the hankie project

Opening at Upstairs at the Napier Gallery- Melbourne

2011-08-04T18:24:00.000-07:00

The Hankie Project opened last night at the Upstairs at the Napier Gallery in Melbourne. Was wonderful and humbling to have the Melbournians embrace the exhibition with such warmth and love. The show has been blogged about this morning and you can read that post on http://fitzroyflasher.blogspot.com Beautiful heartfelt words that have been repeated by many who attended the show.I will post some photos and video from the opening in the next few days. Meanwhile here is a transcript of the opening presented by my sister Virginia Barratt The Hankie Project
August 4th
6pm – 8pm
Upstairs at the Napier

Hi, I’m Virginia Barratt

Welcome to this event and first I’d like to I would like to acknowledge and pay respect to the traditional owners of the land on which we meet tonight, the Wurundjeri people.

This exhibition is part of a large evolving work by Julie Barratt, borne out of a death (our father’s), and an object (Dad’s handkerchief), which “stood in” for him became him, after his death. My father is (not) a handkerchief.

The larger project explores the way we make meaning out of death and grief; and the governance and control around expressions of grief in our culture. Attachment to the dead, oppression of the bereaved, mis/understandings of death, shame around grief and compliance to social rules around the expression of grief are areas for exploration in this project and beyond.

At the declaration of death, the body becomes part of an institutionalised process, regulated, clinically handled, bureaucratised and mediated via medical, psychological and behavioural, religious and cultural narratives and practises.

Upon viewing my dad post-autopsy, I was hypersensitive to the governance of his cadaver. I wrote at the time:

it's very hard to give a name to or recognise what it is i am feeling about his absence. i just know that death is a hard thing to *know*. a concept i can't hold onto at all in my mind, not like denial, just... slippery, elusive... i know he's not here, but that's all i know, even after seeing him in the mortuary. i think it's because the institutionalised nature of death would have you believe that he's "at peace" or just sleeping or something. you can't get near to the death part cos there's so many layers of convention and regulation and institutionalisation between me and my dead dad. the ravages of death and the indignities of autopsy are all hidden by the white sheet of invisibility. the no-death of death. the "he's at peace" from the social worker guy at the mortuary. he was never peaceful in life and i don't think i ever saw my dad asleep! so the sleeping peace of death is a funny strange lie to my eyes...

This exhibition specifically explores the idea of the transitional object and its role in the death process. In this case, Julie formed an attachment to the absent father through a simple object, but one which had become symbolic of our father when he walked the earth. He always had a handkerchief in his pocket. In earlier days this handkerchief was often embroidered in the corner with an R for Roger. Mum would iron the hankie. Dad would put it in his pocket. Later, the hankies became more generic and Mum got over ironing smalls. But the connection had been made. My father is (not) a hankie.

And it’s a common transitional object, it seems. Many other people carry, in memoriam, hankies in breast pockets, in wallets, in notebooks, pinned to their clothes, or closeby, in bedside table drawers, stuck behind photos of loved ones...

mens hankies with blue or brown borders, large. small lace hankies, delicate. cheap hankies, functional. hand-stitched and embroidered. plain. packets of six. unfurled in pockets they are handled and handled, like worry beads, like blankies. they are imbued with the mucosal expectorations of their owners. they are stiff with salt. they sop up. they stem the abject overflow.

This work is immediate and raw, and needs its own hankie to sop up the overflow. the stories are important and they flesh out the theory.

I have something to read which I wrote the day after my dad died.

my dad died today.
his head met the cement, blood pooling and drying, and there he lay, fighting his life.
there was a nice lady (salty from her tourist day) with towels all red
and old mate from the boats, max i think,
saying "c'mon you old bastard, do what you do best, don't give up!"
my sister was with him. he called out her name.
"get these people away!"
and "nonononononononono!"
the ambos had to restrain him cos he wouldn't have the oxygen on his face

he didn't want life at
any
cost.

it feels empty. or like endless waiting. or like a breath held. this life without him.

i search for his energetic other.
i wish he would visit.
i try to reach him through the photo on the wall.
it's a great photo -
dad looking at a seal on a rocky outcrop
the seal looking back at him
each regarding the other, dad with the everpresent cigarette (until 70 at any rate).
it's like he might find there the answer to the question that has been bugging him for his whole entire damned life...

dad loved rocks.
francesca sent me a message last night:
"he's eternal" she said
"like the rock walls he built."
dry stone walls forever, from his cotswolds days
see the long lines of them
loping across across english fields.

see my dad, a small baby in his arms, perched on just such a wall
another country, another time.

see the long lines of them reinvented
with extra sweat in the tropics.

there's nothing beauteous about these raw walls, but they are so very beautiful.
they're labors of necessity, these rough hewn levees,
built to retain life
and stave off death.

so there they are. eternity. entropy and my dad. facing off.
no backing down.
i inherited a bit of that from my dad.
cheating death was a point of honor with him.
he had no love for grace and age, and gracefully ageing.
would not accept. would not.

so the cement was something of a shock.

all day cakes arrive
behind tentative knocks on the door.
and things made with eggs
accompanied by faces twisted with sadness.

who are they?

the boat boys.
mr main roads.
the man who rowed across the bay for coffee every day.
the bartender.
the chemist.
the waitress.
the girls from reception.
the book keeper.
kids i do not recognise, calling him "grandad".

i feel like i didn't know my dad at all
and yet that i was the only one who knew him.

New Exhibition - The hankie Project

2011-07-01T21:46:00.000-07:00

The Hankie Project will open in Melbourne on the 4th August at 'Upstairs at the Napier' in Brunswick St. Very excited about this latest exhibition and especially to meet some of the Melbourne artists who have submitted work to the show. Still a couple of weeks to go if you would like to submit a work for this new exhibition

Floortalk Grafton Regional Gallery February.

2011-03-18T19:38:00.000-07:00

On a recent saturday I travelled to Grafton to present a floortalk alongside the Hanky Project Exhibition. It was wonderful to see the show hanging in a smaller, more intimate space and whilst all the pieces couldn't be shown I loved being in a small room surrounded by the hanky works. The works hung by tiny pegs strung across the room were reminiscent of prayer flags whilst the smaller pieces under glass in a cabinet took on a precious momento mori quality.
The grafton photographer who had rushed in to take some photos on her way to documenting the footy was still there at the end of the talk and on looking quite teary was invited to tell her story! She took a very scrunched hanky out of her pocket which had belonged to her father. He had also been a photographer. She used his hanky every time she went on an assignment to clean her camera lens and had been doing so since his death some years before.
A local grief councillor also spoke about grief, in particular men's grief. Interesting morning all round!

Artist Talk - Grafton Regional Gallery Sat 12th feb

2011-02-11T02:02:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow barratt galleries director Julie Barratt will give a floortalk of The Hankie Project which opened at Grafton Regional Gallery last week. Julie will give an overview of the project before introducing the works and talking about specific pieces in the exhibition. Thanks again to everyone that contributed to the project.

Second exhibition for the Hanky Project - Grafton regional gallery

2011-01-24T07:07:00.000-08:00

The second exhibition for the hankie project will open at grafton regional gallery on the 26th January. There will also be a public program alongside the exhibition and I will post more details as they come to hand. This second exhibition in a major regional gallery is very exciting and I look forward to hearing feedback from anyone who is able t o attend the opening as I am currently in kathmandu.

2010-10-27T16:18:00.001-07:00

Amazing interview with Bill Viola. Particularly the japanese death peoms and Viola'a views on death.

Lachrymal Lakes - a book of tears

2010-10-22T19:24:00.000-07:00

A new collaborative hanky book work. Design, concept and images by Julie Barratt, text by Virginia Barratt and book binding by Monica Oppen.
Techniques employed in the work include monoprints, typewritten text using an Olivetti typewriter, shellac and hand stamped lettering

Catalogue at last!!

2010-08-24T22:13:00.000-07:00

The catalogue is now available on DVD for $10.00. Thank you so much to Carolyne Lewis for her wonderful work in designing this beautiful catalogue full of lovely photos and stories. A wonderful compilation to keep as a memento of the show. Please email me at the gallery for your copy and I can send it out to you.

Catalogue update

2010-08-04T05:49:00.000-07:00

Just checking in to say that the catalogue is getting close to being cpmplete and hopefully will be available o DVD next week. Much bigger task than was frist anticipated but we wanted to do it well so it will be worth the wait!!

Catalogue available on DVD

2010-07-11T01:32:00.000-07:00

Designer Carolynne lewis has produced a beautiful catalogue on DVD which will be available next week for $10. Money raised will help with further touring of the exhibition.
To order a copy email me at the gallery on info@barrattgalleries.com.au.

Installed work at barratt galleries

2010-06-26T03:07:00.001-07:00

Media Release from the opening at barratt galleries 18th June

2010-06-26T03:04:00.000-07:00

BARRATT GALLERIES.
HANKY PROJECT OPENING 18-6-10.
EXHIBITION DURATION 18-6-10 TO 23-7-10

Contact: Julie Barratt.
Email: info@barrattgalleries.com.au
Mailing Address: 5 Bugden Ave
Alstonville NSW 2478 Australia
Phone: 02 66280297

By Vaughn Pinxit, opening night MC.

On Friday the 18th June the Hanky Project was opened by Kaley Morrisey from Arts Northern Rivers. Dr Andrew Binns officially acknowledged the local indigenous community and discussed grief and the importance of grieving. Poetry readings were given by Dr Moya Costello, Angela Gardner and Virginia Barratt.

Julie has currently, this year, completed her first semester of the visual arts Honours Degree at SCU. I myself am a fellow Honours student with Julie, and looking back in retrospect am amazed at Julie’s handling of her workload – running the gallery, completing Honours work and assignments, concurrently coordinating the Hanky Project and as well as being a mother to 3 musical bachelors.

I would like to briefly share, ‘my’ interpretation and critique of this unique collaborative art project.

‘From the flames the phoenix shall rise’.
And so it is within the foundation of this myth that Julie has undertaken this metaphor to create the collaborative art Hanky Project. This project is borne out of the sudden passing of the Barratt family’s father, Gordon Barratt, late in 2009. The Hanky became an object of Julie’s observation and a sign of her fathers commitment to accessorise his personal wardrobe and keep a Hanky with him at all times. Hence the use of the Hanky as a sign, medium, material, object, metaphor and ultimately an art piece, which was the initial criteria for the artists involved in the project.
The second criteria forming this project, was the exploration of grief associated with the passing of relatives, family and friends. Around us – we have the outcomes of artists research and explorations, personal narratives, acknowledgements of respects, outpourings of emotions and heartfelt love for our dearly departed. Never have I seen, such sensitively inspired art-works in one exhibition. Diversity of skills include embroidery, printmaking, sculpture, altered form, to name a few. This exhibition, being a non-commercial show and represented as such during the call for works, has delivered a standard that is overwhelming.

The art-works totalling over 150, have arrived from the local area, across the State and Australia, New Zealand, Canada, England and Asia. Technology has played a part in this project by way of an online Blog, http://objectsofthedead.blogspot.com/
The Blog seemed to self generate a momentum that was unpredicted by Julie and hence the result of the Trans-Global participation of artists works.

The gold coin entry donations, orders for catalogue on CD’s, Jo Crockford Hanky’s and a future hard-copy printed catalogue book will fund touring of this exhibition to Regional Galleries.

The Hankie project - Barratt Galleries

2010-06-26T02:57:00.001-07:00

Hankie project opens today

2010-06-17T14:25:00.000-07:00

Well the opening day is here. The works are all hung, I will post some photos tomorrow.I will go in to the gallery now and clean and then figure out how to display 150 artist statements ??? Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated. Thanks to all the artists for your participation in this wonderful display of grief and loss. Love Juliexxx

Julie Barratt - Too Late

2010-06-17T14:21:00.001-07:00

Unique artist book

Julie Barratt - In Deepest Sympathy

2010-06-17T14:11:00.000-07:00

A Hankie book constructed of hankies filled with all the letters my mother received on my fathers death.

Taycee-Lea Jones - The Week of Downfall

2010-06-17T04:14:00.000-07:00

Limited edition artist book

It was the year of my HSC.
A mate and I began a project where we aimed to film 'a week in the life of the HSC'.
On the morning we were due to start filming I received a phone call that my granddad had died. I decided to continue filming as planned.
We filmed the lead-up to the funeral and after. After the funeral my brother and I were both given a set of hankies that belonged to my granddad.
They had his initials embroidered onto them.
When I dug them out of the cupboard recently I began to discuss with my brother all the things I remembered about granddad. He turned to me and said he remembered nothing but buying striped pants for the funeral and getting some hankies afterwards.
It seems that the hankies and the fragments of this film are all that remains of that time and all that exists as proof that one life affected another.
I could not bring myself to alter the hankies so I created this book as a record.
Not of a life, but as a document of how people respond to grief.
During filming I found it very hard to separate our intended project from everything else I was experiencing and feeling, so we filmed it all.

Here I present moments from the film; caught at random, distorted and reflected

Joanna Kambourian - What I am I owe to those who went before

2010-06-16T02:39:00.000-07:00

Silkscreen print on Grandma Lucy’s Hanky.

This hanky is from my grandmother’s apartment in nyc, in fact I think it is perhaps a cloth serviette?
Nonetheless, it is a domestic memento of my family and a reminder of my father and his mother who mourns him amidst bouts of dementia and senility at 98 years old.
The pattern is her wallpaper, which up to a year ago graced the walls of her apartment for close to 60 years and was the background to their lives.

Louise Weinberg

2010-06-12T13:59:00.000-07:00

"This is a photograph of my father, Sam, holding me when I am 2. He died in 1990, too young at 71. His untimely passing has influenced all of my work since then. There are so many questions I have to ask him still. His love is in me."

The Grand Opening of The Hankie Project - Barratt Galleries 18th June at 6pm

2010-06-11T21:40:00.000-07:00

Its June and the long awaited Hankie Project exhibition is opening at barratt galleries on the 18th at 6pm.

Six months ago I invited artists to submit a work on a handkerchief that responded in some way to death and grief. With over 100 works submitted from some 12 countries this exhibition has brought together an amazing array of work and collected stories.

You might need to bring a hankie! (or at least a tissue).

In the words of local participating artist Katka Adams "Grief can often be a very private lonely place, but by inviting every one in to share their stories and experiences by creating art work together, you have created a healing community.I have often felt that our culture and society is now missing a process or way of dealing with our grief. Every one is sort of left to do what ever they feel is right for them, but this can be confusing and difficult. Other cultures have strong traditions and customs which people follow and they feel they have dealt with the death of a loved one honourably and in the right way".

The image on the cover was submitted by the youngest participant - 4 year old Olli Shearman.

When: Opening Fri, 18th June at 6pm - Poetry and performance

Time: Gallery hours Wed to Sun 11am till 4pm

Cost: Gold coin donation

More Info: Call the gallery on (02) 6628 0297

This exhibition is dedicated to the memory of Gordon Roger Milner Barratt. Love you dad.

Gary Jolly

2010-06-10T17:54:00.000-07:00

Heather Matthew - Wrappings

2010-06-10T17:51:00.000-07:00

wrappings

inside the drawers of my childhood

everything was wrapped, even hankies

four squared folded and pressed

into embroidered envelopes

scented with soap and lavender

my first stitches were chains of colour

looping names onto hanky corners

my mother blanket stitched all things frayed

I wrap memories in cloth and paper

© 2010 Heather Matthew

Darren Bryant - The hanky Box Project

2010-06-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

The Hanky Project

Artist Statement

I am fortunate to have one my grandma’s hanky boxes. During the 2nd world war, she started making numerous small boxes from magazine paper and plastic film. Lovingly stitched and shaped together, the magazine paper had images of places and pattern of that period. The plastic film covering, which I think came from old x-rays gave the box strength and stability. Today, everyone in my immediate family have one of grandma’s hanky boxes.

The white hanky in this project is one of my grandma’s. I have screenprinted an image from the box of a model plane she and my grandfather gave me one Christmas as a child. I have made a box by folding one of my own linocut prints, paying homage to her box making craft.

One of my last memories of her, before she passed away, is her holding a white hanky.

Medium: screenprint on cotton hanky, linoblock on paper with paper clips.

Meredith Crowe - Sleep/Wake

2010-06-09T14:02:00.000-07:00

Medium: Digital Video Projection onto Handkerchief

Because I had just dreamt of you, when I first woke I couldn’t place the grief.

Robyn Sweaney - Words Unsaid

2010-06-09T02:43:00.001-07:00

For my father

Fiona Sykes

2010-06-09T02:35:00.000-07:00

when i heard that my dad had died the only word i could utter was:

Virginia Barratt - dna artist's tears

2010-06-08T14:20:00.000-07:00

fowler’s vacola preserving jar no. 31

my mum had an amazing garden when I was a child.

rhubarb, lots of rhubarb.

things preserved in fowler’s jars.

my dad had cows.

jerseys.

mum made butter from the cream.

i have a garden that aspires

i get up and milk my jersey cow at 6am every morning.

dad comes with me, and I make small talk.

about cows. there is a pleasure in this.

sometimes tears fall into the shiny shiny bucket filled with whiteness.

i have a fowler’s vacola.

I am living my parent’s life.

the jar is a symbol of the preservation of a lifestyle they gifted to me.

preservation

of

self

dna sealed away.

tears emanate from a places of mystery
and rain all over the garden of my life.

this piece is dedicated to my parents.
my father’s life, my mother’s sight. my mother’s light

Rhonda Fechtner

2010-06-05T14:48:00.000-07:00

"This beautifully made hanky from WW1 has an unknown life.Possibly bought by a soldier to send to his mother or girlfriend.Did he return home? Imagining stories related to this handkerchief I chose to depict imagery that represented the futility,hardships and grief particularly associated with that war."

Anna Dorrington

2010-06-05T14:46:00.001-07:00

I want my hankie to tell a story. It is the viewer's story that it
> tells. It is created so that the hankie can be taken out filled with their story and then be put away again. The gold signifies that it is a treasure to the person that holds this little trinket dear to their heart.

Frances Belle-Parker - RIP

2010-06-05T14:41:00.000-07:00

I lost two very important people in my life within six months of each other. They were my Nan who passed away at 80 years in December 2005 and in May 2006 my Father, who was only 57. Nan’s death shocked me the most; it was sudden and unexpected. My Father, was diagnosed with cancer 11 months prior to his death. We got to spend the last 3 months of his life by his side. He passed away early one morning surrounded by all his girls.

This work, made from second hand hankies plays homage to the true characters they both were. Dad was very masculine and serious, Nan was extremely gentle but also very strong. They were completely opposite but the one thing they had in common was their wisdom and the place they got to call home, Yaegl country.

I was very blessed to be close to both of them throughout my life. I will never forget them and the traits they have instilled in me.

May you Rest In Peace my Nanny Randall and my Dad.

Julie de Lorenzo

2010-06-05T14:13:00.001-07:00

Karen was three months older than me, my favourite and closest ‘crazy cuz’.
We lived over an hour away from each other so school holidays were set aside for a visit for a couple of weeks. One time at her place, the next at mine - always mischief and trouble together. She made me laugh like no-one else could. Her laugh was indescribable and it was so uniquely hers.
As kids we spent hours together drawing pictures, making cubby houses, exploring the creek and abandoned houses, making recordings of jokes, songs, anything on my new cassette recorder, watching movies. One time at her place, my Aunty drove us to the shops to stock up on chocolates and lollies, so we could eat them while we watched one of our favourite movies ‘Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’.
We wrote letters to each other between holidays and when one of hers arrived, her writing and little drawings were instantly recognizable.
At the end of 1985, we made a plan to travel around Australia. We couldn’t wait to turn eighteen, get our drivers license and be free.
The morning after the night of 10th April 1986, my brother came into my room with my mother and said, “Jule, I’ve got some bad news….Karen Ongarello was killed in a car accident last night”.
I remember too well the shock and finality of those words.
She was one of four passengers in a car, the drunk driver - the only survivor. She would have turned eighteen on 8th August.
I miss her like crazy sometimes, and can’t help wondering what she’d be doing now…my Crazy Cuz.

Christine Willcocks

2010-06-05T00:45:00.001-07:00

The image at the bottom is my father, Uncle and Grandfather ( all who have past away ) this packet of 3 hankies, was not unlike all those packets that were given to these men as gifts, sometimes they would be kept in drawers for years never open. One of these packets was given to me on my fathers death along with other items.
Oh the imagination or lack of it, I wonder what children give their dad these days.

Scott Trevelyan - Live hard, Ride fast, Die Free

2010-06-04T22:59:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends and I share the passion of motorcycle riding and it’s colourful culture. Over the past twenty-five years, I’ve lost a few good mates to motorcycle crashes. Even have my own experience of staring ‘the grim reaper’ in the face on one occasion. But thanks to my brother’s resuscitation efforts, I live to ride on.

Susan Gourley - Where are my slippers?

2010-06-04T22:52:00.000-07:00

Rubber Gumboots, Handkerchief, Discharged shotgun cartridge, Glass and Perspex

My grandfather (lovingly referred to as ‘poppy’) was once given a rabbit to prepare a meal with. He enjoyed it so much that he ventured out one afternoon to catch another. Unable to find the slippers that he wore religiously regardless of where he was going, he instead put on his big black gumboots. With shotgun in hand, it appears that he tripped and fell as he tried to manoeuvre through an old fence. We don’t know why the safety catch was off, but he never came home. The local newspaper heading was ‘Elderly man dies from shotgun blast to the head’. My mother subsequently inherited poppy’s car and some months later as she was cleaning it, she discovered a pair of slippers tucked neatly in a far corner of the boot. To this very day, some twenty five years later, my mother still has those same pair of slippers in the boot of her car...

Geraldine Connolly - My hanky is your hanky

2010-06-04T22:35:00.001-07:00

Four years ago genetic testing
On our blood samples confirmed
That Harold and I were
Brother and sister
He was 80 and I was 57
Fours weeks ago
My lovely brother died in his sleep
I know he would always have
Lent me his hanky……

Sylvia Taylor

2010-06-04T19:16:00.000-07:00

The day that Ben was born was the happiest day of my life. I remember sitting in bed with my newborn cradled in my lap. We looked into each other’s eyes and I remember thinking that I never knew a person could be this happy.
We called him Benjy when he was little. I kept a baby book for years documenting every milestone, every sweet and funny story. I had two more sons in the next few years and kept the baby books going for all of them. One of Ben’s baby book entries goes like this: Today Benjy announced that he was really good and really have (have rhyming with save). Took a moment to figure out “have” – I guess I must say “Hey you guys be good and behave” a lot!! “Have” (rhyming with save) is a new word for us now!!! All of my baby book entries sound SOOOOO EXCITED!!!!!!
A strange thing happened one day that I never forgot. I was sitting on a park bench watching my sons play and an old woman who I’m pretty sure was wearing a dark trench coat came up to me. She said one sentence. “These will be the happiest years of your life”, she said. I don’t know why but I answered, “I know”, and then she walked away. I guess if this was a book that scene would be the unmistakable foreshadowing part.
I have boxes of photographs documenting the childhood years. The boys loved animals, the woods and having adventures. They were like a little gang and Ben was the leader. Their collective energy seemed like way more than three boys. Ben went through a stage where he wrote his name on everything. You’d open a book and read “Ben was here” when you least expected it. B E N is carved into the side of the wooden dresser that was next to his bed.
As the story often goes, the teenage years were rough. Ben was head strong and a pusher of boundaries. Had he survived, those qualities could have been quite beneficial in his life. Risk taking and boldness are qualities seen in people who do grand things. One day when Ben was seventeen he came home with a bruised face. He had been walking through a neighborhood where he saw a man beating a dog. He yelled “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” I was so upset with him for putting himself in danger, for trying to be a hero in an impossible situation. That was my Ben.
Ben died when he was seventeen. I found him. I did CPR for a long time. I remember looking up to see my sons watching. They looked so frail and ghostly. All of this happened twenty years ago but it seems… it feels much closer than that. Life goes on, but for us it is like the road was abruptly interrupted in June of 1990. It took time to find the path again and when we did the territory was utterly foreign.
Sometimes I lie in bed and touch my fingers to the letters carved into the wooden dresser B E N. For me, it is like a slipstream, a portal to the other side.

Sarah Harvey - Little Bird

2010-06-04T18:48:00.001-07:00

Artist: Sarah Harvey
Title: Little Bird
Medium: Embroidery on Tea Stained Hankie
Statement: A hanky is a reminder of another era, a delicate and yet practical accoutrement to any outfit. My grandmother Phoebe Ninette, who was a regular hanky carrier, recently passed away. The writing on the hanky is in French (a reference to her heritage) and means 'one fell off the perch', which is an idiom for death. The bird lying under the swing and ladder has a fragility, sadness and peace and reminds me of the pet budgies that old ladies had in their apartments.

Wendy Rolls - Torn and Frayed

2010-06-01T14:27:00.001-07:00

30 years late I mourn my mother.
The only thing I have of hers is a hankie.
It wraps my tarot deck that I consult in times of confusion.
The hankie that I have used is not hers – I couldn’t use that hankie.
It is a hankie I found, left behind by an unknown person, in a holiday house.
The making has stirred memories and feelings
Tears have fallen, wounds opened
Feeling torn / ripped apart
Loose threads left hanging
Unravelling
Messy

My way of healing is with Nature
Feathers / Birds
Salty tears / deep oceans of feelings
Interweaving the ripped pieces to make a whole
Of my life
My mum has gone – Now I am Mum.
I am the same age she was when she died.
I live, and I will die.
I have no daughter to mourn me.

Louise Gregg - Nanna's Camel train of thought

2010-06-01T04:31:00.001-07:00

Thinking of a hanky and its use of wiping eyes of grief, I reflect on the passing of my nanna in 2003 at the age of 92. My memory of her is not one of sadness but happiness. The happiness comes from a wonderful story she would tell to anyone at the home not just in words but in movement as well. The story was about riding a camel. No one in the family is quite sure where she thought she had ridden this camel and where she was riding it to, but the wonderful event was one she alone did have. I have made my hanky artwork in response to this small but sweet story of adventure and freedom and I carry this story with a smile on my own journey through the landscape of life.

Olli Shearman - Aged 4

2010-06-01T04:23:00.000-07:00

Text on Hankie: The boy who didn't know not to go in freezers.
The person who was very wrinkly and old died.
Extra: When I was creating my hankie, my four year old son became intrigued with what I was doing, he saw that I had another hankie and wanted to make one too. I explained to him that the hankie was about dying and death and this was his interpretation. In one of the pictures you can see the spirit of the dead person above the body.

Maureen Piggins - E

2010-05-31T15:33:00.000-07:00

"E"
unique artist book

photograph of my father, Erwin Hegenberg, credit unknown, circa 1948

Description:
3-panel folded and hand-sewn handkerchief, inkjet transfers, waxed string
closed: 5.5"w x 7.5"h; open 15"w x 7.5"h
$500 Cdn

My father, Erwin Hegenberg, died in 2005 from health complications related to vascular dementia. As time and memory became tangled and transient for him, I saw a person that was, and was not, my father – a brother who mistook me for a sister, a soldier who witnessed unspeakable acts, and a man who spent countless hours behind an office desk. The moments when he remained my dad were precious and tragic in their clarity, and brought close the mundane that we often treasure too late. His old, stained hankie (kept crumbled in a pocket and used with a sounding blast that always startled me from any corner of our small house) is a symbol of this – a piece of cloth that attains the relic status of grief, which time and acceptance can eventually transform back into a simple object.

The cover shows a drawing of my father during his illness, while a length of string encircles his monogram "E" – an act of remembrance, a tied piece of string around a finger, an attempt for him to maintain his identity and mine to remember it. The loose, tangled string alongside is an unravelling of this – a loss of memories and the premature loss of a loved one to dementia.

The text on the inside front cover refers to the sound that I can still hear, the forceful blow that always accompanied the use of the hankie. "A sound startling and stong..." The words face a photograph of my dad as a strong and confident young man in his prime. When fully open, the final text is revealed alongside another drawing of my father, this one faint and fleeting, like memory "... your mind stained in habit even as you forget me." Unravelled string snakes in and around the words and image. The verse recalls the habits that often remain during dementia – the daily, repeated actions of living – while loved ones and time are forgotten.

Sylvia Taylor

2010-05-31T15:28:00.001-07:00

Donna Sharam - A Hankie for Dad

2010-05-31T15:14:00.000-07:00

Alexander Walter Sharam (18.3.1935 – 10.3.2009)

It is not until you have a child of your own that you realize what your parents have done for you or even the depth of their love for you. My father didn’t teach me how to drive, he didn’t teach me to cook, he didn’t even give me the sex talk. What I learnt from my Father was through the example he set in his own life. I learnt about integrity, honesty, generosity and concern for others. These are the things I hope to pass on to my three sons. If people were ever to say of my boys – they are just like their Grandfather - then I will be very very proud.

Denise Rall

2010-05-31T15:11:00.000-07:00

Denise lost her grandmother, Jennie Mae Rall, in 1999. But the loss is still felt every day. At 16 years of age, Jennie Mae saw some women marching for the vote in her small town in Arkansas, and her mother said, "Those women are right!" Jennie Mae never forgot the power of women acquiring the vote in the United States. She campaigned tirelessly after the age of 50 for women's rights, African American rights, and the rights of farmworkers in California (the campaign of Ceasar Chavez). She was proudest of her opportunity to serve as a delegate to International Women's Day in Mexico City, Mexico in 1990. At age 65, she campaigned for the rights of senior citizens through the group, the Gray Panthers.

We met immediately before I migrated to Australia. Sadly, in 1999, I returned to the US for her memorial service. At her service, I said, "while I miss Jennie Mae Rall, my grandmother, the under privileged of the world miss her even more." The UN, the League of Women Voters, and many others were recipients of her funds and her volunteer work. So at her death at 89 years, she held membership in 25-30 separate organizations, each championing the right to be heard. The world still needs her, and women like her, today.

Kate Stead - Where's Mum

2010-05-27T00:31:00.001-07:00

Remembering how I was sent off to school with a hanky pinned to my uniform every day makes me very sad for that little girl who felt like her world had come to an end when she came home from school to find her mother being taken off to hospital in a coma. Mum pulled through, but she was away long enough to make me feel like my childhood had come to an end. Pinning my own hanky to my uniform in the mornings was an awful reminder of her absence.

Katka Adams

2010-05-27T00:22:00.001-07:00

My mother died suddenly from a heart attack aged 64. The arteries leading to her heart were completely blocked. I remember as a child first reading on a cigarette packet that smoking was a health hazard, in those days I used to get her cigarettes and I dramatically announced it was the last packet; I would ever buy.
With her cigarette came black coffee…her lifelong love of coffee inspired me to use the Turkish proverb about it “ black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love…” the words seem to reflect her bittersweet life.

While working on my hankie, I realized that I was remembering not only my mother’s life but also my grandmother and great-grandmother’s. The three women were very close and had much in common.
All were Catholic, had very little but loved and cared for their families taking great pride in cooking, sewing and cleaning. They each had unfulfilled marriages and dreamed of a better life for their children.
I have wooden cooking spoons; buttons and embroidery passed down from one mother to the next and treasure these domestic icons.

The buttons sewn at the top come from this collection, the fabric buttons were made for doona covers
so they wouldn’t snap in the wringing press when washed. Here they symbolise snowflakes falling on my mother at her mother’s funeral in Prague.
The coffee spoon features the Glasshouse Mountains, a view my mother enjoyed from her garden.

Jan Hopkins - Comfort Me

2010-05-26T17:52:00.000-07:00

"Comfort Me" Ink on a vintage hankie. 2010.

One of the enduring memories of my late Grandma is of her hankie tin. Every time I went to visit, she would send me to fetch it from the airing cupboard that smelled of household soap and burning coal. She would allow me to choose a hankie from the tin or sometimes she would have saved one especially for me. It was an affectionate and comforting ritual that never lost its charm. It carried on long after I'd stopped using hankies and only ended when Grandma was too ill to even remember there was such a thing as a hankie.

They weren't new hankies mind you. Grandma would pick them up from the pavement, the gutter, wherever she found them, bring them home, boil wash them and press them into clean little rectangles. Waste not, want not was her motto.

On a personal level, hankies represent caring and comfort and little shows of affection. Here, I used a vintage hankie that once belonged to a stranger in the same way my Grandma's hankies had. The hankie may bear the stains of others' pains and grieving, almost a palimpsest of pain, and I just added my own. It describes my overwhelming sense of dread in the face of the reality of death.

Brendan McCumstie - The Black Hankie

2010-05-26T02:33:00.000-07:00

I guess i don't really have much now.
To say.
What is there to say.
About grief.
Except that we all experience it.
Differently.

Susan Shulman - Gone Fishing II

2010-05-24T13:44:00.000-07:00

My dad BEN SHULMAN was not a Hankie man! But, my amazing 93-year-old mom found a few for me to use. I thought about what I would do. I thought about making the shapes of fish out of them and photographing them. But, I do not do sculpture. I thought about making a collage with fish hooks but I do not do assemblage, I also thought about doing a collage, but that did not feel right either. So, I chose to treat it like a painting. It is mixed media: Oil sticks, conté, pastels, pens, pencils, markers and charcoal. A mix of those magical tools I love. Extensions of my soul, expressing my love for my dad

In this work you see my dad as a fish wearing his beloved fishing hat. He loved fishing and I loved to go fishing with him in the middle of the lakes and rivers. Fish are my creative alphabet. My mantra. So, it is only fitting that he be one with fish. And, in this sea of brilliant colour, he is surrounded by schools of loving and colourful creatures from all dimensions and universes. Below him is the ocean. And above him is the music to “MY YIDDISHE MOMMA”. My father loved music and all styles but thought this would be the perfect song for this voyages.

THIS IS THE TALE I WOULD LIKE TO SHARE.
My father was not religious but a was a very spiritual man. He had visions throughout his life. He would dream and always saw his Father, his Mother and his brother Oliver He shared these experiences with me.

He was a man's man. A big strong warrior who was invincible named Dad.
He grew up at the age of 12 when his mother passed away. When his mother was brought home from the hospital after dying from childbirth, his father told him to grab his mother's feet. My grandfather told my father that by doing this he would never fear death or anything for that matter again. A story he was proud to tell me many times throughout the years. At the age of 14 he started to work to help support his father and two older sisters. A street smart tough guy who worked with his father in the plumbing business and later took it over. He was always there 24/7 for his customers.

His hobbies were wrestling, bowling, fishing, card playing, cooking and he loved to sing and dance.
He was the most powerful man I knew. My first memory of my father was he carrying me on his broad and muscular shoulders. His hands were so large that I thought he could carry the world like Atlas. We had a country place in Joliette when I was young. Not only would he unpack all the belongings from the city, connect the pipes for the water after the long winter, chop the wood for the stove because the nights were very cold but also prepare his rods to go fishing all in the first day. Then with enthusiasm run down the steep red sand cliffs to the river with all his equipment in hand, catch many fish, run back up the incline to then clean and prepare them. The best fried perch and rock bass one could ever eat.
He would climb mountains to pick blueberries with me on his shoulders to protect me from the poison ivy. This was a recurring theme and later on in my life he continued to shoulder me with his love, support and encouragement in all my endeavors especially my art.
He was a tough, independent and just man who always came to the rescue of all.

When his mind started to go in 2007 he was upset and angry. This was absolute torture to an independent man who drove a car, paid his bills on time, shopped and cooked the best gourmet meals for his wife and family. The pain he went through when he knew something was not going right in his head was heartbreaking.

I watched my father fight for 7 months at the hospital daily. He did not want to forget, he did not want to be drugged up, and he did not want to be manhandled. He did not want to be treated like a mixed up person. He did not want to be treated like a second rate citizen. And, he did not want to be treated without dignity and respect. He fought for that every day he was there. I fought for him as well. It was the only time in my life I had to shoulder him. All he wanted was to go home. It was not to be. My father tried to live life to its fullest until his body started to retire from a bacteria gifted to him.

When he passed away at 3:45 PM Sunday March 30 I was the only one left in the room. My mother and brother who had also spent seven months caring for my father every day had left. So did my aunt and for some odd reason even the evening sitter was out of the room at that time too. Even the nurses and doctors making rounds were at the other end of the hall. My father took three huge breaths like a newborn baby arriving to this world except my father was leaving to return to source.

And, yes the gift he gave me was that I was privileged to hold his feet as he had planned! And as his father had previously revealed to him, my father was now empowering me to never fear death or anything else again. That was his final legacy to shoulder me for my future. When I told the story about his how he held the feet of his mother to my family, they looked blankly at me. This tale he shared with me many times over the years, was only told to me! My destiny. .
And, now, he is finally reunited in the sea of peace and love with his YIDDISHE MOMMA!

I have his spirit and passion for life illuminated in my heart forever. I will always be able to talk to him because now he is part of the infinite universe and all its molecular structure.

Rebecca O'Connell - Dear Mummy

2010-05-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

There's a hole in my heart,
Dear Mummy,
Dear Mummy,
There's a hole in my heart,
Dear Mummy, dear me.

Then fix it,
Dear Becky,
Dear Becky,
Dear Becky,
Then fix it,
Dear Becky,
Dear Becky, dear me.

But how?
Dear Mummy,
Dear Mummy,
Dear Mummy,
But how?
Dear Mummy
Dear Mummy, dear me.

Enid Taylor

2010-05-21T19:08:00.000-07:00

Thursday 20th. May 2010.

Today, 37 years ago my Father died.
Sadly on the 6th May this year during the time in which I embroidered this piece my Mother passed away.

Patricia Sahertian - Fifty years

2010-05-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

fifty years ago, through the eyes of a six year old child, i see my grandma, rosena mclarnon. to me she was pretty and kind. and from what i remember she could tell a great story.

she came from ireland, to canada and then to brooklyn, new york. i remember her when she and my grandpa lived on greenway circle in syosset, long island.

we took the subway, then the railroad out from "the city" to visit. sometimes we had to change tracks in jamaica and instead of going up and down the stairs to the next platform, my dad would grab our hands and run through a waiting train to get across. it was scary and exhilarating all at the same time. on the train you could pull the backs of the green leather seats back and forth so my brother and i sat across from our parents and watched out the window on our ride to "the island". the conductor would shout out the names of the towns along the route, holding out the first syllable of each one: miiiiinnnn-eola, hiiiicks-ville, syyyyyy-osset. it was an adventure.

my grandma was a smoker. it didn't seem unusual then. she died in 1960, it was my first experience with death.

i can see her clearly, sitting on the couch in her living room, in a black and yellowish patterned house-dress, her skin was so white you could see the veins in her legs. there were louvers on the windows and the smoke drifted out. like my memory.

Mary Bogdan

2010-05-16T12:51:00.000-07:00

This triptych is a homage to my father, my father-in-law (both born in 1926 within three months of each other, and passed away in 2004 within three months of each other), and my first pet Pluto (Plutonium) who passed away in 2008 just a few months shy of 16 was born on my father’s birthday and cremated on my mother’s.

This piece, which hangs vertically, (my father at the top, my father-in-law at the center, and my Pluto at the bottom) incorporates items that symbolize who they were. At the center of each piece is real hair, mine (for my father), my husband's (for my father-in-law) and Pluto's.

Each of the three pieces is created on one of my father-in-law's used handkerchiefs (courtesy of my mother-in-law Sylvia) and cross-stitch fabric, stitched together with needlepoint threads, and covered with organza fabric. The threads hang from one piece into another, as a connection or bonding or symbolizing the threads of life.

There is a veil-like quality to them, a kind of melting together of objects and ideas. I believe that these three souls were connected even if only in their connection to us. But their deaths touched us so much and so deeply and in our grief we were expanded to something more, something deeper... or perhaps just a deeper understanding of the experience of loss… of life... and death... and they gave us a new beginning.

I still feel my father's hand on my shoulder, guiding me and grounding me… feeling a full sense of him (even if I didn't feel it while he was alive.)

My Pluto sits in our home still (in a beautiful blue and white porcelain vase), and whenever I hold her close to my heart, she vibrates her love and her essence to me.

Thank you, Alojz, Yechiel and Pluto for adding such a fullness to my life, even in your death.

....................................................

"Alojz" My Father: my hair (at center), dress patterns, tools, piece of cloth from man's suit, button, german, bible, slovenian, white cord from large spool, lesters saucisses fumees wrapper, wine bottle cork foil, fortune-cookie fortune: "nature, time and patience are the three great physicians"

11"w x 13.5"h

"Yechiel" My Father-In-Law: my husband's hair (at center), music, german, aldo shoe wrapper, brail, large print readers digest, hebrew old testament, kepa skull cap, lace female head covering (kepa), fortune-cookie fortune: "if your desires are not extravagant, they will be granted"

16"w x 17.5"h

"Pluto" My First Pet: my dog's hair (at center), tim hortons sandwich wrapper, used medical gauze, mesh onion bag, rabies vaccination heart tag, vaccination certificates 2004 & 2005, safety pin, checkerboard sandwich wrapper, hair from Satchi Sasquatch (our pet cat) and Halle Bop (our pet dog), fortune-cookie fortune: "you get what you want through your charm and personality"

11"w x 12.5"h

Mary Bogdan, Triptych, mixed media assemblage with handkerchiefs, 2010. Total height approx 46 inches (not including the hanging threads at bottom).

Sara Twigg-Patterson

2010-05-15T19:21:00.000-07:00

Hankies softened to comfort
Capture tears.
Lack containment of collective emotions,
Slipping through noticed,
Not always understood.

There are the tears,
The deconstructive emotions,
Bearing the burden.
Wired, numb, immobilised.

The initials of the possessor,
He is beside me day and night,
In the shadows,
Crossing my path, cowering, waiting,
Always the opportunist.

Stitched with childhood freedom,
Acceptance, warts, and all.

Rochelle Summerfield - Yours truly

2010-05-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

Photoetching with handcolour and wrapped in scarf with hatpin, 2010

It was in my beloved aunt’s passing and the family ritual of packing up her belongings that provoked memories of her and her stories, other losses in my life, thoughts on the transience of being and the history and memories embedded in the objects remaining.
I wrapped one of my aunt’s scarves around a photoetching. Every day she wore a scarf right to the end of her long life. The photo in the etching is of my aunt in that classic pose that a man often takes of his loving girlfriend leaning against his beloved car.... the wrapping and packing of this etching prolonged my fading memories by the ritual of making objects as part of my acts of remembering.

Vaughn Pinxit - Dad's hankie card for invisible tears

2010-05-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

Paper, fabric, carbon

When i was young, my father placed a hankie card into the top left pocket of his suit coat whenever he went out. I saw it as a symbol of his strength, as one who doesn't cry.
It wasn't talked about.
I guess I may use it when he dies.

Mandy Woodmansy - Bowl of tears

2010-05-15T17:12:00.000-07:00

The boy was beautiful, funny, caring, loving,
Wild, reckless, adventurous,
Spurned, outcast.
He whispered, “I wish you were my mother.”
Numbed then dead.
The mother clung to me, knowing, I knew, the treasure that was lost.
It felt like the saddest thing in the world.
Tears will dry.
Only the salt remains.

Hili's Tune - Sol Lang

2010-05-15T13:59:00.001-07:00

A tribute to my father, Yechiel (Hili) Lang.

This piece shows him in deep thought.

It was his last birthday and he knew it perhaps better than all of us - his family around him. We were all in denial while he was making himself ready for his next big adventure. He was well aware that the advanced cancer that took his lung has now travelled to his brain. There seemed to be no fear of death, rather deep contemplation and reflection.

The two mirror images are printed on two pieces of canvas and sewn together with coloured threads to form a pillow, filled with fibre stuffing to make it soft to the touch.

I used a handkerchief that belonged to my father as the surface on which I drew a composite image representing key subjects in his life.

Concentration camp fence
Violin and musical notes
Cobbler’s tools, nails and a shoe
Concert stage performance
Ship sailing into the distance
Five human silhouette figures (our family)

I tore the handkerchief into four pieces and attached each piece to the shaped pillow, each hanging at different distances from the pillow. These represent the varied distance in the past of each event as well as it’s importance as it diminishes due to the time passing.

I have also attached a small toy violin and a piece of genuine leather, both representing his two skills, violinist and cobbler, both of which saved him when the Soviet army liberated his camp and deported all unskilled prisoners back, into the cold deep east of Russia.

Belinda Saliba

2010-05-15T04:46:00.001-07:00

For almost 3 days I tried many ways to assemble my Nana's hankie in a way that would remind me of her. I gathered pieces of material, buttons and thread in colours that she liked and attempted to make landscapes. Nana loved to be in the garden. I miss Nana the most and when attending her funeral I was speechless. I could not utter one word when asked to stand and express a poem. I could see Nana in her coffin and I could not stop thinking that Nana is not there, Nana is missing.

My Grandfather past away about 18 months before Nana. The following Christmas after my Grandfather past away, Nana gave me a photo of him, the best Christmas present ever. Nana is also in the photo but in the background and I have placed this photo in a frame with my Grandfathers favourite colour. I will treasure this photo forever.

The hankie has been dyed in a cup of tea. When visiting Nana, we always had a pot of tea and sat around the dining table drinking our cups of tea. I have not had the courage yet to display a photo of Nana on her own in a picture frame. I miss Nana the most and I miss having cups of tea with her. Nana is missing and I wish she was not. I could not add all the colours to the hankie that Nana would like. The colour is missing too.

Tricia Smout

2010-05-11T16:33:00.001-07:00

I used a handkerchief from my childhood and dedicated it to the memory of my parents – the most loving, caring parents there could ever be. I wrote “ a life that touches the hearts of others goes on forever” because I will certainly never forget them, and neither will my children. The hankie is creased into 16 squares in memory of the way my mother used to neatly press my handkerchiefs four times so they fitted into my pockets.

Strathmore Secondary College - Yr 8 and 9 Students Hankie works

2010-05-08T14:32:00.001-07:00

Jeht Burgoyne - Mickey hankie

2010-05-08T14:23:00.000-07:00

I've kept this handkerchief for some time, since I was a child. I took it along to my fathers funeral. He passed away a week before my 18th birthday. I remember selfishly being angry at him for leaving before I had become a woman. I am now 34. His spirit has never left me. I saw him in the crowd when I was married, he applauded me in my triumphs, he sat with me in my grief, he smiled at me through the eyes of my new born son. I have taken on the belief that a life never passes, it just passes through. Every moment is precious.

Liz Powell - Cry me a river

2010-05-08T14:20:00.001-07:00

Hand stitched and dyed

Melissa Wright - Meems Ghost

2010-05-08T14:17:00.000-07:00

My mother in law- “Meems”- sent this hankie last Christmas 2009. Since her son & I are now separated the connection to this family has changed. I feel a great loss and miss the relationship I once had with Meems. It feels as if she is a ghost-like figure to me now. There but not really there. I still love and admire her. This is a bit of an iconic doll of an old lady, dancing in the air, ethereal and moving.

Matthew Rose: La chute des anges rebelles

2010-05-08T04:06:00.000-07:00

My father was always aiming for the sky. When my mother passed away on July 25, 2009, he was heart broken. A week before he passed away I found him in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed having just awoken from a dream. He was disturbed. In the dream he was looking for my mother. We cried in each others' arms in the darkness.

I sent nearly all my production to my parents, including this limited edition post card, La chute des anges rebelles / De val der opstandige engelen, the text title from Pieter Breughel the Elder's famous 1562 painting, a dreamscape of rebel angels as they fall back to earth, chased from Paradise by the Archangel Michael. It is the 8th work in a suite of 7 text silkscreens entitled "Paintings." The pieces took only the text captions from the backs of museum post cards. One aspect of this work is the powerful notion of "word as image." The texts of these paintings divorced from their proper paintings. My parents donated the entire suite to The Boca Raton Museum of Art, and a short essay on the work is permanently displayed alongside the pieces as "A Gift From Doris and Irving Rose."

The January day this year we buried my father, the sky was very very blue. A military color guard honored him at the cemetery for his service beginning on D-Day in France, where I now live. Towards the end of the service, I gave a short eulogy about both my father and mother. While looking up at the sky, and its blueness, I told one of my father's best friends: "It's an Irving Rose kind of day." My father would say about the day "Quiet, peaceful." It was. How often I've been left standing with only words; like trying to drink rain drops.

The handkerchief, white with an embroidered golfer, was among my father's things. He used it to wipe the sweat off his brow as he played round after round of golf under blue skies...here on earth. It is an object and image now standing in for the words describing my father, words that say this is something he used, something he liked, something that now represents him here.

Lisa Wise - Mourning Object

2010-05-07T19:03:00.000-07:00

Porcelain & Artificial Hair
80cmx80cmx2cm

I can compare the recollection of grief to a particularly disturbing movie. Hair was used to augur the arrival of a ghost. Long black shiny hair that was absolutely terrifying and I was frozen in a state of suspension while watching the horror unfold.

Doug Spowart - Merv: The White Knight

2010-05-05T18:48:00.000-07:00

Medium: Cyanotype image of drawing by the artist on cotton hankie

My father was an electrician for around sixty years. He always wore King Gee white overalls—even when we went on holidays.

Ever ready to help someone in need he would dash off at a moment’s notice—even when the family organised an outing on the weekend we would always fit in another job along the way.

Over the years he helped many an electrically troubled soul so we, his family, dubbed him the nickname – “The white knight”.

Victoria Cooper - Dad'll do it

2010-05-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

Medium: Cyanotype image, photo and texts by the artist on cotton hankie

I remember that he always tied knots in his hankie to keep it in place on his head and to soak up the sweat when he was working on things around the home. He had lived in this home (in the photo) for most of his life except for the time he was in New Guinea for WW2. Over the years he adapted and renovated this home to suit the changing needs of the family.

Penny Evans

2010-05-01T01:49:00.000-07:00

Title of work - i hope it has the desired effect.

It is about colonial germ warfare and a smallpox infected hankie that was deliberately given to the Shawnee, mingo and delaware Indians surrounding Fort Pitt in western pennsylvannia. One of the men responsible said in his diary at the time '....i hope it will have the desire effect'.

There are connections between these men and some that came out on the first fleet here. It has been established through the diary of watkin Tench that samples of smallpox were brought here with the first fleet. countless aboriginal people died from smallpox here in the Eora/Sydney area and beyond. whole populations wiped out.

so this is an historical work about death

Scott Trevelyan

2010-04-30T03:17:00.000-07:00

cal mackinnon and nicole crosswell - Images and excerpt of text to be projected onto a Hankie

2010-04-30T03:11:00.000-07:00

Paper sailing (excerpt)

…I sometimes dreamt of you , sometimes thought I could hear your voice
on the wind calling my name
but it was my own voice and I woke choking on my own dry bones
I would send out a message, reach out my hand to you
but all that came back to me was dry grass and fire
I sailed using the stars as my guides and the trees as my sisters
I sailed until the river dried up and became a fortifying underground
spring
and I stepped from my boat of paper memories…

Grieving - Ampersand Duck ( Caren Florance)

2010-04-30T03:06:00.000-07:00

Linen Hankie with solvent release text, vintage cotton thread. Poem by Rosemary Dobson, from the Ampersand Duck volume “Poems to Hold or Let Go” (2009)

Friends die one after another;
Each time a dark disorder
A ceaseless banging of shutters

Upstairs there in the mind;
Bearing of angry loud weather
Days, nights together

To force on the mind order:
Journeys taken on maps,
Attentive delving into

The roots of the language.
A search for the true invention
Of form by line in drawing.

Also, renewal of linen—
Keeping the old customs
Putting sides to middles.

Thus, mind and hand stilled
And with a gentler grief
To draw down the blind

The white holland blind
Like a banner of love
Against that wild confusion

holly willis - aunty jenni

2010-04-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

my aunty jenni taught me how to keep
a horse...how to ride, feed and give
them all the love they need...lessons
i still call upon every day now,
fifteen years on.
this text is what i sprawled on the
empty piece of paper lying by the
phone when i got the news that she
had passed
this is the hanky that then held my tears

rest in peace aunty jenni

Karla Dickens - Bless Me

2010-04-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

Bless you, bless me
NOW HERE
gone
breathless
pain
life
NOW
tears
belonging
love
real
NO WHERE
endless
aching
lost
always
HERE
BLESSING

An English Hankie - Dawn Thirlaway

2010-04-29T18:59:00.000-07:00

A hat made from a handkerchief with tied corners conjures images of English holidaymakers at the seaside. However in my case the image is my father mowing the lawn in Australia.
I remember as kids we often had a good laugh at my fathers quirky Englishness with his response always being “you’ll keep”.
On our rare family outings my father’s hankie often came into use for wiping his children’s noses, drying tears, dabbing cuts or cleaning sticky hands after ice cream.
My relationship with my father matured in the last few years of his life, when he came to understand and appreciate my need to make art.
Although it is now twenty-two years since he departed from this world, I often feel his presence when I am creating artwork.

Carolyne Lewis

2010-04-28T05:33:00.000-07:00

Lyndall Adams

2010-04-26T01:16:00.000-07:00

This hankie belonged to my mother (Rosalind Adams, 21 August 1937 to 13 March 1983). I have pulled the threads in one direction, in the proportion of my life … more than half now ... without her in it.

Christine Porter Hankie works

2010-04-25T02:27:00.000-07:00

Title Who will I talk to now?

Year 2010

Artist statement
All I have left are your words ; cold hard broken comfort wrapped up in the tears and red tape of trying to live without you . Who will I talk to now ?

Description 7 objects , various sizes approx 7 x 10 x 5 cm . Found ceramic shards fired with digital image of blue handwriting. Wrapped in various white handkerchief and handkerchief sized fabrics – lawn and muslin. Tied up with various red ribbons and thread.

Media white handkerchief lawn ; various white muslins ; found ceramic shards fired with digitally created decal ; various red ribbons and thread

Update on hankie project

2010-04-23T19:56:00.000-07:00

So many beautiful hanky works have come in from all over the world this week. I feel very blessed to have such amazing support with this project and I love the stories as much as I do the work.
This morning it was amazing to have Rhonda bring in to the gallery an exquisite lace hanky circa 1914 (France) that she had found at vinnies.
This hanky was sent back from the war to the soldier's sweetheart. So delicate and all hand embroidered with dates etc.
I will keep posting images as they come in.
Thanks everyone for your support.

Georgie Lucock & Rachael Sutton

2010-04-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

It is impossible to separate death from rebirth.
As artists we provide a remembrance
of the beauty of the unmarked soul
and an inate ancient wisdom
within us all........

Scarring of the most sacred heart
Will tear our souls further apart
But of the sacrificial path
May we ignite our inner hearth
Deep as an ancient summation
From the font of transformation
Assuredly bubbles ressurection
To continue our divine connection

Rhonda Fechtner - Found hankie circa 1914-1916

2010-04-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

For my sweetheart

Susanna Pohlen

2010-04-23T19:45:00.000-07:00

I was allowed to iron my dad’s hankies as a little girl…
Now they carry ‘his-story’.
Hanky cocoons open to spill his hidden stories.
White on white.
No lies!
No more pretending!

… and he taught me to make a knot for remembering!
Memories are precious!

Angela Gardner - Featherweight

2010-04-23T13:27:00.001-07:00

The weight of a soul is the weight of a feather. Visible through the
poem (a cover or title page) are the five blank pages, made of fine
cotton lawn, that comprise the artist’s book. The poem Featherweight
was written for the project by the artist and poet Angela Gardner.
Featherweight is published by light-trap press in a limited signed
edition of five.

Anne - Maree Hunter Hankie Installation

2010-04-23T00:37:00.000-07:00

“I am not unique in having already suffered grief a number of times in my
life already: I didn’t realise when I began this project just how near new
tears would be”

They have been silk screened, hand and/or machine embroidered and hand
stamped. There are a mix of “men’s”, “lady’s” and “girl’s” hankies.

Courtney Griffiths - Tea stained hankies

2010-04-22T20:06:00.001-07:00

I mourn a soul vanished.
I grieve a spirit extinguished.
I remember a laugh muted, a smile faded.
I long for an energy surpressed.
I weep for a man changed.

Memories - Magnolias at Dusk Hankie by Jocelyn Girle

2010-04-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

Etching on silk chiffon - 2009
Mounted onto silk satin

Beauty brings nourishment to the soul, and solace, in times of need when we reflect on times past - of love and its warmth. Flowers radiate beauty for all to experience.
Magnolias at Dusk.
Beauty for the eyes and the soul. With these reflections we can move on to the morrow and treasure our memories.

Ross McMaster Hankie Work

2010-04-22T19:55:00.000-07:00

Of his work Ross states “My current work questions the validity of organized religion within contemporary society. In a time when we readily vilify Islam for its actions, I believe it's time for us to take a close look at the recent record of Christianity. In particular Catholicism, it’s involvement in crimes against humanity and the relationship between the Vatican and Fascist regimes in the 20th century”.

Saskia Schubert

2010-04-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

Away
When my father lost his memory
It was like a silent death
He was lost
Lost in his thoughts
Not knowing where he’d been
And we are still waiting for his return.

This is an echo of times gone by
A memory of a military man
Who was always away
We never knew where he was
And it was never spoken of
He was just always away

Now he can only remember the past
He can only remember when he was away
He is now always away
With his thoughts
And memories
And the silence has never left.

His mouth is covered
He can’t tell us where he has been
He lives behind a veil
A veil of silence.

Where have you gone?
And when will you ever come my way again?
Why don’t you remember me?
I remember you.

Clyde McGill

2010-04-22T19:28:00.000-07:00

...do we travel through life on a planned journey to death or does it wait concealed to take us? After loved ones die grief takes us to some place where we want to die as well.

Patrycia Buckland Hankie Work

2010-04-22T19:26:00.001-07:00

My piece ( the handkerchief) came to me via my sister. I don’t think it belonged to my dad, but to my Uncle Chick, my dad’s brother. The colours around the border reflect dad’s taste in clothing. His shirts, jackets and trousers were generally of these hues and suited his olive complexion.
Dad grew up on the Turramurra side of Ku-Ring-Gai chase national park. He loved the bush and spent a good part of his youth exploring the chase from Bobbin Head to West Head. After returning from the second world war dad married my mother and they purchased a block of land at Mount Colah close to the South western border of the Chase. As children we became very familiar with the area close to our home. On a grander scale I always thought the Chase was my father’s backyard. For a lifetime he roamed the ridges and gullies, knew it and loved it well. He taught us to appreciate its unique beauty. We will always roam the sandstone ridges with him.

Sasi Victoire Artwork

2010-04-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

My mother did not carry a hankie.
She wiped herself at the end of her saree palav.
On boxing day 2003, I received a call that she had passed away.
She was seventy-five years old. She had rung the day before for xmas and was waiting for my eldest daughter to ring her. It sounded urgent!
When I arrived back home, she had already been cremated. I never saw her.
No one would say how she died.
I figured the rest out…………

Works Due

2010-04-20T03:55:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

Works are due in the next few weeks so that we have time to hopefully produce an online catalogue to go with the exhibition when it shows in June at Barratt Galleries.
I will send an email out in a few weeks with exhibiting details and dates as well.

Julie

Kathryn Orton

2010-04-03T15:05:00.001-07:00

Notes on the Hankie Paintings

I made these works in 2000 as a parting gesture before my first overseas trip. My mother had died in September the previous year, just before her 82nd birthday. My siblings and I thought she couldn’t bear to see in the new millennium, having been on her way out for a while.

She wasn’t often sick when I was growing up but there was one time when I was about nine years old. I remember sitting, crying, outside on the front path in the dark because I was scared she might die. I didn’t know what was wrong and I didn’t know what to do about it. My father was comforting me and telling me that we had to look after her. When my father died I was twenty and I felt the responsibility of looking after my mother from that time. My Brother and sisters had all married, there were grandchildren.

My care was mostly from a distance. I had taken a job 300 kilometres away, but I would visit often for the weekend or holidays.

My mother Alice was a strong, intelligent, independent woman, who could be difficult, and wasn’t to be messed with. She was proud to have filled in her lengthy widowhood reading books and encyclopaedias, with sewing and embroidery (often original designs much prized as gifts for the family), knitting garments and rugs (she was living in a cold climate), gardening (the family authority on plant species, who knew the botanical and common names for most plants), painting and drawing flowers from the garden, and walking long distances around town while she could.

It was only towards the very end of her life that our roles were reversed; my partner and I cared for her at our home until that became too hard.
These are collaged hankies, some hand made and well used by my mother, others given as gifts to a daughter who was more inclined to using tissues that could be thrown away. I intended to paint onto them but couldn’t bring myself to put any other marks on these. My travel included central Italy (on a tour developed by a friend), the south of France (to visit another friend living there) and Barcelona (because I wanted to see some of Spain), hence the titles.

Farewell is one of my mother’s hankies, waving the way my partner’s mother would always wave her hanky as we’d leave her to return home.

Arrivederci is a lace trimmed gift with floral patches from another well loved hanky of Mum’s.

Bon Voyage is layered with both our handkerchiefs. An initialled, unused one of mine with the K for Kathryn, left so long in its packaging that the sticky label left a permanent stain, one of Mum’s mended, hand made hankies and more of her flowers.

Hasta Luego, Alice is a hanky she made and embroidered with her own initial, looking scorched and reminding me of earning pocket money as a child, one cent for each hanky ironed. Its title reflects my own recent brush with mortality.

Deborah Gower Porcelain Hankie

2010-04-03T14:44:00.000-07:00

Shirley Esther Reading
16 April 1939 – 4 November 1986

Forget-M- kNot Hankie in Porcelain Slip 2010
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of Heaven,
Blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Whenever it was vital that I remembered something when I was a child my mother would always tie a knot in my hanky as a gentle reminder. This is a tribute to my loving mother. A true angel - never to be forgotten.

Her gentle touch of kindness caresses me each time I press a hanky to my cheek or wipe a tear from my eye. Every spring I celebrate forget-me-not’s blooming and I see the blue of my mother’s eyes again.

“The Christ Child was sitting on Mary's lap one day and said that he wished that future generations could see her eyes. He touched her eyes and then waved his hand over the ground and blue forget-me-nots appeared, hence the name forget-me-not.”

Legend or myth Wikopedia

Sandra Winkworth Hankie Works

2010-03-31T03:15:00.000-07:00

My grandma was the only grandparent I knew and I was her favourite. Her whole home was covered with gardens and now I collect floral printed imagery everywhere
My mother died 20 years ago. The memories fade – I try to remember many things about her but a lot is gone.
A collection of my father’s objects is held together here on a hanky.
Each fragment holds an object: plants in the garden, work tools I use, the house I live in and the bird that sings.
These objects are what remains and now I hold onto them as I hold onto the memories.
I grieve and the stitches, a meditative process, help to hold these memories together.

Artwork by Melbourne based artist Peter Lyssiotis

2010-03-30T21:38:00.001-07:00

The trick is to know who to imitate. Me? Well, I'm in my garden every Sunday imitating Brando. I'm strictly vegetables. Ok there ARE a couple of trees: a lemon, an apple and two figs (I'm very proud of my fig trees. One is called Lorca because it comes from Andalusian stock & the other The Sicilian because its roots are in Southern italy. In 'the Godfather' Brando dies while playing chasey with his grandchildren, round and round his tomato plants. He has a hankerchief around his neck, which he uses to pat down his sweat. And there's the rub; in summer among my Romas, Krims, Mortgage lifters, Tommy Toes, Tigerellas & Black Russians I'm always Brando, mopping the swaet from around my neck, my arms, my forehead...you see hankerchiefs are not only for waving goodbye!

Hankie artwork by Sue Fraser

2010-03-30T21:34:00.001-07:00

While working on this project I was reminded of the many things my father meant to me and the strength of the memories embedded in the few objects he left behind.

Jenny Kitchener Hankerchief

2010-03-30T21:30:00.000-07:00

I was with my mother when she died. I sat by her side and very gradually she stopped breathing.

Hankie Artwork by UK artist Natalie McGrorty

2010-03-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

I have made this handkerchief in memory of my lovely Mother who died very young. Whilst the grey, cloudy skies echo the underlying sadness that I have felt since she left this world, the gentle beauty of the imagery is peaceful and serene, just as she was when she died. The addition of the single magpie was inspired by the rhyme: 'One for sorrow, two for joy...'

thoughts on the death of my father........ Virginia Barratt

2010-03-25T04:17:00.000-07:00

it's very hard to give a name to or recognise what it is i am feeling about his absence. i just know that death is a hard thing to *know*. a concept i can't hold onto at all in my mind, not like denial, just... slippery, elusive... i know he's not here, but that's all i know, even after seeing him in the mortuary. i think it's because the institutionalised nature of death would have you believe that he's "at peace" or just sleeping or something. you can't get near to the death part cos there's so many layers of convention and regulation and institutionalisation between me and my dead dad. the ravages of death and the indignities of autopsy are all hidden by the white sheet of invisibility. the no-death of death. the "he's at peace" from the social worker guy at the mortuary. he was never peaceful in life and i don't think i ever saw my dad asleep! so the sleeping peace of death is a funny strange lie to my eyes... this morning i feel sad, but i don't even know if it's grief, just tiredness and wondering how i'm gonna pay the bills...