Craftivism

My mind is whirling with thoughts about work and pleasure and art and life. Levin is mowing grass with the peasants. I am sewing aprons. Darya Alexandrovna is bathing her children in the stream. 17 is knitting a hat. And I am reading a book called Craftivism: The Art of Craft and Activism by Betsy Greer.

Greer defines Craftivism as craft that is motivated by social or political activism, and says that "the creation of things by hand leads to a better understanding of democracy, because it reminds us that we have power." Acts of craftivism tend to be small: DIY hankie kits, tiny banners with words of kindness, embroidered samplers pinned to chain-link fences, handknit basketball nets. I am intrigued by this form of quiet activism, rooted in hands-on creation, that is directed at change and personal connection.

I see it over and over again when I work with children. They can take an old tire, splatter it with paint, all the while discussing what they hope to do with their creations. Grace will armknit a hammock and attach it to create a comfy seat for her bedroom. Elsie with plant hers with herbs in her front yard. Emme's is a tribute to the wife of Jackson Pollack. "Her paintings got bigger after he died," she tells us, going on to explain that Jackson had used the large studio space while his wife was relegated to a spare bedroom. Emme meant exactly what she said: Her paintings got BIGGER, because when he was gone, she had more space in which to create.

Is there value in smallness, or is the ultimate goal to become bigger?

Tolstoy's ramblings on mowing a field, resting under a tree with an old peasant man, sharing bread dipped in water, and looking back at a field of haystacks led to an entire movement, in which Tolstoy was their prophet. Meanwhile, Sophie went about copying his words and creating photographs, developing recipes which are still used today in the cafe on the Tolstoy estate.

Which of their life's work could we categorize as craftivism?

I feel like the sand and rocks at the place where the ocean means the earth, being pounded and softened and molded and polished. The more pages that pile up in my black binder, the less sure I am of what this project is teaching me.

 

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