My fascination with the Bayeux Tapestry, which depicts the Norman invasion of England in 1066, began many years ago when I was living in Atlanta. One of my children’s 5th-grade teachers was covering early English history and asked if I would lead an embroidery segment with her students. I visited the classroom from time to time to work with the kids, and the section they completed hung in the school’s hallway for several years.
Around that same time, our neighborhood pool was in danger of becoming a casualty of condominium developers. The pool had been dug in 1929 with a mule and pan by the family who owned the land, and it stayed in operation until their descendants could no longer maintain it. Many people in the neighborhood had grown up spending summers there, so there was a strong movement to “save” the pools. I noticed striking parallels between our efforts to raise money to buy the land and repair the facilities and the struggles depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry. My revised section—free-motion embroidery on a linen cloth I wove to the same width as the original—reimagined the scene with kick boards instead of shields, cement mixer trucks in place of horses, and fallen board members standing in for fallen soldiers.
I had long hoped to see the original Bayeux Tapestry in Bayeux, France, but the stars never aligned before it was removed for the next several years for museum renovations. Meanwhile, my granddaughter was finishing a quarter at the Royal School of Speech and Drama in London, so my daughter planned a trip over Thanksgiving break. She included two surprise days. We landed in Reading, England, directly across from a museum that—by my daughter’s careful research—housed an 1880s reproduction of the Tapestry.
Seeing the actual stitching, instead of the images I had copied and adapted so long ago, took my breath away. I spent hours enthralled by the complex stitching and studying the scenes finally gaining an understanding of the story that had mystified me for years.
Confessions. I went to college in slide rule days. Math and science majors only had to read 3 pages a night while liberal arts majors had to read 30. The choice was easy for me, never a lover of reading, my brain just took all words at face value. Even my 4 year old granddaughter many years later would laugh at a pun long before I ever got it.
If you’ve read any of my blogs, my love of making things should be obvious. But writing about them is painful; I always draw a blank, struggle for hours, sometimes days to come up with the minimum of insightful words.
Enter AI. I asked AI to write about my latest felted folks, which are a work in progress and will eventually have LEDs, press switches, and electronics. I entered that they are a couple who have long been peaceful protestors using language from the days of Shakespeare. If AI used someone’s previously written posts, I sincerely apologize and will take this post down as soon as you notify me.
I wrote this part of the post without the help of AI. I can only wonder how they would fix it if asked?
The History of Will and Katie — In the Manner of Shakespeare
Enter WILL, a weaver, and KATIE, a gentle maker of paper cranes.
Will:
The world’s grown wild, good Kate — men storm and cry,
And reason’s drowned beneath a crimson sky.
Yet still my shuttle sings its patient song,
And cloth grows whole where threads have frayed too long.
Katie:
Peace, Will. Though kingdoms quarrel, hearts may mend.
I’ll fold a thousand cranes, love — one for each
Unspoken prayer the earth would fain beseech.
If war be thunder, let our hands be rain.
Will:
Thou’rt brave as spring reborn through winter’s pain.
Come, let us weave bright banners for the meek,
And set soft doves upon the tyrant’s cheek.
Katie:
Aye, gentle Will — though time hath silver’d hair,
Our souls keep color none can bleach or tear.
We were the children of the flowered age,
And still we bloom, though tempests shake the stage.
Will:
Then let the wise call folly what they will—
We’ll answer hate with craft and love, still still.
Exeunt hand in hand, leaving behind a tapestry bright with woven peace and folded hope.
It was a beautiful weekend in tiny Brasstown, NC home of the John C. Campbell Folk School. I assisted Kay Patterson with beginning enameling. Kay and I have known each other for a number of years starting back when we both taught felting at the Folk School. I’m still knee deep in the fiber world and Kay is now the Resident Artist for enamel here. Connecting the dots recently we collaborated on a combination enamel and felting class for next year. We will spend a week making enamel pieces, then go to the wet room and make a large felt bag to go along with the buttons, pins or whatever feature pieces the students come up with. I assisted to better learn my way around the studio and get more familiar with the multiple techniques and tools – like the giant copper cutter that takes all the upper arm strength needed for rolling felt and then some.
The weekend’s students – only one of who had any knowledge of enamel – were like deer caught in the headlights Friday night. At first, the amount of information sounds overwhelming, but within a few minutes the students practiced loading and unloading the 1500 degree kiln like pros. Then it was just a short jump to actually sifting enamel powder onto copper and loading the kiln for real. The results were stunning. Watching the color develop as the enamel cooled added to the magic of enamel. The best part for me was watching the students gather around the color chart helping each other decide what to use. Each student designed their own projects with great success.
In the early 1990s, I was commissioned—along with the very talented artist Carol Minarick—to weave Torah covers for the synagogue in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
Traditionally, Torah covers are changed to white ones during the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This annual change gives me the chance to inspect them for repairs. I’ve had the covers at my house this week, doing just that. I’m amazed at how well they’ve held up over the years—and humbled to see the quality of the work I was able to produce at a time when I felt I had so much less experience.
Collaborating with an artist who had no background in weaving was a challenge. I carefully explained how the vertical and horizontal structures of weaving worked and what its limitations might be. Carol listened thoughtfully, went home, and returned with a design that had nothing to do with my explanations. Wonderful! A new challenge had presented itself. I had to stretch and invent techniques to bring her thoughtful, carefully researched vision to life.
At that time, I was just beginning to learn about color and design. Her bold ideas pushed me up a steep learning curve. She taught me how to enlarge her drawings to full size to use as cartoons and how to mix dyes to achieve her chosen palette.
My studio then was in the bedrooms my children had left behind when they went off to college. The designs required warp painting, and the only way I could rinse the warp properly was to drag the loom close to the bathroom and run the threads under the shower. It was both fun and nerve-wracking, hoping that a shower rinse would be enough to hold up in the final wash once the weaving was complete.
Theo Moorman—a modified tapestry technique with a supplementary warp—turned out to be the perfect structure for the design areas of the covers.
Carol and I went on to create several more projects together in the following years. Sadly, she passed away far too soon. I like to think her spirit is somewhere above, smiling down on me as I continue to care for these covers.
The next iteration of my ongoing project, Get in Line, will go on display at the Clayton Center for the Arts on the campus of Maryville College in Maryville, TN on September 3rd. (https://claytonartscenter.com/event/community-canvas-group-art-exhibition/ ) Shari Liles, a member of the Smoky Mountain Story Tellers (http://smokymountaintellers.org/our-tellers.html), and I have collaborated to give life to my “fiber folk.” She has named and given backstories to each of the five characters that will be on display along with her felted dioramas. Mark your calendars and join us on October 16 at 5:30PM as part of Downtown Maryville’s 3rd Thursday art walk where you will be encouraged to rewrite the characters names and stories.
“Get in Line” is a series of fiber figures that challenge the idea of “falling in line” as blind obedience. Instead, each figure stands as a unique individual, layered with weaving, felting, surface design, and intricate stitching. When viewers press a switch in a figure’s hand, parts of each individual light up—an act of connection that symbolizes shared joy, community, and the beauty of difference.
Drawing inspiration from nature’s repeating patterns, folklore from around the world, and original tales, Shari transforms wool, fabric, and thread into portals to other times and places. In the dioramas, wool’s natural properties give depth and texture to both background and character, creating a stage where legends from Native American, Celtic, Norse, Greek, Eastern European, and Asian traditions—and entirely new myths—come alive. Integrated lighting not only serves a functional role but also infuses each scene with a sense of magic and surprise.
Community Canvas is a group exhibition curated by the Clayton Center that celebrates the creativity and talent of local East Tennessee artists, including members of the Arts & Culture Alliance. Bringing together a wide range of styles and mediums, the show highlights the perspectives that make up our artistic community. Check it out here: https://claytonartscenter.com/event/community-canvas-group-art-exhibition/
Join us for the Artists’ Reception before the CCA Season performance of Improvised Shakespeare Company at 7:30pm on Thursday, October 16 at 5:30PM as part of Downtown Maryville’s 3rd Thursday to gather as a community and enjoy the arts! https://claytonartscenter.com/event/improvised-shakespeare-company/
After a long run of making felted fish—creatures that could happily dangle from a string, swaying gently in the breeze—I decided it was time for a challenge. Fish are wonderfully cooperative in that way; they don’t need to stand, pose, or carry themselves with dignity. But chickens? Chickens have opinions. Chickens demand balance.
Moving from fish to fowl meant shifting from airy suspension to the grounded reality of wire feet. Suddenly, my creations needed to perch without toppling over, their personalities expressed not just in color and shape, but in the tilt of a head and the proud stance of a pair of wiry legs. The three chickens and one bold bird in this flock each hold their ground in their own quirky way, proof that sometimes the next creative step isn’t just about what you make—but how it stands in the world.
My maternal grandparents led fascinating lives. There’s much to reflect on—and imagine—when standing in the very places where they once lived and worked.
We called my grandmother “Rose” because she didn’t want to be reminded that she was old enough to be a grandmother. She worked as a dietitian at Hull House in Chicago, where she grew up. Hull House was founded by Jane Addams as a settlement house serving the immigrant population. It offered social services, educational programs, and cultural activities to help newcomers adjust to life in America.
Visiting my granddaughter, who now attends college in Chicago, brought things full circle. Together—my granddaughter, daughter, and I—visited Hull House. Sitting in that space, we imagined what it must have been like in the early 20th century. Rose may have walked down the central staircase in the dress of the day, served food in the large dining room, or chatted with Jane Addams as she wrote at her desk.
Rose met my grandfather after he attended a talk by Maria Montessori, whose innovative approach to early childhood education was gaining attention. Rose proudly introduced him to Jane Addams after revealing she had met her herself.
This past weekend marked the 100th anniversary of the Scopes Trial in Dayton, Tennessee, the infamous monkey trial. At the time of the trial, my grandfather was the Rabbi at Temple Beth El in Knoxville. According to family lore, he traveled to Dayton daily by train to attend the proceedings. When the lawyers contacted Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati for an expert on the Old Testament, they were told one was already there—my grandfather. Although he spoke with the lawyers, he never officially testified, so his name doesn’t appear in the records.
When he said he would talk about the trial at the Temple’s Friday night service, he was met with resistance by some in the community even though they didn’t know content of the sermon.
My daughter and I attended the annual play Dayton stages about the trial, sitting in the same audience my grandfather once did. It was crowded and lively, with dialogue drawn directly from the original trial transcript. A big band played 1920s music at the dinner after the play. The lively music of the roaring 20s stood in stark contrast to the seriousness of the trial and gave me a different insight to my Grandfather.
Years later, when he retired and returned to Knoxville, I asked him about the experience. He simply said, “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”
William Jennings Bryan died shortly after the trial. When someone called to share the news, my grandfather wasn’t home—so Rose took the call. She always said she was the first to know of Bryan’s death, since news traveled slowly in 1925.
These trips have raised more questions than answers. But more than anything, they’ve helped me better understand my roots.
I admit, every time I teach a fiber arts class, I end up thinking, “Wow, I have the best students ever.” And it’s not just a nice thing to say—it’s true.
Take my last two classes, for example. At the recent MidAtlantic Fiber Association (https://mafafiber.org/) conference where I taught Adding Lights to Woven and Felted Projects, four of my students were tackling techniques they’d never tried before in weavng, felting, and stitching LED circuits. Did that stop them? Nope. They dove in with total determination, zero whining, and even managed to have fun.
Then there’s John C Campbell Folkschool https://www.folkschool.org/.—always a reliable hotspot for brave, creative souls. In May, I taught “Felting Extremes,” and two students showed up having never felted at all. By the end of the week, they had completed projects I usually save for advanced classes. The rest of the group? Designing and executing their own ideas like pros—and staying late to boot.
Moral of the story: don’t wait for the “perfect” studio setup, or spend weeks lost in the black hole of internet tutorials. Just jump in, make the thing, and trust that you’ll learn by doing. Fiber art favors the bold.
Several years ago, I started playing with an idea that redefined the way I thought about weaving: when you hang a placemat-sized weaving on the wall, it stops being just a functional object and becomes a work of art. The same fibers, the same techniques—but suddenly, it’s viewed through a completely different lens.
Today, while visiting the Art Museum of the Americas in Washington, D.C., that idea came full circle. I was struck by Pierre Ayot’s straw-based artwork Pailles à boire, which explores everyday disposable objects and reimagines them in a way that forces us to reconsider what we value, what we waste, and how we define art. The placemats I wove years ago—using alternative and found materials—echoed Ayot’s statement.
His work challenges our understanding of the trash we see every day, questioning ideas of sustainability, the environment, and art itself. In retrospect, those alternative weavings of mine were doing something similar: elevating scraps and cast-offs, inviting viewers to pause and reconsider the stories held in overlooked materials. It turns out, a placemat on a wall can say a lot—about creativity, about waste, and about what we choose to see as worthy.
I first launched the Bundles project in 2017 as part of the Clothesline installation at Rangsit University in Bangkok, Thailand. I created bundles from leftover bits of past projects squirreled away in my ever growing stash. I invited viewers to take one of these small collections of weavings and felt fragments in exchange for writing a response on a card to pin on a community board.
Since then, I’ve taken the project to guilds and conferences, asking people to keep a bundle and leave a few thoughtful words in return. The notes—now glued into a growing book—are always surprising: playful, heartfelt, poetic, even profound.
The project took a pause during the pandemic, but I’m excited to bring it back. Most recently, I shared bundles during the Saturday night Studio Stroll at the MAFA conference, and the responses reminded me why I started this in the first place.
It’s a way to give new life to forgotten materials—and to spark unexpected connections through fiber. Stay tuned as this project continues to grow. And if your stash is overflowing, consider joining in!
A small sampling of pages from the collection.
Weaving School 
