you that. That is definitely my ego. (Artists are famous for it, after all.) But I have to believe that this desire is more than just ego. Surely it is about more than myself. Surely the spirit enters at this stage and says, "Share what you see, dear, 'cause it's lovely." Surely it is more than ego.

I just feel like in my heart I contain all this beauty and I have to let it out. I have this uncontrollable desire to share the way I see it. Call it passion. Call it wonder. Call it whatever you like. If I did not have it I could never be an artist. See, something happens to me when I am out looking at the world.

Like today, I was out on the Bay of Fundy and I looked at the West Bay Cliff Formation off of Parrsboro and it turned into a hooked rug before my eyes. That is magic. The stone turned into strands of mauve, taupe, and brown wool cloth, all dyed to perfection. The scrubby old pine and spruce hanging on to its top turned into fleece. Honest to Jesus, it did. Imagine! Me just sitting there on a zodiac and parts of the world are turning into this woolen fairyland right before my eyes. The stone is just a bunch of hit-and-miss brown wool lined up to meet the fifty-foot tide below.

See, when the world changes itself in front of you it begs you to speak about it. It is too strong to hold in. You are compelled to turn that magic into something tangible. You need to let it out. Big old tears well up in your eyes and sometimes you gasp out loud because inspiration has struck again. And that inspiration, well, she's a tricky thing. She comes and goes whenever she likes, like she owns the place. You cannot hold on to it unless you jot it down, or draw it on a scrap of paper — and even then, it is just a whisper of what you felt in the moment.

And there you are: on the boat, glad the engine is loud and you have your sunglasses on so the people you're with don't think there's something wrong with you as a tear slides down your cheek.

CHAPTER 3

MAKING, SIMPLY MAKING

Before I was an artist, I imagined what it might be like. I imagined a person happily sequestered, writing or painting all day. I thought of them attending gallery openings and book launches. I really saw them as someone special. I never imagined that launches and parties only took up a few hours each year. I never thought of the mundane. In my mind, artists lived as they are portrayed on television: a special class of people with berets and cigarette holders. I think it is common to have romantic notions about the creative life. Most people believe it is something separate; there is an allure of mystery to it.

Once and for all, I would like to clear up the allure and solve the mystery: the life of an artist includes getting groceries. It includes cleaning up the messes they are constantly making. It is a life of repetition, of doing the same things over and over again. I think you have to have a special appreciation of the mundane in order to be an artist. You have to really value the simple repetitive tasks that are involved in making what you like to make. It is about creating things that once did not exist, whether that is a hooked rug, a song, a story, a dance, a painting, or numerous other things. Being an artist is about making things.

Most successful artists I know are good at making things. They use their imagination. They are curious. They are inspired. But mostly they make stuff. They work. They show up at the computer, the rug frame, the easel, the guitar, and they sit and try their best. Because they do that most days, every once in a while sparks fly. When these sparks fire, two ideas are tied together and something new appears. The artist gets this idea in their head and they run with it as fast as they can, as far as they can. That is, of course, if they have time. Making things takes lots of time.

Either way, the big idea only showed up because they did.

When you are an artist you carry your ideas around with you all the time. Sometimes they are just old ideas waiting to meet something new. Sometimes they are two ideas that have just met and are still getting to know each other. Ideas are your currency. You know how important they are. You record them; you save them; you value them.

Personally, I go around all the time searching for new ideas and hoping the old ones in my head meet something new. And they do. Sometimes when I least expect it. I know one thing: creative ideas rarely collide when I am looking over my studio financial statements. They require space, and ambiance. They happen when I am out walking alone, or riding my bike, or making a pie. They happen when I see something new or hear a song I've never heard before. They happen when I close my eyes and listen to the sound of a single fiddle, or go for a walk along the shore. They could happen almost anywhere but they don't much happen at the grocery store, or when I am doing the wash, or meeting with the accountant. But I have to show up for those things, too.

You see, being an artist is a blessed thing but it doesn't make you an exception. It doesn't make you an angel. It is not like in the movies where you walk in the room with a swoosh and someone brings you a cocktail. You have to show up day after day, not just to paint or hook or write, but for all the mundane things in between too. All those routine tasks allow you to know the value of the moment, and the beauty of the time you have to make. I always feel that doing all those little things makes me appreciate the time I have to hook.

Being an artist has given me a simple definition for artists: artists make stuff inspired by their own ideas. There is no great mystery. They are the makers, the idea people, and they show up day after day to turn their ideas into reality.

CHAPTER 4

SHOWING UP

Sometimes I come to the frame feeling a bit pathetic. It is as if I have nothing new to offer it. I have no idea what to hook. In fact I feel like I have already hooked everything I could imagine. This can go on for a while, maybe through several rugs. It can last for weeks. It does not have anything much to do with how I feel as a whole, it's more about my ideas for my art. At these times I wonder if something new will ever come. I make

simple things, but I still make. I hook studio patterns that I made long ago or create big old floor rugs. I hook hit-and-miss designs until something strikes me. The important thing is that I hook. Whatever I make does not matter; I just need to hook. I put my feelings aside and make a mat.

A long time ago an artist told me you just have to show up. You have to show up every day and do the work. It does not matter how you feel. It does not matter if you are inspired. If you show up, inspiration will too ... eventually.

After twenty-five years I have learned that the uninspired feeling goes away. Just as in life, you do not have the same zest day after day. Most of us feel a certain level of malaise at times. We find ourselves yearning for something, but we don't know what. We feel there is a hole, an absence of some sort. It is not necessarily depression, just the human condition. I use "we" because it would be too difficult to believe I was alone in this feeling. I know I am not. There are a lucky few of you who have no idea what I mean, but I think there are enough of you who do. We of the human condition sometimes want something, but have no idea what. We feel a sadness for some unexplained reason. We struggle through.

When I feel that sense of melancholic longing come over me, I just try to remember that it will pass. Because it does. It goes away most of the time without me ever knowing how it came or why it lifted. Feelings, even the most intense, do not hold the same intensity forever. When I am sad I try to remember that I won't always be sad. When I am happy I try to savour it, knowing that it too is just temporary. That uninspired feeling, it will go away. I carry this back into my work. I won't always be showing up at the frame without an idea, I remind myself. Ideas will come.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Making a Life"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Deanne Fitzpatrick.
Excerpted by permission of Nimbus Publishing Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

SECTION ONE ON MAKING RUGS

Accidental Artist

Beauty Everywhere

Making, Simply Making

Showing Up

Tide and Time

Style Is the Thing You Call Your Own

Ride the Waves

Rug Frame

Walk Away

On the Bicycle Again

Hard Not to Compare

Quarter and a Penny

Meet Me

So Many Good Ideas

One Out of Ten

Waiting for the Muse

Maker, Maker


SECTION TWO ON MAKING A LIFE

Becoming Yourself

Keep On Keeping On

Art is a Love Story

Newfoundland or Disneyland?

We Know it When We See it

Enough

Kin

The Little Cottage

The Good in People

The Stories We Tell

Everyday Fairy Tales

Accordion Dreams

The Power of Handwork

Conclusion

Acknowledgements