Crafting Readers

Items

• My Robbie, My Gloria / "I, Robot"
  The deeply loving friendship between caretaker robot Robbie and his ward, 8-year-old Gloria, is dissected, destroyed, and re-built as her parents argue over Robbie’s value and appropriateness in their little girl’s life. All Gloria ever sees is her dear friend and playmate, Robbie, whom she repeatedly regales with the story of Cinderella at his wordless request. These friendship bracelets, a common and thoughtful schoolyard gift between girlhood best friends, represent their unbreakable bond.
• What the Bird Saw / "The Goldfinch"
  This rug approximates an aerial farmland view for Fabritius’s painted goldfinch as an attempt to embody Theo’s (and the bird’s) story, rather than just witnessing it. Though reading invites real emotion, it remains markedly distinct from actual experience; the practice of crafting The Goldfinch attempts to bridge this gap by considering the same story through a new medium. The latch-hooking method of repeatedly securing individual yarn segments mimics the endurance of Tartt’s narrative style, attempting to replicate the reader’s experience of the novel by simultaneously requiring attention to detail and patience for the big picture. Both reading The Goldfinch and latch-hooking a rug are lengthy endeavours that invite the reader or crafter to bask in the process instead of rushing to an end. GRACE VEUGELERS ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: A quality that I have always appreciated about reading as a medium is that, if I am attending properly to a story, I cannot attend to anything else. I prefer to read slowly, to return to previous pages and passages, to steep my mind in the author’s reality. Yet, when reading Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch, I initially struggled to lose myself. I felt intensely aware of my act of reading and of my opposition to her protagonist, Theo. As I faced the novel, I resolved to read recklessly instead. In reaction to Tartt’s barrage of sentence fragments and tangential observations—which resisted my rereading—I would parade myself forwards, even as my understanding might falter. Amazingly, this surrender worked. Donna Tartt emerges as an exception to the general incidence of reading as an act of control (Harrison 39). She pulls her readers along, using some clever combination of incomplete sentences and ideas, endless lists, and colloquial semantic constructions to make each word beg the reading of the next. The story, I found, made more sense if I never stopped reading. Literary critic Rob Jacklosky describes Tartt’s incessant use of lists as “intoxicating” (122) not only in establishing the world, but in generating a “hypnotic, lulling” (122) effect. While my earlier approach had me spinning over details of “gilded cupids, gilded commodes and torchieres, and … the reek of turpentine, oil paint, and varnish” (Tartt 151), trying to commit each detail to memory, a concession to her persistent style granted me a comparatively robust sense of Hobie’s workshop setting. In short, I had to trust that meaning would emerge from the totality of the text. Certainly, summation is essential to any novel, but its effect felt more potent in Tartt’s writing because her constituent parts refuse to stand on their own. If I felt particularly moved by some event in the novel, I could rarely pinpoint the effect within any one sentence. As the novel opens, thirteen-year-old Theo visits the Metropolitan Museum of Art with his mother but loses her in an explosion. The reader’s suspicion that she has died accumulates over pages as Theo moves through the wreckage, swipes Carel Fabritius’s eponymous painting, and hurries home; but there is no discernible line of text that tips from possibility to certainty. The moment when Theo opens his door to social workers and understands “that [his] life, as [he] knew it, [is] over” (Tartt 86) arrives with finality, not shock. Similarly, knowing that he has stolen an invaluable painting haunts both Theo and the reader. Like Chekhov’s gun, it sits wrapped beneath his bed in Las Vegas or stashed in a storage facility in New York, so the moment of reckoning does not surprise readers with a swift arrival but with the introduction of an unforeseen issue. The expected danger—that Theo would be discovered with Fabritius’s goldfinch in his possession—is replaced by the realization that his childhood friend, Boris, lifted the painting from him and spent years illegally trading with it on the international market. Where a direct line of narration might invite readers to stop and sit in horror, Tartt’s relentless prose demands that we read more quickly so we might watch disaster crest and continue. Critic Chloe Harrison acknowledges this urgency as exacerbated in moments of uncertainty because, though we hurry onward in pursuit of it, Tartt withholds overt confirmation of plot events (40). Instead, she resigns her readers to the same cycles of doubt, denial, and horror that plague Theo. Originally published in 2013, The Goldfinch won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, but audience reception nevertheless seems largely divided by Tartt’s style. Some dismissed The Goldfinch as “children’s literature” (qtd. in Harrison 39) or more suited to film—therefore suggesting that Tartt misunderstands the medium of written fiction (qtd. in Harrison 38). Conversely, I appreciate Tartt’s style for nurturing a unique sense of experiencing the story. I might hope that the reading of any story emphasizes process rather than completion; but for Tartt’s lengthy novel, a dedication to the reader’s experience is especially necessary. That her novel unravels beneath a narrative microscope is not inherently a flaw. One of her characters, Horst, even describes Fabritius’s painting as being guilty of the same because with a “step closer … it falls apart into brushstrokes” (Tartt 721). Tartt spotlights her self-awareness, acknowledging art as both “the thing and yet not the thing” (721). For Fabritius: This is not a bird. And for Tartt? Perhaps, this is not real life. This possibility brought me to a conundrum I have often faced: that as powerfully as a story can move me to emotion, it inevitably falls short of experience. Though Tartt does a careful job of unfolding her story with a steady stream of fragments that reflect the onslaught of real life, I struggled to connect with Theo. I could empathize with the loss of a loved one, the strife of adolescence, the loneliness of growing up, but I could not embody those emotions unless I was actively living his life. His pain remained his own. Elaine Scarry offers this insight: “to have great pain is to have certainty; to hear that another person has pain is to have doubt” (7), calling attention to the inevitable limits of empathy. There is no substitute for experience, so my inability to resonate with Theo as a character—to know that the context of emotion and circumstance necessitated every ill-conceived decision he made to lie, run, steal, do drugs, or sell fraudulent antiques—was not a failure of writing but a consequence of it. Tartt could only bring me as close to experience as her form allows, so the project of crafting a rug in conversation with the novel provided another step closer. I resolved to latch-hook a rug because I thought the repetitive process of securing each individual yarn segment might mimic the endless trudge of Theo’s life. Like Tartt’s novel or Fabritius’s painting, the rug forms from parts that are unimpressive and insufficient on their own. Unlike when I read Theo’s story, the making of the rug required my participation and experience, not just observation. The crafting required tactile involvement, and the responsibility of the final product fell to me, swallowing more of my time than I would care to admit. As with The Goldfinch, though, this time granted me the space to move into and out of different perspectives. On some days, the slow speed of reality frustrated me; I implored my hands to work faster like I had implored Theo not to spend another (and another) day drinking away his youth in Vegas. At other times, the sequential movements of hooking each piece “[lulled]” (Jacklosky 122) me as Hobie’s patient lessons on furniture restoration had. In every instance in which I managed some parallel between rug-making and reading, I could understand Theo’s emotions in a more intimate way simply because, in the context of crafting, they became my own. My experience with crafting lacked the community that dominated earlier rug-making practices, as many people typically contributed to gathering and preparing materials as collaborative weavers (Fleming 110), or at least as good company while others worked. I supposed that, in lieu of loyalty to rug-making tradition, my process adhered more to Theo who, also, should not have been so alone. Nevertheless, understanding that the major manipulation and meaning of a hooked rug lies in the pattern (Fleming 110), I made the cautious decision to contradict all of my previous efforts to empathize with Theo. I must acknowledge that The Goldfinch is his story, and the fictional Theo cannot possibly know the effort I have dedicated to understanding him, but, even still, Theo struck me as fundamentally unsympathetic. As intent as he was to “obsess over people” (Tartt 34), in adulthood Theo hardly let his observations inform considerate actions. He was a dishonest employee to Hobie, a dull husband to Kitsey, and an abductor to the painting; so, feeling some minor defiance, I instead considered the perspective of the goldfinch for my rug. The grid canvas limits patterns to geometric designations; and though N.M. Gibbins proposed that crafters might mathematically accomplish more precise angles by skipping certain boxes, I found myself unwilling to risk empty space. However, in imagining an aerial view of farmland for Fabritius’s bird—were he not chained—I felt that the constraints of the medium suited me well. Given that the goldfinch spends the entire novel as a powerless subject to others’ actions and, to me, was only as real as Theo, my consideration of him was as valid as the energy I expended in trying to empathize with Theo. In every stage of my reading of The Goldfinch or of hooking my rug, I both made and unmade my peace with Theo. I realized that, with a seemingly constant source of pages to read or yarn pieces to secure, the ending could only be one thing. Tartt describes the process of growing up as a “state of becoming” (Seaman 8), which is defined by constant change; and similarly, I found the process of rug-making to be a mess of repetition, always different yet always the same. Perhaps the lesson to learn from my endeavours to both witness and experience Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch is that life, like reading, can be best enjoyed not through any single moment or outcome but by experiencing it as you live.
• Philomel / "The Book of the City of Ladies"
  My crafted object is a handsewn bag that depicts the instruments held by the allegorical characters Reason, Rectitude, and Justice as they guide Pizan through the construction of the City of Ladies and the corresponding deconstruction of the misogynistic teachings of male authorship. I first drew my design on standard printing paper, transferred it to a sheet of fabric, and spent many hours embroidering the symbols onto the bag. The mirror itself is crafted out of the shattered remains of a handheld cosmetic mirror that I clipped and embroidered into place. I then used a quill pen and pot of ink to hand-write the names of the 45 women who are raped or manipulated in Giovanni Boccaccio’s The Decameron. Written in 1353, it is a text that Pizan frequently cites in her work. This object thus highlights the importance of both deconstructing patriarchal conventions and recognizing the abuse of women in literary history. The term "Philomel" comes from Philomela, a female figure in Greek mythology who turned to handicrafts as a means of regaining her voice after it had been taken from her. Instead of being silenced after Tereus—her sister’s husband—raped her and removed her tongue so that she was unable to speak, Philomela weaved an intricate tapestry that depicted exactly what he had done to her. She delivered this tapestry to her sister, who then sought revenge for Philomela, which in turn resulted in Philomela being transformed into a nightingale, or a “Philomel,” as they are often referred to in literature and poetry. Philomela’s story is symbolic of women who have been, or still are, unable to tell their stories, and is representative of the significance of women’s voices and the many ways that their voices can be reclaimed—handicrafts being one such means. CARLY GOODMAN ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: In Christine de Pizan’s The Book of the City of Ladies, the character Christine struggles with the conflict between the belief that “women [are] inclined to and full of every vice” (Pizan 5) and her lived experience as a woman. Appearing to her shortly after she has finished this lament, three allegorical figures recruit Christine in building the City of Ladies, a sanctuary for women where they will be defended from the criticisms of men. My final crafted object is a handsewn and embroidered pouch that depicts the instruments that Reason, Rectitude, and Justice hold in their right hands: a mirror, a ruler, and a chalice. Reason, the first of the ladies to both introduce herself to and instruct Christine, holds a mirror. She describes how her purpose is to “show both in thought and in deed to each man and woman his or her own special qualities and faults” (Pizan 9). Rectitude describes her instrument as “the straight ruler which separates right from wrong and shows the difference between good and evil” (13) and is embroidered subtly by the bottom right corner of Justice’s chalice. Justice describes her object as a “vessel of fine gold” through which she will “teach men and women of sound mind … to do to others what they wish to have done to themselves … to speak the truth … to reject all viciousness" (14). Spilling out from the bag is a sheet of brown wrapping paper on which I have written the names of the 45 women who are raped and/or manipulated in Giovanni Boccaccio’s The Decameron. Written in 1353, The Decameron is a collection of 100 short stories that Boccaccio wrote to provide women with “distractions” (Boccaccio 29) from the difficult things that they might experience in their lives. Despite this claim to help and support women, 45/100 of Boccaccio’s stories depict assault in some manner. I’ve chosen to depict their names because Pizan frequently cites Bocaccio in her text, a decision that appears contradictory to her purpose given that The Book of the City of Ladies notably condemns both rape and the depiction of women that Boccaccio perpetuates. I speculate that Pizan’s decision to cite Boccaccio is due to the literary authority and acclaim that he possessed as a male writer, something that Pizan likely needed in order to add authority to her own voice as a female author. The physical process of embroidery was simultaneously gratifying and painful. I found satisfaction in the push and pull of the needle through the fabric and enjoyed the challenge of finding the right depth of stitches and colour of thread. Each element of the embroidery demanded attention and conscious thought, each choice that I made regarding its construction was deliberate yet a complete shot in the dark. I had never tried embroidery before, and this project demanded trial and error. The push and pull of the needle turned into forcing the needle backwards into the fabric to remove stitches that had gone wrong, agonizing over threading thick embroidery thread through the tiny allowance of the needle, and pricking my fingers on the raw edges of the mirror. The progress of this project was not linear, an aspect that reminded me in a roundabout way of Christine’s process of healing from and unlearning patriarchal conventions and harmful misogynistic stereotypes. Throughout the text, Christine asks the allegorical ladies questions about the stories they’ve told her, imploring them to explain how if one thing is so widely said about women, then how can what they’re telling her be true? She asks them to clarify and offer examples, her attempt at deconstructing her learned experience taking them back occasionally to things the ladies have previously explained. Her learning, in The Book of the City of Ladies, is not without struggle and effort. Embroidery and similar needlework practices are historically women-dominated handicrafts, and, during the early to late middle ages, when Pizan was alive, such handicrafts were a means of accessing power. While needlework was practiced by women across social classes, much historically significant embroidery was produced by nobility. Queens and noble women were expected to produce rich and detailed textiles for their husbands that would be presented to outside parties as symbols of allegiance and peace, or “generosity and piety” (Diener 2). The skill and detail of one of these gifts could make the difference between wartime and peacetime, and the gifts of one queen during this period served to assure “residents … that the days of bloodshed were in the past,” establishing a positive repertoire between the people and their new king (12). Similarly, there is evidence in Europe that many “important embroideries were made in convents” (Young 1), as higher class women who remained unmarried were often sent to live as nuns. These women would send textiles to monks and priests that served to both forge and bolster friendships between “religious foundations” (Diener 2). Each textile produced by either a noblewoman or a nun held “gravity” (3), and queens specifically often had groups of women within their households to assist them in the production of such textiles. Embroidery for women was also a means of establishing a social reputation and protecting themselves; during the 12th century, communities of women who relied on the support of “male monasteries to survive” (19) created spiritual friendships and allegiances through their handicrafts. However, in the 17th century, the mindset regarding embroidery shifted from understanding it as a tool of power to considering it a means of women’s oppression; women were told to “stick to thy lace,” “burn your pens … and purchase wool,” and “darn your stockings” (King 2) rather than engage in the art of writing, for example. In modern days, feminist activists and groups of women have used embroidery as a critique against the oppressive domestic sphere, using embroidery not as a means of female subjugation but as a “resistance to male domination” (Emery 1) and a way to honour the importance of handicrafts in women’s history. Pizan herself benefitted from a noble and privileged upbringing. Her father, Tommaso di Benvenuto da Pizzano, was a municipal counselor who advocated for her education and encouraged her interest in literature (Pizan xix). After the death of her father and her husband, Pizan turned to writing for financial support (Malcolmson 2) and often wrote under the sponsorship of patrons and patronesses, making her written work largely intended for noble audiences. Her manuscripts were often beautifully illuminated, the production of which Pizan oversaw herself, making her “one of the first vernacular authors who supervised the copying and illuminating of her own books” (Pizan xxi). In 1402, Pizan wrote and published “Le dit de la rose,” a direct response to Jean de Meun and Guillaume de Lorris’s text Le Roman de la Rose—a medieval poem that Pizan criticized for depicting misogynistic stereotypes of women. Such a response was received within the literary discussion of the “querelle des femmes” or “the woman question” (Pizan xiii), a popular literary debate regarding the “nature and status of women” (Malcolmson 4). For some, this discussion represented the voice of literate women who felt oppressed by misogynistic culture but who “were empowered by it at the same time to speak out in their defense” (Kelly 2). Originally published in France in 1405, The Book of the City of Ladies responds to the woman question, likely making it a prominent manuscript within royal courts at the time, though Pizan’s writing has been largely overlooked when it comes to significant medieval literature. As a result, it is difficult to ascertain the extent to which her works were known and read in the 15th to 17th centuries (2); however, certain preserved manuscripts provide insight into the courtly significance of her Livre de la Cité des Dames. The Harley 4431 manuscript in the British Library was commissioned by Queen Isabeau de Baviere between 1410 and 1412 (Green, 1). This manuscript holds literary value because it likely “represents the ultimate form of the work as intended by Christine”; indeed, it is possible that she “corrected it in her own hand” (Pizan xliv-xlv). The manuscript is further proof of Pizan’s relationship to patrons and patronesses at the time and further solidifies her readership as members of the nobility and higher class. In making this crafted object, I felt connected to both historical and modern women in their endeavor to speak out against the oppressive patriarchal culture, whether they used embroidery as a means of sending hidden messages to other women—as men were seldom “educated in the complex language of needlework symbology” (Emery 7)—or writing an allegorical city for women to be protected within. Crafting this object has highlighted the significance and power that physical objects can hold, be it a work of writing of a piece of embroidery. In depicting the instruments held by Reason, Rectitude, and Justice, I want to highlight the effort that goes into both recognizing and working to unlearn misogynistic conventions. According to Reason, “no one can look into [her] mirror, no matter what kind of creature, without achieving clear self-knowledge” (Pizan 9). The physical mirror shards that I have embroidered into the frame of the mirror invite the viewer to see themselves in relation to both the history of these women and the current issues we are facing today; viewers are invited to consider how they may be upholding—and, in some cases, endorsing—such conventions. In writing the names of the women from The Decameron, I aim to bring attention to the treatment of women in literary history. In honour of these women—fictional or otherwise—"Philomel" has been crafted as their own metaphorical City of Ladies.
• hibiscusI / "The Vegetarian"
  This décollage object explores the tearing away of Yeong-hye’s body and identity that occurs in Han Kang’s The Vegetarian. By using the décollage technique, I was able to explore the visceral experience of physically being able to rip something away. Using everyday materials allows an inquiry into the internal self of Yeong-hye and the outside forces that are manipulative around her. Indulging in the lines between organic and inorganic, visceral and mundane in this crafted object gives way to a consideration of self-involvement in an experiential way. Embodying the violence that occurs in the text showcases the different power dynamics that are at play in the novel, allowing an investigation into Yeong-hye’s consenting and non-consenting actions. ELLA LAHEY ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: In my final project, I wanted to highlight the inner workings of the main character, Yeong-hye, of Han Kang’s novel The Vegetarian. In my previous reflections, on the making processes of décollaging, rag rugging, and typesetting, I tended to focus on the three narrators of the text and the format of the novel, which is split into three main sections correlating with each of the narrators. The text never gives us more than a brief glimpse into the thinking of Yeong-hye. Other than momentary dream sequences from Yeong-hye’s past, there is nothing to go on except the interpretation of those who are observing her. For my final project, I wanted to explore the inside of what has happened to Yeong-hye through an embodied approach. The text reveals how violent a process she is going through to try and dismantle her physical being ; thus, I chose to use décollage as my craft practice. In the piece, the viewer is able to see the rips and different layers at play as the internal elements of the décollage are exposed. Through my crafted object, I investigate Yeong-hye’s inner self and inner dialogue through an embodied approach. Letting myself indulge in the violence of the novel heightened my experience of reading and learning from the text, allowing me to expand my knowledge past the novel’s textual mode and access its meaning in an experiential way. The materials of the décollage were important to the process of creation: I had an opportunity to source the materials myself, as opposed to being given materials in a classroom setting to work with. All the materials I used were recycled from objects within my own home, including the backing of my piece. It is the backing of an old mirror that fell and broke, which I felt was fitting because that is exactly what Yeong-hye is trying to do: not be concerned with her physical appearance or looks. Incorporating this element of vanity into the process allowed me to be fully immersed in what Yeong-hye was trying to get rid of within herself. The brown paper that lines the mirror and that is ripped away to reveal the hibiscus center is from grocery delivery bags. I felt a need to include a dietary element in some way, as that is what Kang chooses to use as a vessel to explain her commentary about control and obsession in the text. The materials used for the central image primarily came from Vogue Magazine cuttings that I have been collecting. I found it ironic using superficial vanity-based material to represent a person who is attempting to get rid of her material self. What makes décollage so relevant to this text is that you are able to use the everyday materials of life to represent something larger than you, just as Kang does through the metaphor of vegetarianism in the novel. Finally, I felt the need to use an organic material in the craft, as Yeong-hye is preoccupied with being solely organic matter in her quest to become a tree. Thus, I cut off a piece of my hair to include in the décollage; this hair sprouts from the stomach of the woman at the centre of my piece. In a text that focuses so heavily on self-mutilation and destruction, I felt like I had to participate in some bodily way. By using my own piece of hair in my crafted object, I was able to feel a tiny part of the visceral experience Kang was trying to convey through her novel. The name of the piece is significant to the décollage as well, as I wanted viewers to interact with the text in different ways, without even knowing it. hibiscusI suggests that there are going to be more variations of the décollage, possibly hibiscusII or hibiscusIII. What I wanted to evoke with the name is that this piece is possibly not a standalone exhibit of the novel, yet I will never create another piece in the feasible series, making hibiscusI an independent décollage. This choice of name reflects Yeong-hye’s experiences in the novel and Kang’s commentary on the sexualized and gendered violence that is a common occurrence in South Korea. Though what Yeong-hye goes through is extreme and uncommon, the experience of being under the control of a patriarchal power is not. What Kang suggests is that sexualized violence can feel like a lone experience, but in fact an invisible pattern of it exists throughout South Korea and in other cultural contexts. What I found fascinating about moving through this experience through the book was the original reception of the novel, by both Anglophone and Korean readers. Published in 2007 as three separate novellas, the text was often interpreted by Korean readers as “bizarre and weird” but has since been sold as a cult classic (Shin). Prior to this final reflection, I was not aware of its previous status as a novella. I attribute this unawareness to my lack of time reading Korean reviews and only spending time on Anglophone reactions to the novel. This inattention to the original Korean publication reveals the problem of translation in both the actual text and the reaction to and circulation of it. Charse Yun’s “You Say Melon, I Say Lemon: Deborah Smith's Flawed Yet Remarkable Translation of "The Vegetarian" provides thoughtful insight into the problems of translations and why Deborah Smith’s translation is not entirely deserving of the criticism it has received in South Korea. He argues that though Smith added some ‘Westernized’ flair to the novel, “she successfully introduced a work of literature to people who might otherwise never have had a chance to read it” (Yun). This statement solidified how I felt about my own crafts I have been producing about the book this semester. At the beginning of the course, I was concerned with using a translated text and some of the challenges that would come with it, including interpreting correctly. While I do share some of those same concerns now, I view my process of making crafted objects around this text differently. Translation is supposed to allow others, who might not normally have the chance to interpret, an opportunity to comprehend and enjoy the text. That is what other students and I have been doing through crafted objects: interpreting a text and allowing our own experiences to fall into our final crafted projects. I do not expect my own crafted piece to be an exact replica of what the text represents and means, but rather a holistic view of my experience as one reader interacting with the novel. Décollage works as a way to interpret a text like The Vegetarian because of its readily available meaning-making by its viewers. This availability can partly be attributed to its connection to and derivation from collage. The history of collage is intertwined with means of processing the world and is “neither medium nor genre, but a mode; a means of processing the world as it was encountered by individuals across cultures and geographies, who subsequently produced a creative response to that experience” (Gowerley 13). Working within this definition of collage and décollage authorizes both the creator and viewer to use these creative processes as containers of meaning. Collage started out being perceived as a domestic act of compiling, cutting, and ripping—as a hobby—but eventually evolved into ‘high art’ performed by artists like Picassso (13). I am attempting to revert to this historical notion of collage as a hobby about self-enjoyment, not as a way to capture an experience. In Fragmentary Forms, Freya Gowrley discusses the use of ‘readymades’ in collage and the impact they had on how collage is formed: Readymades (that is, an already produced object taken and elevated by an artist to the status of art) pull at the seams of how art is understood and defined by encouraging a revaluation of issues long held to be at the center of artistic achievement, such as the demonstration of a high level of technical skill, or the true-to-life representation of a subject. Instead, readymades present the hand and mind of the artist, no matter what it makes, changes, or presents, as the paramount element in a work of art. (293) Readymades are pertinent to my own work in décollaging because using everyday objects such as grocery bags is important to interpreting Kang’s allegory of vegetarianism. Kang is using the everyday ritual of eating and what Yeong-hye eats as a way of exploring the everyday reality of women in South Korea, a reality that comprises an everyday experience of control and power by patriarchal powers. Overall, this final project has led me to consider all my previous crafts projects for the course. Looking through all my work done thus far has allowed me to make this final piece in a way that engages me in a whole, embodied way—and engages with the text to the utmost extent. Analyzing what makes Yeong-hye undertake these actions produces a process that posits how décollage functions to provide meaning from objects that can act as vessels for exploration. Working within this particular mode of meaning-making has been fruitful in all aspects of creation, from the materials that I used to my destruction of them. Taking a deep dive into Yeong-hye’s character has let me inspect both my own and historical creative processes.
• Patchwork Quilt / "Beloved"
  This project was inspired by a family quilt that appears as a motif in the novel. The quilt represents connection, comfort, and continuity—things that bind individuals, families, and communities together. I chose to repurpose a range of old textiles, using remnants of the past, each with their own story, to create something new—a mosaic of sorts. In Beloved, each of the characters’ individual stories, no matter how short or fragmented, and points of view come together to tell one larger story, and that layering is mirrored on my quilt. The layers points of connection within those stories are the layers of batting and backing placed underneath the quilt top. Though the connected patchwork appears to be seamless, underneath it all, there are frayed seams barely clinging together, connected and strengthened by those connections. This effect reflects how the characters’ trauma and memories, though fragmented, are woven into something enduring and meaningful. NICOLE ROGERS ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: There is a colourful patchwork quilt in Toni Morrison’s Beloved that moves through the novel as a motif, representing comfort, connection, and continuity. This motif connects to Beloved’s central themes, which are rooted in the trauma of slavery, personal and collective healing, memory, and community. Published in 1987, Beloved was very well received and went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1988. Inspired by the real story of Margaret Garner, the novel gives a voice to African-Americans silenced by history. Morrison draws attention to the smaller, everyday details and experiences of mid-19th-century African-American people, ultimately humanizing them and detailing the quiet acts of survival rather than focusing on statistics and monumental events. Sethe’s family’s patchwork quilt is an example of this and is the inspiration for my final project: my own patchwork quilt. I wanted to explore the impact of quilts and quilting and to create a mosaic representing remnants of the past coming together to create something new. Going into my final project, I was hesitant. I was worried that because quilting has such a long history in African-American communities, I might be overstepping as a white woman. What I discovered was that quilting is an activity that, through its long history, actually unites people from many different backgrounds. I started my research by combing through a master list of quilting resources published by art historian Dr. Jess Bailey. There were books and articles detailing quilting traditions all over the world, from Wales to pre-colonial America to South Africa and Japan. Quilting among African Americans began as labour imposed in service to white households, but, over time, it was reclaimed as a powerful form of expression, storytelling, and resilience within African-American communities. Quilting can be traced all the way back to ancient civilizations. What I found was that in each tradition, quilting is an act of care. It represents our human instinct to create something that nurtures and sustains, both physically and emotionally. Quilters can tend to their spirit while creating something that will keep their family warm for years to come. A quilt’s utilitarian purpose, along with the lack of formal training involved, is what makes quilting a folk art (MacDowell). Author and quilter Beth Gutcheon is widely quoted in the quilting community for saying that “[a] woman made utility quilts as fast as she could so her family wouldn’t freeze, and she made them as beautiful as she could so her heart wouldn’t break” (1). Quilts and skills in quilt-making are often handed down from one generation to the next, meaning that in centuries past, women could be recognized and remembered for their art long after they were gone—even though their roles were often confined to the domestic sphere. Quilting is ultimately an important piece of women’s history and continues to be an important source of community among women today. In Beloved, the patchwork quilt is a representation of creativity and expression while also being an everyday object that is passed between family members, mended, and wrapped around bodies when they are cold or sick. My quilting project was my own space for creative expression. It was also a space for mistakes to be made. I started by pulling out every bit of scrap fabric that I had left over from past sewing projects. I laid out my batting as a size guide to place my pieces on top of and just started taking pieces that were already cut into small rectangles and placing them randomly—a sort of intentional disorder. I then cut some of the favourites that I had left to fill in the gaps. I wanted my quilt to be scrappy and follow no clear pattern. I wanted to make use of what I already had. What I discovered was that finding a way to sew so many strangely sized and arranged pieces was not easy. Some of my corners came out wonky, and I spent a lot of time with my seam ripper. This process took a lot of patience and care. I wanted to make something that I could be proud of and that would stand the test of time. Though in the end, my quilt top was not perfectly straight, I loved it for its imperfection. I thought about my grandma who quilted until the day she died and all of the makers who came before me, makers like Sethe and Baby Suggs, who were using scrap fabric from textiles past and making do. I increasingly had a clear image in my mind of the patchwork quilt in Beloved. I thought about who might use my quilt throughout its life and whether I would need to restitch it in spots that wore down. I reflected on the significance of the quilt for the characters in Beloved as a family tradition is passed on along with a quilt. Pieces of the family are all a part of the quilt, and this family presence would be why Beloved becomes so attached to the quilt later in the novel. I then made the last-minute decision to hand quilt all of my layers together. Once they were basted and chalk lines were drawn, I got to sit down and enjoy the simple and repetitive process of hand quilting. I could let my mind rest and surrender myself to the quilting process. Eventually, my fingers and back grew sore. I adjusted my posture and considered the extent of the physical labour involved before sewing machines were available and affordable. I pictured the hands of makers in generations before me, telling a story through their quilting. I wondered when someone finally invented the thimble. The way that I sewed pieces and layers together to make my quilt also speaks to the lives and stories that come together in Beloved. Each of my fabric pieces has a story from my past or my loved ones’ pasts. Last Christmas, I made my sister a set of cloth napkins out of brown linen. A few years ago, my brother gave me his old duvet cover (white with vines and red flowers) because it was worn and ready to be replaced. I salvaged the strongest parts of the fabric and tucked them away to make something else of them later. A few pieces were left over from a past quilt that I made for a friend’s baby. Using those remnants of baby muslin and cotton patterned with woodland creatures felt like the perfect way to honour the baby daughter who dies in Beloved while reflecting on themes of innocence, memory, and loss that run through the novel. The memories of the baby are woven into the story through Beloved and the haunting of 124, so I stitched a bit of that into my quilt. The small square of silk that I included represents the luxury of the velvet that Amy Denver speaks about. I had never thought much of her character before, but carefully sewing that silk in, knowing how difficult it was for me to find when I had originally bought it, made me think about how Amy’s seeking out velvet was really her way of seeking out freedom and life beyond survival. In that sense, my silk also represents Sethe and Denver’s searching for the same thing as they work through trauma. I included red fabric for no reason in particular, but, once it was in, I thought about the red cover on the newer editions of Beloved. The colour choice was not something that I had considered before, but I wondered if it was meant to represent the violence and the passion of characters’ stories. Each of their individual stories, no matter how short or fragmented, and their points of view coming together to tell one larger story are mirrored on my quilt. The layers’ points of connection within those stories are the layers of batting and backing placed underneath the quilt top. Though the surface of the quilt appears to be seamless, underneath it all, there are frayed seams barely clinging together, connected and strengthened by those connections. There was a lot that I wanted to say with this quilt project. There is also a lot that I learned about the way that Beloved works and the depth of its characters. Making, be it a quilt or a story, is an act of preservation but also an act of honouring the past by creating something meaningful in the present.
• Do You Remember Candle Cove? / "Candle Cove"
  This crafted object combines the artistic practice of painting and video editing on a laptop’s screen to explore Kris Straub’s Candle Cove. The edited video uses a mixture of uploaded content on YouTube to examine how Candle Cove was shared online as part of the digital genre of creepypasta (taken from the computer commands “copy and paste”). The video also investigates the text’s thematic placement within the wider horror genre by sampling clips from popular horror movies, such as Perfect Blue (1997) and The Ring (2002). The painted screen reflects the narrative delivery of Straub’s text, with each color representing a character in the story. Together, the colors highlight the role of individual and collective memory in Straub’s story. When combined, these artistic forms reflect the themes of Candle Cove whereby one’s memory and understanding of images are called into question. Through this crafted object, I considered the narrative form and genre of Candle Cove. CEDAR FLYNN ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Kris Straub’s short horror story, Candle Cove, explores the malleable barrier between memory and fiction. Narratively, the story is delivered through a group of characters detailing their memories of watching a disturbing childhood show. Throughout the narrative, characters question whether the program even existed at times asking if their memories of the program are manufactured or perhaps even a “dream” (Straub 26). The finale of the story reflects the characters’ questioning of their memory back onto the reader, revealing that the show’s imagery was in fact nothing but “dead air for 30 minutes” (Straub 27). It becomes the reader’s responsibility to decide whether the memories presented were fictional or something more horrific. Originally published on Kris Straub’s website, ichorfalls.com, in 2009, Candle Cove was positively received for how it used its digital format to deliver its horror. Because the story is formatted as a message board, an online reader of the story could easily read the text unaware that it is a piece of fiction. As Joe Ondrak writes, the message board presentation grants the story a “degree of verisimilitude” whereby an online reader of the narrative takes it as “a ‘found’ conversation between real people” (Ondrak 174). The digital world’s façade of reality presents the horror in the story as a real event. For a reader unaware of the fictitious nature of Straub’s text, they too are made to question whether the show existed in the real world. This façade was further strengthened with Candle Cove being shared online within the tradition of creepypasta. Creepypastas are horror texts that were originally spread over the internet. For scholars such as Valentia Tanni, creepypastas are the internet’s “digital folklore,” with the narratives being a collaborative process using a multitude of artistic media “that anyone can contribute to” (Tanni 84). For Candle Cove, the text first spread online with “people copying and pasting the link to the original story” (Ondrak 174). However, people began sharing the story in many ways, from “performing it on real forums and message boards” to creating YouTube videos claiming to be real episodes of the diegetic television show (Ondrak 174-175). Candle Cove’s spread as a creepypasta blurred the line between reality and fiction: online, one can stumble across discussions and videos presenting the narrative of Candle Cove as a real story without the knowledge of its fictitious nature. Because Candle Cove was originally published digitally, I wanted to capture its digital origins in my crafted object. To achieve this effect, I decided to focus on visuals on a laptop’s screen. Inherent to the tradition of creepypastas is the combination of artistic forms to spread a story, so I felt it would be appropriate to use two main artistic approaches. The approaches are split between physical and digital art: physically, the laptop has had its screen painted over with acrylic, while digitally, an edited video is played on the screen. To highlight the visual aspect of my crafted object, I decided that video would not contain sound. My project aims to explore how the text is narratively delivered and how it was spread as a creepypasta. The concept of a painted screen was inspired by Canadian artist IAIN BAXTER&’s art series titled Television Works 1999-2006. While BAXTER& states his use of a painted screen is focused on the “pervasiveness of technology & its relation to our natural and social landscapes,” for my crafted object, I used the image of the painted screen to highlight the role of collective and individual memory in Straub’s narrative (Iain Baxter&). With the story’s narrative being delivered through the characters exchanging individual memories, at times the characters correct details of one another’s forum posts. These corrections highlight that through the exchange of their individual memories, the characters are constructing a collective memory of the past. To reflect the construction of collective memory in my crafted object, the laptop’s screen was painted in four different colored quadrants, with each individual color representing one of the characters in Straub’s story. Like how individual memories in Straub’s text are combined to create a collective, the individual colors cover only part of the screen, and it is only when they are viewed collectively that the entire screen is filled. When planning how to paint the laptop’s screen, I questioned whether there was any way to signify the digital nature of Straub’s text with paint. I realized that this could be done through visual representation. To visualize the digital aspect of Straub’s text, the colors blue, yellow, red, and green were chosen based on their resemblance to the colors in the 2009 Microsoft logo. To create these colors, the physical mixing of paints was required. As I mixed paints to achieve desired colors, the process reminded me of the mixture of forms that Candle Cove can appear in as a creepypasta. Like how mixing the paint together forms a new color, I realized that the different online presentations of Candle Cove, whether retellings or fan-created videos, still come together to form the digital myth of the text. As a creepypasta, the narrative of Candle Cove is constructed through a mixture of forms. The edited video was directly inspired by filmmaker Jane Schoenburn’s experimental 2018 documentary, A Self-Induced Hallucination. Schoenburn’s documentary is constructed “entirely of footage uploaded to YouTube” to explore how the creepypasta “The Slender Man” was spread online across 2009-2018 (A Self-induced Hallucination 00:40). Similarly to Schoenburn’s documentary, the edited video I created uses clips from YouTube videos to visually display how Candle Cove is shared online. While I wanted the video to showcase how the story was spread online, I also hoped that the video would spread the story itself. Ideally, a viewer could watch the video and gain some semblance of Candle Cove’s narrative. To achieve my desire, I focused on how Soviet filmmaker, Sergi Eisenstein, claimed that the editing technique of montage can be used to present “an idea that arises from the collision of independent shots” (Eisenstein 49). With Eisenstein’s commentary in mind, I realized I could structure my video based on the plot of Candle Cove and use the pairing of clips to communicate the story’s narrative. One concern I had when beginning to gather content for the video was whether to include clips from the official adaptation of Candle Cove, season one of Syfy network’s Channel Zero (2016). I felt concerned that the use of clips from an official adaptation would distract from how the story was spread using fan-created content. However, as I gathered content to create my video, my concern was lessened. I discovered that, on YouTube, videos, such as “Candle Cove Clip #1 – Bravery Cave” by “itzAdyden,” have clips from Syfy’s show uploaded with little to no reference to their original source, instead presented them as real episodes of the show described in Straub’s story. Through videos like “itzAdyen’s,” Syfy’s adaptation becomes recontextualized as Candle Cove’s fictional program, allowing users to use the content in the spread of the creepypasta. Because of this process of recontextualization, I had no qualms about using clips from Syfy’s adaptation within my video, as I realized they still captured how the story was spread online. As I edited the video, I realized that through the editing process, I could explore Candle Cove through the lens of comparative analysis with other horror texts. Thinking about Eisenstein’s theory of “intellectual montage,” where the pairing of shots suggests an intellectual linkage, I began to add clips from horror movies I felt explored similar themes to Straub’s story (Eisenstein 82). Through comparative analysis, I became aware of how Candle Cove’s horror is presented by focusing on human fears of technology. For example, the imagery of the static television screen at the end of Candle Cove is present in films such as Poltergeist (1982) or The Ring (2002), and when this connection is visually signified, the text’s thematic similarities to these films are made apparent. Candle Cove, like The Ring and Poltergeist, uses the concept of a sinister technological force to inflict fear on its readers, focusing on how technology could possibly alter one’s understanding of their reality. As I completed my final project by combining the painted screen and edited video, I became filled with delight. I loved that when my chosen art forms were combined, the contents of the video became visually blurred by the painted screen. Like the characters of Straub’s text questioning their own memories of specific images, a viewer of my object is made to question the visually obscured images on the laptop’s screen. I felt pleased that with my crafted object I was able to communicate central themes of Straub’s text within an artistic form. Most of all, though, I greatly enjoyed that the process of creating my object made me experiment with two different artistic approaches that led to new understandings of my chosen text.
• A Mother's Grief / "Hamnet"
  My project features two hands, and it symbolizes the connection between Agnes and her son. Inspired by a drawing I created while reading the book, the design explores the themes of connection, loss, and transcendence that Maggie O’Farrell weaves throughout the novel. The hands reflect the bond that forms between mother and child and is a key element of Agnes’s journey as she grapples with the feelings that are upon her in the aftermath of the death of her son. While stitching the project together, I found myself thinking about how readers resonate with the themes of grief and resilience. Creating this artwork, I was able to look deeper into the meaning of loss, and it showed me how it manifests differently for everyone and still remains universally impactful. Transforming this interpretation into an artistic piece helped enrich the themes and emotions to me when it comes to the human experience. MACKENZIE LARKIN ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet richly explores themes of grief, love, connection and creativity. O’Farrell looks at the impacts of the devastation that comes with the loss of a child and how the family navigates the effects and the aftermath of this profound grief. Protagonist Agnes’s love for her children and her husband is explored, and it is obvious the sacrifices that she makes for their happiness and survival. The theme of family dynamics is a central part of O’Farrell’s novel, and it is these dynamics that highlight how individuals shape their relationships and the legacies that can be inherited. Another key theme of Hamnet is the connection between human life and the natural world; Agnes is an example of this when she finds the rhythms of nature and finds the interconnectedness of all living things. One could further consider themes in the novel’s portrayal of the plague, which acts as both a personal tragedy and the reminder that life has a fragility to it, and each individual experiences it differently. This novel examines the essence of storytelling and the means it provides to preserve one’s memory in an attempt to transcend mortality and death. Embroidery in relation to Maggie O’Farrell’s novel can be seen as a powerful symbol that intertwines themes of memory and grief. Through the character creation of Agnes throughout the book, readers can start to form an understanding as to how embroidery may help O’Farrell in representing the traditional role of domestic crafts and the ideas of care, expression, and resistance. Agnes is a natural healer and has a very profound connection with the natural world. Her intuitive understanding of people helps her channel her own emotions, which can be linked to the emotions that can be portrayed by embroidery projects. With every stitch, there is a symbolized connection to Agnes’s desire to weave together her life fragments and bring together her life, memories, and relationships each holding their own significance. Embroidery also helps to mirror the novel’s exploration of the fragile connections between Agnes’s past and present and the ideas of life and death. The connection between embroidery and the death of Hamnet can be seen as a way for her to process the grief she is struggling with. The repetitive, meditative nature of stitching reflects Agnes’s attempts to create order within the chaos that is her mourning in a tactile way that allows her to hold onto what she has lost, “Every life has its kernel, its hub, its epicentre, from which everything flows out, to which everything returns.” (O’Farrell, 8). Creating something through embroidery parallels the novel’s narrative, helps create a way of preserving memory, and transforms the pain felt by tragedy into something that can be admired by others. Just as O’Farrell investigates the dynamics of creation and legacy, embroidery represents the different but equally profound forms of artistry created by people. Using embroidery as a motif resonates with Hamnet and emphasizes the interconnectedness of life and the way that love and loss can be woven seamlessly into the human experience, as the narrator observes: “She grows up, too, with the memory of what it meant to be properly loved, for what you are, not what you ought to be” (O’Farrell, 58). O’Farrell highlights the enduring power of creativity as is an act of remembrance and as a way to mend the fractured pieces of the heart. Throughout the process of creating my embroidery project, I had to learn patience and the importance of both creativity and the feeling of satisfaction from creating something by hand. Although embroidery can appear quite simple, I quickly realized that it is a very intricate art form requiring focus and care. I was taught that each stitch has to be made with intention and that you have to learn that accepting imperfection gets the job done. As I worked through my project, something else I learned was that it is actually important to slow down and appreciate the process rather than rushing through it just to get it done because when you rush, you are more likely to make mistakes and miss the meaning behind the design you create. Selecting colours and patterns helped me engage with the creativity that I thought I had lost in the most unexpected ways and helped reteach me that even when I think the smallest details don’t matter, they actually make all the difference to cohesion. The process reminded me that art is just as much about discipline as it is about inspiration and that looking beyond technical skills offers feelings that are meditative and calming. The rhythm that comes from stitching provides a sense of calm and focus and offers a welcome escape from the chaos of everyday life. I think my biggest lesson is that it is important to value even the smallest imperfections in my work, no matter how frustrating they are. The reason for this is that accepting the imperfections is evidence of effort and growth rather than a flaw. Overall, I think that choosing to work on this embroidery project helped me to find a new hobby that taught me not only technical skills but also helped nurture my creativity and offered me a personal insight that I hope to hold onto for the future. Spending the last couple of weeks working on the embroidery project helped to enrich the initial interpretation I had of Hamnet. It allowed me to find a connection between embroidery and the novel’s themes of memory, grief, and creativity on a more personal and tactile level. When I first engaged with embroidery in class, it held my interest and attention, and then getting to do it again for my final project as well as in my personal time offered me several different outlooks on Agnes and her quiet strength and resilience. Threading each colour of string through the needle and stitching together the embroidery pattern brought the novel’s exploration of loss and people’s processing of loss to the forefront and inspired me to look at how loss can influence finding meaning in creation. Each stitch is a symbol of the threads that bind individuals to one another, which looks at how interconnected relationships especially inside the pages of the novel are and how the bond between Agnes and her child, in particular her son has remained preserved. Just as Agnes preserves the memory of her son and channels her grief, embroidery becomes a metaphor for life’s fragility as well as its inherent beauty. As the narrator notes, her son’s memory and her grief “will lie at her very core, for the rest of her life” (O’Farrell, 9). The imperfections of the stitching mirror the imperfections of love in the novel; this parallel reminded me of how O’Farrell integrates ideas of strength and vulnerability in her characters. My own project allowed me to understand that O’Farrell was telling a story about enduring love, memory, and creativity and that stitching together the fragments of my embroidery project created a connection to Agnes trying to stitch back together the broken fragments of her life after her son's life ended.
• The Red Hat / "The Catcher in the Rye"
  I chose the red hunting hat as my craft object. In the novel, Holden buys this red hunting hat when he is ostracized by his fencing team due to his error of losing all the team’s equipment. This hat is indicative of Holden’s rage and rebellious spirit—and “when worn with the peak around to the back,” the hat also symbolizes Holden’s wish to be a catcher in the rye (Graham 45). The red color of the hat might also be related to Holden’s mourning for his deceased brother Allie, who had red hair (Graham 61). Later, Holden gifts this hat to his beloved younger sister Phoebe. The word origami comes from two Japanese words: “Japanese oru [“to fold”] and kami [“paper”]” (Robinson). It was a practice that was popular among nobles in ancient Japan due to the scarcity of paper (“Kinetic Joy”). NARCISSA GU ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: While research points to the invention of the practice of origami in Japan “about a thousand years ago,” the origin of origami can actually be traced back to China (Robinson). In ancient Japan, “Orikata, meaning folded shapes” was an important skill for members of the upper echelon. Different styles of “formal gift/ritual wrappings were developed for such things as money, poetry, and fans” (“Kinetic Joy”). Due to the high cost of paper, paper folding was restricted to the “privileged class for religious rituals, and formal ceremonies” before the invention of the more affordable washi paper in the Edo period (“Kinetic Joy”). In 1680, Japanese poet Ihara Saikaku mentioned an origami butterfly in a poem (Robinson). In the contemporary world, the influence of origami can be seen in various fields: “furniture design, home decor, architecture, installation art, robotics design, engineering, and medical solutions” (“Kinetic Joy”). When I read the Catcher in the Rye for the first time, the red hunting hat and the way Holden wears it backwards really stood out to me due to their idiosyncrasy. Therefore, for this final project, I chose to create an origami hat that is inspired by the iconic red hunting hat. I first dabbled in origami when I was an elementary school student. A few years ago, I picked origami up as a pastime again, followed YouTube tutorials online, and was able to fold slightly more complex shapes such as a dress and a heart shape. What amazes me is the versatility of the paper. I got the paper for the origami at Munro’s bookstore in downtown Victoria, and the paper has Chinese-style prints on it (“Chinese Silk”). I followed a YouTube video in order to make this origami hat, and it took me several attempts before I could finally succeed in making the hat (“How to make paper hat”). I found that video tutorials were easier to follow than illustration guides. The red hunting hat is an important motif in the novel. Holden purchases the hat after he feels like an outsider on the fencing team after he loses the fencing equipment on the subway. In this instance, the red hat signifies that Holden wants to keep a certain distance between him and the crowd in order to protect his ego and maintain his sense of uniqueness (SparkNote Editors). Holden also seeks his red hunting hat after he gets into a physical fight with his peer Stradlater, and this hat serves to shield him from the harm the outside world might inflict upon him (SparkNote Editors). The hat is indicative of “Holden’s anger (it is a people-shooting hat),” and it allows him to feel like a rebel in a world that sometimes does not accommodate him (Graham 45; SparkNote Editors). Furthermore, this hat “is a catcher’s hat (when worn with the peak around to the back),” and thus it echoes Holden’s wish to be a catcher in the rye (Graham 45). Holden also feels sort of hesitant to wear the hat in the public in some cases since he is grappling with his contradictory wishes of drawing attention to himself and conforming (SparkNote Editors). The red hat might be related to Holden’s deceased brother Allie, who had red hair (Graham 61). Near the end of the novel, Holden’s beloved sister Phoebe returns the red hunting hat to him when they are having an argument about Holden’s decision to run away to a faraway place (SparkNote Editors). In the end, after hearing Phoebe’s pleading to run away with him, Holden comes to his senses, forsakes his ridiculous and impractical plan, and takes on his responsibility as a responsible elder brother (Salinger 234). Holden decides to give in, receive treatment from therapists, and possibly resume his education (Salinger 234). From making the object, I came to the realization that just as paper seems to be thin and fragile, it can be molded into more resilient and enduring objects. Likewise, through trial and error, the emotionally volatile Holden can become a mature version of himself by the end of the novel. The Catcher in the Rye is also a work that is unique. Salinger views American society after World War Two as one “frozen at the heart and thus unable to mature” even though American citizens did not have to worry about the standards of their materialistic life much (Rowe 79-80). Salinger is preoccupied with the fact that citizens “cannot generate enough respect for their own humanity to care either for their past or their future” (Rowe 79-80). Salinger’s “own half-Jewish ancestry” and his participation in World War Two made him sympathize with marginalized communities in American society (Benson 2). Holden’s “closeted Jewishness” leads him to question “‘his own privileged ‘white’culture”’ (Benson 6). Salinger penned most parts of the novel while he was involved in the war (Benson 7). In 1945, “not long after liberating Kaufering,” Salinger spent time at a mental asylum along with the first six chapters of the Catcher (Benson 9). Prior to the publication of the Catcher, Salinger sold his short story to movie producers and “gave up all creative rights” (Benson 41). Salinger was not happy with how the movie turned out and felt “implicit in the very culture he derided” (Benson 43). Salinger was wary of the fact that his published works are open to interpretations by readers and critics, and these works seem to have become “its own thing with a biography and a life all its own driven by a public and readership” (Benson 44). The Catcher can be seen as an “antiestablishment, antiwhite supremacy novel” (Benson 41). Salinger sold his first story about Holden to the New Yorker, but the publication was set back to 1946 due to the “entry of the United States into World War II” (Salzman 3). Salinger also published some of his very important works in the New Yorker from 1948 to 1950 (Ghasemi and Ghafoori 24). However, the New Yorker turned down the chance to “run an excerpt of Catcher in 1951” since the editors believed that “‘the precocity of the four Caulfield children was not believable”’ (Menand qtd. in Ghasemi and Ghafoori 24). The Catcher was “first published in July 1951 by Little, Brown … and Company and at the same time as a Book-of-the-Month-Club selection” (Benson 51-52). Within the first month of the Catcher’s publication, “Little, Brown and Company had reprinted the novel five times” (Benson 52). In 1951, the Catcher “stayed on the bestseller list for thirty weeks, though never above fourth place” (Whitfield qtd. in Ghasemi and Ghafoori 25). The paperback version of the Catcher emerged in “a Signet Books title in 1953, selling more than three million copies over the following decade” (Benson 52). The paperback editions allowed younger generations to enjoy the novel, and university students also promoted the novel amongst their cohort (Graham 40). Then the academics started to take an interest in the novel, and university lecturers started to “include[e] it on courses in contemporary fiction and writ[e] academic analyses of it” from the “the late 1950s and into the 1960s” (Graham 40). In 1956, the first academic appraisal of the Catcher came out (Graham 41). Arthur Heiserman and James E. Miller, Jr. took notice of The Catcher’s “American literary heritage” and its “European heritage of the quest narrative” (Graham 41). Most reviews were in favour of the novel (Graham 37). Some of the critics held the novel in high regard: Clifton Fadiman praised as the novel as a “rare miracle of fiction” (Laser and Fruman qtd. in Graham 37). “In the August 1951 issue of the Atlantic”, Breit praised the novel’s ability to “‘make the reader chuckle and—rare indeed—even laugh aloud"’ (Salzman 5). Some critics view the Catcher as overrated and not worthy of its critical acclaim (Benson 51). Some critics deemed the novel “‘monotonous and phony”’ since it contains “‘excessive use of amateur swearing and coarse language’” (Salzberg and Hall qtd. in Graham 38). Some critics, however, gave credit to the use of coarse language since this kind of diction indicates “‘the emotions and memories which overwhelm him’” (Salzberg qtd. in Graham 38). Some critics even feared that “wide circulation” of the novel would result in the increase of numbers of Holden-like figures in real life (Bloom qtd. in Graham 38). The political environment of the 50s, which discouraged individualism, fueled censorship (Benson 53). The “first official complaint” filed against Catcher took place in 1955 (Graham 17). In a noteworthy case in 1962, there was a dispute about the novel being assigned to high school students in California on the grounds that the novel “‘takes the Lord’s name in vain 295 times and uses blatant blasphemy 587 times’” (Laser and Fruman qtd. in Graham 18). Another complaint highlighted how the novel was “‘obsessed with the abnormal and debauchery’” (Laser and Fruman qtd. in Graham 18). Even though the novel was criticized for expletives and “references to sexuality,” what was truly concerning was probably “Holden’s indictment of an affluent white culture to which people aspired” (Benson 53). Salinger’s critique of “male-centered white supremacy through his narrator Holden Caulfield” also led the novel to be banned (Benson 12). The people who proposed banning this novel usually categorized themselves as belonging to the “New Right,” and this group is mainly constituted of “fundamental white male Christians” (Benson 15). The Catcher was regarded as “harbinger for the counter-culture of the 1960s” and the spokesperson for “alienated youth of the fifties” (Benson 53). Two years after the publication of the Catcher, Salinger also got romantically involved with a woman named Claire who was much younger than him, and thus Salinger “retreated from his budding fame into a monastic-like apartment in Manhattan” (Benson 48). Salinger’s interest in “Eastern philosophy and religion,” which stressed the importance of “simplicity, nature, and spirituality,” might also explain his recluse-like lifestyle (Benson 48). Salinger later moved to “a plain farmhouse in Cornish, New Hampshire” and stopped publishing altogether after 1965 (Graham 8).
• Matchbox Crops / "Burn Our Bodies Down"
  My crafted object is a matchbox that I painted to show the night sky over Margot’s grandmother’s crops. I drew two matches on opposite sides of the matchbox to represent Margot and her family on opposing sides but left the rest of the sides unpainted. I also included the quotation “Keep a fire burning, a fire is what saves you” because it is repeated continuously throughout the novel. I used acrylic paint to paint the background; paint pens for the corn, moon, stars, lettering and grass; and then felt markers to outline. This process made me think about the physicality and symbolism of fire in Burn Our Bodies Down. Furthermore, I wanted to combine the symbols of fire (by using the quotation) and growth (by depicting the corn crops) to show how, as the novel suggests, destruction can be necessary to starting over. FERN HILL ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: For my final project, I painted a matchbox, using acrylic paint, markers, and paint pens to create a cornfield at night. On the two ends of the matchbox, I put a quotation that is repeated throughout the novel: “Keep a fire burning; a fire is what saves you” (Power 7). At first, I struggled to decide which crafting techniques I should use because there were so many different ones we tried in class, and I was unsure if I wanted to try something entirely different or bridge off one of our class techniques. Originally, I had thought about doing something with collage because it is a technique I often do for fun, but instead I decided to try painting, which is outside my comfort zone. I decided to experiment with a variety of acrylic paint, paint pens, and markers. I first painted the background, which I struggled a bit with because the matchbox logo kept showing through the acrylic paint. Next, I used paint pens to do details such the lettering, corn, moon, grass, and stars. Finally, I waited for the paint to dry and then used a marker to outline small details and add a small drawn match on parallel sides of the matchbox. In my crafting, I wanted to capture the eeriness of an empty cornfield at night because much of Burn Our Bodies Down takes place at night as Margot sneaks around to avoid being caught by her grandmother (Vera). Similarly, I wanted to show the uneasiness of having to sneak around in an unknown place in the dark where you do not know what is waiting in the shadows. Likewise, I drew two matches facing opposite sides of the matchbox to represent how Margot and her mother (Josephine) are genetically clones but have grown into separate beings from each other. Josephine and Margot are biologically the same, so they should be completely the same in character as well; however, they have become increasingly different individuals because of how they were raised. Though both women carry many of the same traits, such as being stubborn, Margot was able to break out of the cycle Vera started, but Josephine couldn’t. Some parts of the matchbox I chose to leave unpainted because I wanted them to speak for themselves. Specifically, I wanted the side that read “keep out of reach of children” to be visible because it felt relevant to how Josephine kept family secrets from Margot until she was a teenager and went looking for answers herself. Additionally, I left the matchbox empty inside to represent how Margot is looking to find her identity in her family history. Throughout the crafting process, I found myself thinking about Margot and how she explores the complexities in her family relationships. I wanted to depict a physical nod to Margot’s relationship with Josephine in my crafting, as in the parallel matches that I drew, because their mother-daughter relationship is what prompts Margot to find out what happened to the rest of her family without Josephine’s help. Burn Our Bodies Down was well received by readers and critics who were fans of Power’s first novel, Wilder Girls, and said her second novel was “full of twists and turns” (Schulz). Power is known for the eerie horror fiction she creates through her dynamic characters, intense personal relationships, and backdrops that make you feel as though you’re a part of the novel. Her rich world building “engulfs you,” which makes Power’s stories incredibly compelling and impossible to put down (Schulz). If you’re like me, you might even finish the entirety of Burn Our Bodies Down in about 2 days. Moreover, Burn Our Bodies Down was originally published in July 2020, right after the initial COVID-19 lockdown. The pandemic-induced lockdown is significant because it made many people have their workplaces shifted online and work from home. Due to people being in their homes and unable to socialize like they used to, countless people had time to return to new or old hobbies such as reading. This return to reading saw the increasing popularity of people sharing book recommendations on platforms such as TikTok and creating entire reading communities under hashtags like #BookTok. Power was one of the authors who benefited from reading’s increased popularity during the pandemic because her first novel, Wilder Girls, had been published in July 2019. Readers became hooked on her writing and ended up reading her new novel, Burn Our Bodies Down. Burn Our Bodies Down focuses on “taking something familiar and twisting it just enough to tell you something is wrong,” which made me think of how matchboxes are everyday objects that have the potential to be dangerous if the user decides to make them so (source ). I believe the matchbox and matches emphasize how a fire can bring warmth and cook food for you to eat and survive on but can also bring immense destruction and death. Likewise, Margot learns the truth about why Josephine hid Vera from her but at the cost of losing her relationship with both of them. Margot learns about where she comes from, makes a best friend for the first time, and discovers how strong she is on her own. However, Margot also goes through immense turmoil as she discovers that Vera is manipulative and cruel, her best friend is murdered, and she is forced to burn down Vera’s farm to break the cycle of cloning and abuse in her family. Comparably, Margot’s journey is related to how a match can start a fire and help you survive. For Margot, fire is what “saves” her but at the cost of using its destruction to start anew (Power 7). Margot using fire to put an end to her suffering is a crucial full-circle moment in the novel because it is what caused Margot and Josephine to have one of their most vicious fights in the past when she accidentally let a candle burn out yet fire is also what saves her from Vera and Josephine’s manipulation. Last, this project taught me a lot about the connection between crafting and literary analysis. Through taking the time to sit with Burn Our Bodies Down over the course of a semester and making my matchbox, I gained a deeper connection to my text. If I had not done the Crafting Literacies course, I wouldn’t have noticed the multiple ways in which fire is a continuous symbol throughout the novel. Before doing this crafting project, I read and enjoyed Burn Our Bodies Down; however , I finished reading it in a very short amount of time. Since I finished reading the novel so quickly, I didn’t absorb the symbolism nearly as much. By doing this project, I re-read my novel and picked up on foreshadowing, the repeated symbolism of fire, and many details about Josephine and Vera that I hadn’t noticed the first time around. Furthermore, I believe this project has given me a new way to analyze literary texts that will continue to expand my knowledge in the future.
• Imitation of The Scream / "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?"
  Using embroidery thread and careful knotting, this piece reimagines Edvard Munch’s iconic painting in physical, tactile form. The craft process–maintaining tension and creating order from knots–parallels the novel’s tension between the artificial and genuine. Empathy is central to defining “humanness”, yet it is ironically exhibited only by androids and those deemed “sub-human,” while the “standard” human relies on mood devices to stabilize their emotions. In a pivotal moment, bounty hunter Phil Resch compares the androids’ existential crisis to the tortured figure in Munch’s painting, a creature rejected by society. Like the figure in The Scream androids such as Luba Luft experience profound emotional pain as they realize they lack the necessary status for acceptance. When Luba Luft is shot, she reacts with “a spasm of frantic haunted fear,” huddling “screaming”– a chilling echo of The Scream, further likening her to the tortured figure, a representation of the android’s existential plight. ALLYSON MCMAHON ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Philip K Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? engages with the politics of affect, identity, and the human condition by exploring the distinction–or perhaps lack thereof–between humans and androids in a post-apocalyptic society. Alongside my design, a reimagining of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, the structures of my knotted work uncovered a compelling narrative about the role of empathy in the novel. My project evolved into a synthesis of all the reflections and lessons I had gathered throughout the course, blending them into one final piece. As the hypocrisies ingrained in the human condition unravelled during my weaving, so too did the question of who–or what–possesses the so-called “appropriate affect,” and whether, in turn, this affect should determine the right to life. First published by Doubleday in 1968, Dick’s novel initially received positive reviews, though it was neither widely reviewed nor commercially successful at the time (Stevenson). In online correspondence with his friend and collaborator Roger Zelazny, Dick expressed satisfaction over receiving “9,000 for Electric Sheep” (Fisher). However, this sum would seem modest compared to the novel’s subsequent success when it was reissued as Blade Runner after the 1982 film adaptation, which debuted just three months after Dick’s death (Stevenson). While the film generated extensive scholarly attention, the novel has been overshadowed by its cinematic counterpart despite its status as a cornerstone of the science fiction literary genre. This duality became apparent in my exploration of the text. When discussing my novel with friends, I would often be met with blank stares. I would then ask, “Do you know the film Blade Runner?” and their eyes would suddenly light up: ah, yes. The relative invisibility of the novel in the film’s shadow intrigued me, prompting me to wonder if this overshadowing was not unlike my craft, as I was similarly met with confusion when displaying it: what exactly is that? exhibit goers and classmates wondered. The origins of knot-tying are debated, with some tracing it back to China between 381 and 221 BC, while others attribute it to Arab weavers or Indigenous peoples (Kleň). It is likely, then, that knotting developed independently across various regions, initially used for practical purposes such as making rope. The practice saw an aesthetic resurgence in the 1990s, largely because of friendship bracelets, often produced by children as symbols of affection–a labour of love. To create my project, I started with background strings and used double-hitch knots to attach various coloured leading strings, forming a grid image. While this form of craft is not formally named, it shares similarities with weaving, macramé, and other knotting crafts. As a result, categorizing my work proved challenging. While my piece uses bracelet-knotting techniques, it is not itself a bracelet; instead, it is a picture intended for display rather than wear. Just as my attempt to define my object by limiting it to a single craft technique challenged me, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? challenges the rigid distinction between "human" and "android," urging us to rethink what it means to embody humanity. Much as my craft resists categorization, Dick’s characters are made up of complex fragments that defy society's strict classifications. In Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, the boundaries between humans and androids are defined by the presence of empathy. However, this framework—like the inconsistencies in my knotting—reveals the instability of defining human emotion. Deckard is tasked with finding and killing rouge androids using the Voight-Kampff test, which measures emotional responses. In knotting, the precise placement of each coloured knot creates a coherent pattern. If I made a colour mistake, I had to work backward, undoing the knot that did not belong. Similarly, the Voight-Kampff test is designed to maintain a structured society, eliminating anyone who fails to exhibit empathy. This system constructs a “clear” definition of humanity, a neat, ordered framework. However, as I continued to knot, I faced difficulty in my tension, as some knots become too tight or too loose, much like how empathy can become misaligned. Just as uneven tension in knotting disrupted the perfection of my pattern, controlled emotions distort the authenticity of human experience. Early in the novel, we are introduced to the Penfield mood organ, a technology that allows people to manipulate their emotions. When Iran, Deckard’s wife, shuts off the television, she hears only “empty apartments,” realizing how “unhealthy it was, sensing the absence of life,” the “absence of appropriate affect.” She then “[sits] down at [her] mood organ” and “finally [finds] a setting for despair” (5). Later, during an argument, despite being in a “382 mood,” Iran dials despair again on the mood organ, feeling it is a more “appropriate” response. As scholar Peter Goldman notes, it is “ironic that Iran dials in ‘despair’ since that seems to be her usual response to her situation” (3). Iran can no longer maintain even a “normal” mood; all her moods must be simulated, making her emotions seem as artificial—if not more so—than the androids who are killed for failing to exhibit the correct emotional responses. Like the knots in my work, any attempt to characterize and control emotion is an imperfect and fragile endeavour, revealing the contradictions in both human nature and the structures that seek to define it. The image I chose to knot, The Scream, not only appears in the text but also symbolizes the androids’ desire to experience emotions. When Deckard and his partner, Phil Resch, visit an art gallery on a mission to eliminate an android named Luba Luft, they encounter The Scream. As they view the painting, Resch remarks, “this is how an android must feel” (121). With a lifespan of only four years, androids seek meaning beyond servitude. Luba Luft, an opera singer, longs for a larger purpose and to experience the emotion she sees reflected in art. When Resch shoots Luba, she reacts with “a spasm of frantic haunted fear,” huddling against the “wall of the elevator screaming,” echoing the anguish of The Scream (124). Here, Luba demonstrates a capacity for fear, revealing her growing understanding of human emotion. Like the figure in the painting, Luba exists in existential anxiety, alienated and unable to express the "appropriate affect" that society demands–and ultimately killed for it. Yuying Wang and Tianhu Hao argue that “androids do not want to remain enslaved”; they seek “merely the ability to have desires and emotions,” to “live a life like every man.” Luba Luft, like other androids, longs to feel and to be acknowledged. Her portrayal suggests that denying anyone—the artificial included—the ability to feel and be seen is inherently unjust, regardless of whether they can exhibit the “appropriate” affect. As Deckard himself comes to realize, “the electric things have their life too” (239). John Isidore’s character illustrates the complexity of genuine empathy, which, much like the untidy back of my craft project, is often messy and found in unexpected places. As Sherryl Vint notes, in the novel, owning an animal showcases both wealth and the ability to care for “a precious living being” (119). However, “animals are treated as commodities” rather than living creatures with whom humans share life (Vint 119). Isidore, dismissed as “subhuman” and barred from reproduction due to his failure to pass a minimum faculty test, is the only character who genuinely empathizes with animals, whether real or artificial. Isidore’s empathy is evident when he tends to a cat that he believes is a replicant, feeling the pain of its “burning out drive-train,” its cries tying his “stomach in knots” as he wishes for a job that did not involve the “synthetic suffering of false animals” (68). When he learns the cat is real, his employers express sheer anger at the “goddamn waste” rather than empathy (73). Isidore offers to replace the owner’s cat with a mechanical replica, an option that his employers dismiss in favour of compensation, assuming that the owner’s distress stems from economic loss rather than emotional attachment. Like the front of my craft object, the world of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? may seem orderly at first, displaying a society that exhibits empathy through the ownership and care of animals. Yet, if empathy were truly as integral to human culture as it is to the human and android divide, then the ownership of a real animal should reflect a relationship based on genuine care, not just material value—something only Isidore understands (Vint 119). While others display empathy superficially, Isidore’s empathy is raw and unrefined, much like the back of my woven piece. Forced to live in isolation in an abandoned apartment, Isidore reveals the deeper emotional work often overlooked or hidden from view, much like how the true effort behind my craft object visible only on its hidden back. The crafting process unexpectedly became a tapestry of my reflections throughout this course, weaving together elements of my analysis of Isidore, the mood organ, and Luba Luft, allowing me to further explore the themes that intrigued me most. Both my craft design and the process of creation revealed the underlying hypocrisies in the society Dick portrays, prompting my critical reconsideration of what it truly means to be human—and who or what deserves life. This question remains unresolved in the novel, much like the threads left dangling at the bottom of my craft—interwoven, yet never fully integrated. Perhaps, in the end, it is up to each of us to decide where we stand.
• The Literary Road Trip / "Badlands"
  This project responds to the ending of Badlands, which describes the narrator's road trip to the Alberta Badlands. Trying to discover her father’s time as a paleontologist in Alberta, the narrator, Anna, encounters her father’s past, retracing his journey and meeting Anna Yellowbird, an Indigenous woman with whom William, her father, had sexual relations. Anna believes that her trip will shed light on William’s identity, but instead she comes to terms with his “sad” life spent looking for success. She then throws his field notes—the sole reminder of his existence—in a lake and looks towards the stars for guidance. My work shows my own road trip; it imitates Anna’s journey and ends with me throwing my novel in a river. Using three crafts, this eclectic project illuminates my novel’s parodic genre that satirizes the hero’s journey. It also elucidates Anna’s shifting selfhood, showing how she rejects her father to embrace sublime inspiration. JORDAN PRICE ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: In Robert Kroetsch’s Badlands (1975), road trips provoke moments of personal growth. The novel’s narrator, Anna, seeks to understand her now deceased father, William, and his time excavating dinosaur bones in the Alberta Badlands, but she has access only to his “cryptic” and “barely decipherable” field notes that detail his journey (2). At the end of the novel, Anna follows her father’s Alberta expedition, and she drives to the places he described in his notes, including “Drumheller,” “Bullpound Creek,” and “Crawling Valley” (259–60). Anna understands her father’s “sad” life spent looking “for that little ceremony of success,” and she throws his journal in a lake: “I threw it into a lake where it too might drown” (256–70). This project responds to this (anti)climactic ending, detailing my own literary road trip. My work taught me to consider my novel’s parodic genre and Anna’s identity. Kroetsch’s fifth novel, Badlands was first published in 1975 and reissued in subsequent editions in 1976, 1982, 1983, 1988, and 1991. Initial reviews of the novel highlighted both its comedic and mythic qualities. In 1975, Margaret Laurence celebrated the book for its “‘wild humour’” and ability to take “‘characters and render them into our own [Canadian] mythology.’” Critics in the 1980s and 1990s positioned Badlands as a deconstructionist text. In 1991, for instance, Dorothy Seaton argued that Badlands “deconstructs the New World myths of identity,” including tales of “heroic” masculinity (78). More recent scholars show how the novel depicts Indigenous peoples and histories; Stephanie McKenzie asserts that the text “laments” that “Aboriginal cultures have been offended and threatened” by settler imposition (145). My project uses three artistic approaches: letterpress, décollage, and photography. Letterpress is a 15th-century invention that was primarily used to publish news or books (Wilson and Grey 1–11). Especially in the 20th century, some presses used print art for activism (Johnston 68). For example, Zephyrus, a San Francisco press from the 1970s, used letterpress to promote the gay liberation movement and criticize the Nixon presidency (Johnston 68–70). Décollage emerged in France in 1961, and the craft usually communicated political messages such as anticolonialism or social anxieties post-World War Two (McDonough 75–78). In my photography prints, I used the editing function selective colouring, which involves turning an original image black and white but then revealing specific colours in the image. Selective colouring gained popularity in the early 2000s, and it was used to contrast temporal spaces, with black and white symbolizing the past and colour representing the present (Hirsch and Erf 181–214). While my chosen novel does not explicitly invoke letterpress, décollage, or selective colour photography, these approaches complement my novel. My text and literary interpretations create three temporal spaces. Badlands shifts between first-person and third-person narration; the former describes Anna’s diaries that are set in 1972, and the latter illustrates William’s time as a paleontologist in 1916. As someone who studies the novel, I create a third space: my present-day reality. Each possessing unique historical contexts, letterpress, décollage, and selective colour photography parallel my novel’s time frames as well as my embodied reality. As the oldest craft, letterpress calls to mind William’s journey in 1916. Developed in the 1960s, décollage symbolizes Anna’s diaries. Selective colour photography, which dates from the 2000s, is emblematic of my literary critical work. My project made me consider how Badlands satirizes the hero’s journey, a trope that describes a protagonist's successful struggle against a colossal obstacle and celebratory return home. Badlands retains aspects of this mythology. Anna states that William’s field notes contain stories about “male courage” (2). Anna also calls William’s expedition a “long journey, a . . . calculated casting into the unknown” that culminates in his arrival at “the greatest bonebeds in the history of paleontology” (127–28). However, William does not actualize his heroic aspirations, and his ambitions are stymied by the natural elements. In Chapter Six, for example, William and his crew travel down a river, but their boat absurdly crashes into rocks, causing their equipment to fall overboard: “They hit more rocks; the sacks of plaster of paris tumbled overboard: half of them, more, were gone” (28). While excavating dinosaur bones, William invariably falls. In Chapter Thirty, he sees a “grasshopper,” which he thinks is a “rattler,” and he falls “twenty feet down the side of a coulee” (152). Instead of relishing a victorious return from his journey, William dies en route, and his body is “never found” (269). While working on my project, I appreciated these parodic elements. Like William, I failed to achieve my intended goals. To follow William’s and Anna’s journeys, I wanted to drive to the Alberta Badlands, but my plans suddenly changed. During the only weekend I had available, this November’s “bomb cyclone” cancelled ferries to the mainland, which made me improvise and travel up Vancouver Island instead. I wanted my project to reflect the chaos of William’s expedition and my own trip. I cut the map of the Badlands, which was the background of my décollage, into four pieces and organized them randomly on my board. I haphazardly cut my photo prints in two. I took my novel and tore away pages, sticking excerpts wherever I wanted. While I was initially disappointed with the change in my plans, I realized that this discomfort led me to a deeper appreciation of my novel’s genre. When I had to change my itinerary, I became like William, who fails to achieve his desired heroic status, and my art reflected his farcical character. During my road trip, I started to appreciate how Anna constructs her selfhood once she abandons her interpretive impulse and turns to the environment as recourse. Anna draws on her father’s field notes as a source of paternal affection. She considers his notes to be the “only poem he ever wrote,” and particularly a “love poem” addressed to his “only daughter” (269–70). Anna tries to claim ownership of the journals, imposing her own meanings on William’s words. In Chapter Seven, for example, Anna illustrates her father writing terse and nebulous phrases in his notes, such as “I despite words” and “He is safe and sound” (34–37). Anna imagines his affective response to his writing, stating that his notes “freed him” and that he “stared at the sentence, enjoying it” (34). Yet at the end of the novel, Anna’s gaze shifts from her father’s field notes to the sky above. Once she throws her father’s notes in the lake, she walks “through the night,” looking at the “billions” of “stars” that provide her “light” to guide her “way” (270). While working on my project, I understood this aspect of the novel more clearly. At Goldstream Park, the first stop of my trip, I wanted to compare excerpts from Badlands with the land. While taking my photos, I wanted the text to be the key focal point. I tried using a shallow focus shot, which made the background landscape blurry and the text clear. As I did so, I had trouble reading the words on the thin page because the focusing effect only exposed the sun that shone through the paper; the backside of the page became faintly visible, which blurred the words. In response, I pulled the text closer to my camera lens, but doing so only covered the landscape and defeated the purpose. The sun, I learned, was overcoming my text. I realized that I was becoming like Anna who also imposes her subjectivity on a text but recognizes a more sublime source. While making my final project, I felt free. As I cut out and glued excerpts from my text, I felt that I had complete control of the art, putting Kroetsch’s diction wherever I saw fit. When I finished the project, I closed my eyes and touched the many different papers on my project. I noticed the glossy photo prints, the coffee-stained map, and the old edition of Badlands that I had torn apart. As I finished my work, I realized that I was oddly returning to the beginning of my novel. In Chapter One, Anna describes the tactility of her father’s journal, noting that she can feel “squashed mosquitoes, the spiders’ legs, the stains of thick black coffee, [and] even the blood that smeared the already barely decipherable words” (2). My project, I learned, was akin to William’s notes, becoming a tangible source of inspiration from which I, like Anna, try to derive literary meaning. Perhaps most importantly, my road trip taught me that scholarship can go beyond the confines of the campus classroom. As I drove alone with my copy of Badlands perched on my dashboard, I embarked on a journey with my novel, establishing a closeness between my personal life and literary knowledge. In doing so, I understood my text’s complexities more clearly. I also realized that academia and embodied space can productively coexist.
• A Scarf as Protection and Solace / "The Common Life (for Chester Kallman)"
  In my own practice, crocheting is a forgiving and gifting type of art. The scarf is inspired by the quiet comfort and support that the home offers Auden and Kallman. Further, the scarf is a physical barrier from the cold, as if shielding the wearer from more harm than just strong winds. The embrace holds in the warmth of their closeness even when they are far apart. The movements of crochet are fluid and natural, yet they take a mechanical type of repetition that requires a slowing down and stopping of my daily life to perform. The scarf’s red and blue pattern suggests a warm inside and a cold outside. These dichotomies connect to the poem, which evinces an appreciation of the home and a confidentiality about the relationships cultivated inside it. Wearing the homemade scarf suggests a similarly dichotomous message: despite displaying a façade, only the wearer and the giver know the true character and experiences of their relationship. NADYA BREMNER ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: My inspiration for the scarf emerged out of a brainstorming session on crocheted objects that I believed would fit into Auden and Kallman’s home. Crocheting a scarf evokes imagery of a quiet home, a serene room warmed by a fireplace and by the love running through the halls. Gifting a crafted object is like giving a piece of yourself over to the receiver because of the time and effort that went into the gift’s weaving and knotting. This act of crocheting felt parallel to the intention behind W.H Auden’s “The Common Life” because the poem was a gift to Kallman to encapsulate their life inside the home together. The scarf lies close to the mouth and around the neck, hiding and concealing the words and secrets of the wearer. Auden teases the reader about this secretive nature by taunting that Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t know much past “a quick glance / at book-titles [that] would tell him / that we belong to the clerisy and spend much / on our food. But could he read / what our prayers and jokes are about, what creatures / frighten us most, or what names / head our roll-call of persons we would least like / to go to bed with?” (Auden, 27- 34). As a piece of apparel, however, the scarf shows the outside world a glimpse of the wearer’s personality. I wanted the scarf to be a different medium for the concept of concealing the precious and personal moments shared within the home, while still exhibiting a facet of the self through stylistic choices. Then, through the scarf-making process, I gleaned more about the type of homely acts that bring you closer to the people around you and the type of comfort that would spur the writing of a poem, or the making of a scarf, to demonstrate gratitude to this person. I have had trouble finding critical reviews about the publication and information about the reception of Auden’s “The Common Life” at its time of release in 1963. However, much of the information on Auden and Kallman as partners is contradictory and converging. Many outlets present the two men as only working partners and colleagues, while others reveal the romantic nature of their relationship alongside their collaborations as artists. Despite the truth or the realities of the two men’s relationship, “The Common Life” depicts a closeness to and a familiarity with one another that hold love and affection unbeknownst to the outside world. For the couple, the home they shared would be where they were able to express themselves freely without input and threats from bigoted outsiders. The home is a place of refuge and comfort for its residents. The house holds the power to keep outsiders away and allows free expression of the self within its walls. While the poem calls upon the reader’s own inclination to their house, the home that Auden and Kallman relied upon was necessary for their wellbeing and relationship. I read an interview conducted by Polly Platt in the spring of 1967, when Platt visited the home that is described in “The Common Life”. The interview was brief but connected with the points made within the poem, with a few interjections from Kallman himself. The interview was an informal view into the life of the men inside the house, with Platt joining Auden and Kallman in their routines of doing crosswords and taking tea. Platt received a tour of the home: “The poet smiled with the memory of last night’s dinner, declined to describe it, and opened the door to the guest room. This space that he had called the “shrine to friendship” held two simple iron beds, two windows to the woods outside and in the corner a crucifix. A great orange cat was curled up on the floor” (268, Platt). This quotation displays Auden’s ability to represent the home as more than a resting place—that is, as a symbol of the men’s relationship through the meaning attributed to even the most mundane of features. The interview concludes with a drawing of Auden’s home in Austria, demonstrating the influence that the space holds over its visitors and suggesting why the house was such a prominent figure in Auden’s writing. The implicit query about the nature of their relationship (platonic or romantic?) does nothing to discredit the connection between Kallman and Auden, as connection and closeness are not exclusive to particular kinds of relationships. Nevertheless, my final project was not to discover the truth of their relationship but to imbue a physical object with the same feeling that reading this poem evokes within me. Further, the use of the home as a vessel for this knowledge is what drew me to the poem in the first place and what my continued study has been focusing on– not others’ perceptions of Kallman’s and Auden’s relationship. The scarf thus became my own method of imbuing a crafted object with a sense of belonging. In my previous projects for this course, I spent my time trying to make an object that would resonate with a feeling of familiarity and safety that a home produces for its residents. The types of crafts that we experimented with varied from paper quilling to embroidery to typesetting. I looked to resources on the history of crocheting and crafting to connect its historical roots to the types of experiences that I embarked on this semester. The article “'Use Your Hands for Happiness': Home Craft and Make-Do-and-Mend in British Women's Magazines in the 1920s and 1930s” by Fiona Hackney in the Journal of Design Rings aided the comparison between my own crafts and the history of female-led creating as signs of homemaking. While the idea of women as homemakers can have restricting and misogynistic tones, I found that reading about crafting as a way to express a belonging in the home suggested Auden’s appreciation for his own space. Hackney writes, “A home craft feature in Woman assured that ‘although men don't like fripperies and modern rooms scorn odd bits and pieces, both will accept joyfully this distinguished chair back in crisp crochet’. Not just an antimacassar, this example of hand work symbolized women’s skills, tastes and values, smuggling these back into the modern interior under the guise of ‘distinguished’ design” (Hackney, 29). The change from seeing crafting objects as frivolous decor to viewing them as pieces of art helped construct my own view of the scarf as more than a piece of apparel. This idea of rebranding and revitalising craft culture connects with changing crochet from a purely functional art to a source of decorative and personalized gifts. During the crafting process for the scarf, I spent a lot of time thinking about the poem as an art form that is meant to be read, shared, and seen. Yet Auden manages to reveal his feelings for Kallman without divulging the true nature of their relationship—or any true experiences they had within the home’s walls. For example, in the paper module, I created a linocut based on the line “every home should be a fortress, / equipped with all the very latest engines / for keeping Nature at bay,” which refers to using windows and glass as physical barriers from the cold and judgemental outside world (Auden, 60-62). A scarf, however, is a handmade object that is a portable tool for keeping its wearer protected from the elements. The scarf becomes a portable memento of the safety that the home brings to the men. Auden proposes an idea of what makes a home rich, not in the monetary sense but in the sense of a richness of life and of fulfillment. The idea is familiar in the lines “the homes I warm to, / though seldom wealthy, always convey a feeling / of bills being promptly settled / with cheques that don't bounce)” (10-13). Making a scarf connected with this idea of wealth in my own consideration of what luxury is: for me, luxury has never been about having the most expensive possessions but about the possessions I do keep holding an importance based on their origins. Crocheting a scarf or receiving a made item, even if the scarf or item is not crafted of the most expensive yarn or perfect stitches, imbues the object with a value that is unmatched by fame or status.
• Layered Voices / "Women Talking"
  This framed print combines two craft techniques to represent the layered and assembled dialogues that structure Miriam Toews’s Women Talking (2018). The linocut print of a horse looking backwards is an illustration that the illiterate women draw when they gather for their first meeting, symbolizing their option to “leave” the colony (Toews 6). The typeset excerpt is the final two lines of a hymn that the women sing to remain unified in their shared trauma (29). Together, these elements merge different communicative forms to visualize the gathered voices in the text and how the voices come together in harmonious ways to create unity in times of uncertainty. The print is encased in a black frame, which signifies the limited nature of the women’s voices as they are mediated by August. While making this object, I considered the form of the novel and how perspectives are relayed to readers through August. EMMA SJERVEN ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Women Talking by Miriam Toews (2018) explores the value of voice and connection in a Mennonite colony riddled with gender conflicts and violence. Female voices often go unheard in Toews’s fictional colony of Molotschna; Ona Friesen, a spinster impregnated by one of her rapists, acknowledges this fact as the women consider how to respond to the men’s assaults against them, saying, “We are women without a voice” (56). Yet the women’s meetings in the hayloft over two days reflect how the assemblage of dialogue and perspectives creates power and unity among the colony’s minority. Published as Toews’s seventh novel, Women Talking was praised for its commentary on feminist themes and religious traumas, establishing Toews as a profound former-Mennonite author. While some Mennonite scholars have praised Toews’s work as “reflective of Mennonite culture,” others note that her attribution of “modern attitudes and sensibilities to a group of women who are decidedly separatist” is concerning, considering that Toews is now an “outsider to the community” (Völz 101, Glista 97, Fernandez-Moralez 102). In this way, Toews’s work is somewhat polarizing because it may not accurately reflect the fierce religiosity usually found within women in Mennonite communities. In 2022, the novel was adapted into an Oscar-winning film directed by Sarah Polley, who deliberately excluded any mention of the word “Mennonite” in her film, as she believed the patriarchy is an issue that does not solely affect Mennonites (Glista 98). Polley also noted that both her and Toews’s characters would not “identify as feminist” because it is “outside their realm of experience and knowledge” (Fernandez-Moralez 103). Despite these contradictions from scholars and the film director, the pervasive theme of female power and unity against patriarchal standards remains central to Toews’s work (Oyler para. 7). When considering what to create for my final project, I reflected on my crafted objects created during our workshops and how these pieces may work in conjunction with each other. I considered my linocut print of a horse with its back turned, looking back at where it came from, and my typeset hymn that the women sing together (Toews 6, 29). I realized that these elements of the texts I once innocently created share a commonality: they are communicative forms for the women. Combining these objects helped me consider the novel’s form, and, as a result, my final framed print merges different communicative frameworks that appear throughout the novel to conceptualize the layering of voices that structure the text. While neither linocut nor letterpress printing explicitly appears in my novel, the history of women’s roles in these media is important to consider and contributed to the embodiment of my work. Linocuts have long been used as artistic media, often appearing in women’s works (Cassidy 18). Linoleum was a medium that was available to women and was used to create detailed coloured prints (18). Contrarily, women were historically less active in letterpress printing. As Claire Battershill notes, “women could run the feeding of a steam press, but not actually operate it” (9). As I created my typeset excerpt on the Vandercook press, I understood the irony with which I, as a female maker, was undertaking an activity that women, like those in Toews’s novel, could not. The embodiment of these crafts contributed to my understanding of my positioning as a female crafter connected to a text about women who are unable to read but can communicate in other ways. As I created my linocut during our workshop, I considered the way that my physical position as a maker—dominating, controlling, and configuring the lino—mimicked the physical actions of the men in the colony. At times, the aggression I used to remove the excess lino contradicted the symbol of hope and bravery that my carved object represented. As I etched a symbol drawn by the women, I understood that my embodied experience added another "layer” to my project and my interpretation of the text. Furthermore, the illustration of the horse carries a double meaning: it symbolizes power in that the women use it to represent their brave decision to “leave” the colony, but it also represents how the men view the women of Molotschna (Toews 6, 21). In various instances throughout the text, the women acknowledge how they have been treated similarly to the animals in the colony. One of the colony matriarchs, Greta Loewen, notices this comparison, commenting that they “have been preyed upon like animals; perhaps we should respond in kind” (Toews 21). By literally drawing a symbol to represent one of their options, the illiterate women repurpose the meaning of the horse, an animal, to associate its being with their personal voices and future choices. The excerpt of the hymn I chose to include appears in the final two lines of the first stanza of a hymn called “Work, for the Night is Coming.” Traditionally, this hymn is sung in religious contexts and signifies the work that man does for God before night falls (hymnstudiesblog). In the novel, the women sing the first stanza before they briefly adjourn during their first meeting: “The women join hands and sing…” (Toews 29). I chose to print the final two lines of the hymn because I interpreted them as hauntingly relevant to the women’s situation. The men’s “work” (raping the women) has been done, and they have left the women damaged. In their singing, and in the specific hymn they choose to sing, the women communicate a message of unity to one another that, despite the brutality they endure, sisterhood prevails. This interpretation of the hymn, like its inclusion in my final print, adds yet another layer to the text. While the women congregate in the hayloft under the agreement that the attacks they have endured merit vengeance, they deliberate their choices thoroughly, often disagreeing with each other about what their decisions mean and how their ultimate choice will be perceived by those around them. Salome Friesen, a woman who nearly killed her rapist in self-defence, vigorously defends the choice to “stay and fight,” asking her fellow women, “Is this how we want to teach our daughters to defend themselves—by fleeing?” (Toews 40). Her question is then contradicted by a clarification from Mejal Loewen, who points out that the women are “not fleeing, but leaving” (Toews 40). Such contrasting dialogues and perspectives structure the text and informed my final print. The text assembles the varying perspectives of the women about the same issue, layering them, which demonstrates how differing viewpoints can come together to tell one cohesive story. Similarly, my final object works to conglomerate these communicative forms into one print, symbolizing the cohesion of voices that emerge about a shared issue. The structure of the text itself “echoes oral features of Plautdietsch,” the traditional Mennonite language the women speak, operating as both “repetitive and additive” (Völz 101). I reflected on this aspect of the form of my text as I created my final object. My print is the product of three attempts at the placement of the linocut stamp and typeset print. To ensure that my print was of good quality, I repeatedly stamped my linocut; I could not achieve a print to my liking, so I had to try again, adding more ink one time, shifting my stamp a bit to the right the next time, and so on. I learned that, like the process of assembling my final project, the text itself is both turbulent and monotonous. The seeming unreliability of August as the narrator of the text (he often admits to missing parts of the conversation: “I am not able to hear or keep up with every detail” [Toews 22]) contributes to its instability, while the construction of the book (its entirety made of dialogue and a singular perspective) contributes to its repetitive nature. These contradictory elements work to form the text—and ultimately contribute to the formation of my print. While the horse and hymn represent different forms of communication, when combined, they represent communication throughout the novel as it is connected to the larger theme of unity among women. I used a black matte frame as a symbolic object to represent the framing device and voice that are used throughout the text. While the novel explores themes of feminism and centres the women’s perspectives and reactions to the attacks, August serves as the vessel for the women’s voices, keeping the novel’s perspective “deliberately limited” (Glista 97). The thick black frame both encases and looms over my print, serving as a reminder that though the novel prioritizes the voices of the women, patriarchal perspectives remain pervasive and dominate the colony. The completion of my crafted object allowed me to consider not only the structured form of the text (how it is told through a singular perspective and created mostly of dialogue) but also how illustrations and hymns are communicative forms that, once combined, create a cohesive work representing a central theme within the novel. Furthermore, completing this final object helped me understand that crafts themselves have voice—though not in the way that we traditionally think of voice. Illustrations via linocuts communicate the author’s thoughts about a particular subject, while hymns via letterpress printing resemble the unity that is found in song and words. Though the women initially believe they do not have a voice, my project demonstrates that the other media they engage with generate a sense of power among them (Toews 56).
• [Macalister’s Fish] / "To the Lighthouse"
  This lino printed fish with pieces cut out is overlaid on a printed quote from To The Lighthouse and attached with embroidery thread and tape. Woolf, in her novel, mentions a fish whose body was “mutilated” and “thrown back into the sea,” and this mention of the fish highlights the relationship between social relations and embodiment (Woolf 243). The cuts in the fish allow for viewers to peer through at the underlying quote, seeing a potential answer to the proposed question, “What is the meaning of life?” – a question that guides the characters in the novel. This project does not allow viewers to perceive Woolf’s tentative answer; rather, it prompts viewers to consider the question themselves and participate in the discourse Woolf posits in her novel.
• The Wars Within / "The Bell Jar"
  My crafted object, titled "The Wars Within," captures the essence of Sylvia Plath’s novel The Bell Jar. Inspired by Plath’s sketch bearing the novel’s title, the lino print of shoes, a traditional and often critiqued symbol of femininity, pairs with a carefully typeset quote from Chapter 15. This pairing amplifies the novel’s exploration of identity and autonomy, underscoring the protagonist’s battle against societal constraints and the conflict between external expectations and internal desires. A dynamic collage surrounds the linocut and the quotation, adding further depth and dimension to the piece. This layered design evokes “the wars within,” symbolizing women’s dual struggle: resisting patriarchal values imposed by society while looking inward to confront and reject these forcibly ingrained beliefs. The composition of the crafted object bridges the novel’s critical investigation of psychological and societal conflict, inviting viewers to reflect on the enduring relevance of these struggles in the pursuit of self-determination. KALEV ADLER ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Sylvia Plath’s semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar, the American writer and poet’s only work of fictional prose, offers an evocative exploration of madness and the oppressive effects of social expectations on women. Deeply rooted in Plath’s own experiences, the novel reflects her struggles with major depression, suicidal ideation, and time spent in psychiatric institutions. Driven by a desire to articulate these experiences relating to mental illness, Plath published The Bell Jar in January 1963, just one month before her tragic suicide at the age of 30. At the heart of the novel lies the metaphor of the bell jar, a suffocating, transparent enclosure symbolizing Plath’s and her protagonist Esther Greenwood’s sense of isolation in mid-20th-century America. For the past three months, I have immersed myself in creating a crafted object inspired by Plath’s text. The project and process culminated in The Wars Within, a mixed-media piece combining linocut, typesetting, printing, and collage, deepening my comprehension of Plath’s work and its enduring themes. By creating The Wars Within, I realized the true extent of Plath’s investigation into the suffocating aspects of life for women in 1950s America, a period synonymous with conformity. Through my crafting, I gained a newfound perspective on the psychological toll of cemented cultural conventions directed at women and the struggle for autonomy in a world designed to confine. As author Janet Badia discusses in the first chapter of Sylvia Plath and the Mythology of Women Readers, titled “‘Dissatisfied, Family-Hating Shrews’: Women Readers and the Politics of Plath’s Literary Reception,” Plath “devoted much of her writing time in early 1961 to her novel The Bell Jar. Having contracted for publication in October 1961, Heinemann released the novel in England under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas on January 14, 1963” (30). Plath chose to partner with the London-based publisher Heinemann after facing rejection from American publishers, likely influenced by the underwhelming reception of her earlier poetry collection, The Colossus, published by Alfred A. Knopf. Upon its initial release in England, literary critics met The Bell Jar with “a reception nearly as unremarkable as the one The Colossus had received” (Badia 30). It was only after her death that the novel started gaining traction, and, in 1971, eight years after Plath’s suicide, The Bell Jar finally made its way to the United States. In “A Note on The Bell Jar (1963),” Susan J. Behrens explains how “Plath’s mother, Aurelia Plath, and Plath’s husband, Ted Hughes, campaigned against publication of the US edition, … claiming that the identities of persons living and dead would be too obvious (and hurtful) all around” (239). Despite this publication delay, readers who had slowly become accustomed to her poetry in the years following her death flocked to pick up a copy. The delayed American publication coincided with the women’s movement of the 1960s and 1970s and marked a turning point for Plath’s reception. Readers began to embrace the novel as a foundational feminist text that critiqued patriarchal social politics. Since its 40th anniversary in the US, The Bell Jar has sold “more than three million copies” and been taught in classrooms worldwide (Gould). My creation, The Wars Within, allowed me to profoundly engage with Plath’s The Bell Jar, reshaping my understanding of its themes and the lived experiences it portrays. At the heart of my mixed-media craft object is a linocut of shoes, an object traditionally linked to femininity, highlighting the societal values and ideals imposed on women in 1950s America and beyond. This linocut not only symbolizes these oppressive expectations but also Esther Greenwood’s struggle to break free from them, as shoes can represent movement and the march toward a liberated future. To further connect my work to the novel, I incorporated the poignant quotation “because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar,” capturing Esther’s inescapable sense of entrapment (Plath 236). The Wars Within, especially the collage elements, vastly enriches my dialogue with The Bell Jar by visually layering Plath’s protagonist’s multifaceted constraints. The fragmented domestic images, such as a set dinner table and a mother holding her child, underscore the overwhelming pressure of social models that historically and ridiculously defined a woman’s worth. These elements, deliberately fractured and overlapped, mirror Esther’s fractured psyche, symbolizing her mental disarray and rebellion against the relentless demand to conform. Through the combination of these images, alongside the quotation from the novel and the lino print design, the crafted object encapsulates Esther’s desire to reject social expectations and her inability to escape their pervasive influence. This interplay echoes Plath’s metaphor of the bell jar, with its transparent yet impenetrable walls, as the collage creates a visual representation of a world that defines and traps. Craft or multi-media object? Linocut, typesetting, or print? Choosing the correct term to describe The Wars Within is no simple task. While I previously referred to the collage elements within the object, The Oxford English Dictionary’s (OED) 1919 definition defines collage as “An abstract form of art in which photographs, pieces of paper, newspaper cuttings, string, etc., are placed in juxtaposition and glued to the pictorial surface; such a work of art” (“Collage, N”). Therefore, to provide details of the history of my chosen craft practice, the term “Collage” accurately summarizes the process, the amalgamation of the linocut, typesetting, and printing of text onto one pictorial surface. Freya Gowrley, in the introduction to Fragmentary Forms: A New History of Collage, highlights that collage “is an art form that has been produced across regions and cultures since the invention of paper” (9). Yet, despite its diverse and widespread practice throughout history, collage has often been narrowly defined, focusing predominantly on works from the West and their association with the rise of modernism. Gowrley recounts the example of Jane and Mary Parminter, who used collage as a decorative technique in their 1790s home, A la Ronde. Nevertheless, she notes that “thanks to the low status occupied by women’s craft practices in the art-historical canon, collage produced before the birth of modernism has consistently been overlooked in histories of the genre” (9). Instead, the invention of collage was often attributed to figures such as Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque (9-10). This exclusionary framing mirrors Plath’s The Bell Jar, where deeply entrenched hierarchies subdue women just as the hierarchies embedded within art history diminish the influence and existence of early collage artists (10). Through its design and symbolism, The Wars Within challenges these hierarchies, pushing back against the limitations imposed on women and craft practices. As Hinda Mandell describes in Crafting Dissent: Handicraft as Protest from the American Revolution to the Pussyhats, “Craft can be accessible and complex, unique and diverse, intensely personal and powerfully linked to the greater world—just like the people who choose it to harness their own activist power” (xiii). Therefore, collage, and crafting as a category, is “a tool that transcends geography and time. It is a tool of change—and for change” (xiii). Creating The Wars Within has significantly intensified my appreciation of collage as a medium for artistic and social critique. Through its ability to contrast, fragment, and reconstruct, collage captures the essence of dissent, offering a powerful way for artists and makers to challenge established norms. Throughout the semester, I have developed a profound appreciation for the parallels between the act of crafting and Plath’s narrative of confinement and rebellion. The process of assembling disparate elements into a cohesive whole allowed me to reflect on Esther Greenwood’s internal struggle to construct an identity beyond the rigid confines of societal expectations. By immersing myself in the physical act of carving the linocut, arranging the collage, and typesetting the quotation, I engaged directly with Plath’s themes, experiencing firsthand the tension between self-expression and a lack of control over the outcome. As a medium and a metaphor, collage powerfully underscores the novel’s critique of the restrictive roles imposed on women while simultaneously offering a space for redefinition and reclamation. The Wars Within serves as both a tribute to Plath’s work and an exploration of the enduring struggle for autonomy and self-definition, demonstrating how the concept of making fosters understanding and provokes meaningful dialogue. Through this project, I not only came to understand the timeless relevance of Plath’s far-reaching critique but also recognized the transformative potential of crafting as an act of resistance.
• Antigone Burying Polynices / "Antigone"
  This amphora visually narrates the story of Antigone, a heroine from Sophocles’ timeless tragedy. Crafted in the tradition of ancient Greek black-figure pottery, but using modern materials like household paints, the vase depicts Antigone burying her brother Polynices in defiance of King Creon’s decree. The design incorporates classical motifs such as the meander pattern, symbolizing eternity and justice, and gold accents, highlighting the sacredness of burial rites. The crafting process involved modern materials like household paints, reinterpreting ancient techniques while maintaining the spirit of storytelling. The amphora mirrors Antigone’s themes of defiance, familial loyalty, and the tension between human and divine laws. Like its ancient counterparts, this vase preserves and reimagines a timeless story for contemporary audiences, bridging the past and present. AVNI KHEPAR ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: The amphora vase has long been a vessel for practical use and artistic storytelling. Its creation reflects the intersection of form, function, and cultural legacy. In crafting an amphora inspired by Sophocles' Antigone, I aimed to reinterpret the ancient tradition of black-figure painting to convey the play's themes of defiance, burial rites, and legacy. My modern crafting process diverged significantly from ancient techniques, yet this very contrast highlighted the timeless relevance of Antigone's struggle. Through this project, I discovered how physical creation can deepen engagement with literary texts, translating abstract themes into tangible art that preserves and reinterprets cultural narratives. The amphora has a storied history in ancient Greece, functioning as both a utilitarian object and an artistic medium. These two-handled vessels, often used for storing and transporting goods like wine and oil, also held a more profound cultural significance. Amphorae played a central role in funerary practices, serving as grave markers or containers for burial offerings. Their shape, with a vast body and narrow neck, allowed for practicality and decoration, making them ideal for storytelling through imagery (Cartwright). The black-figure painting technique, developed in Corinth around 700 BCE and later perfected in Athens, revolutionized pottery by transforming it into a narrative art form. Potters and painters used a unique slip (that is, a mixture of clay and water) that turned black during firing to create silhouetted figures on the natural red clay surface. Details were etched into the black slip, revealing the red clay beneath and allowing for intricate depictions of mythological, historical, and everyday scenes (Cartwright). This technique was not only decorative; it functioned to educate, commemorate, and preserve stories for future generations. My amphora draws from this tradition, using black paint to depict a pivotal moment from Antigone: the burial of Polynices. My crafting reflected a modern adaptation of ancient techniques, blending resourcefulness with creative intent. Unlike ancient artisans, who meticulously shaped their vessels on pottery wheels and employed multi-stage firing processes, I began with a pre-formed vase created during a pottery class with my sister. At the time, the vase had no specific purpose, but this project gave it new meaning as a narrative vessel for Antigone. The design of my amphora was carefully curated to reflect key themes of the play. The meander pattern, a continuous geometric motif, adorns the bottom section of the vase. This pattern symbolizes eternity and the cyclical nature of justice, echoing Antigone's defiance of Creon's temporal authority in favour of the gods' eternal laws. Her assertion that the "unwritten and infallible laws of the gods … are eternal" (Sophocles, lines 455–456) aligns with the timelessness suggested by the meander. The central image of Antigone burying Polynices captures the emotional and moral core of the play. Using black paint, I depicted her in a dynamic pose, pouring burial soil over her brother's body. Gold accents highlight the sacredness of the act, signifying Polynices' royal lineage and the divine significance of burial rites. White details emphasize Antigone's purity and moral clarity, contrasting with the dark, oppressive forces represented by Creon's decree. The crafting began with taping the vase to create clean lines for the meander pattern. Painter's tape allowed me to achieve this precision, but I believe a nod to the meticulous artistry of ancient Greek pottery is warranted. Next, I painted the background with a terracotta-coloured matte base to mimic the natural clay tones of traditional amphorae. Once the base was dry, I sketched the central scene of Antigone burying Polynices, carefully balancing simplicity and narrative clarity. Black paint brought the scene to life, while gold and white accents added depth and meaning. Finally, I applied a clear glaze to the black paint to unify the design and provide a polished finish. Working with modern materials posed unique challenges. Achieving the smooth textures and precise details characteristic of black-figure pottery was difficult with household paints and brushes. My work's uneven lines and textures reflect these limitations but also evoke the human imperfections central to Antigone's themes. Painting with limited resources mirrored Antigone's resourcefulness in fulfilling her sacred duty, reinforcing the connection between craft and narrative. Each stroke of paint became an act of storytelling, transforming abstract ideas into physical art. Sophocles' Antigone, composed around 441 BCE, remains one of the most enduring works of classical Greek drama and is widely known by English majors. The play explores universal themes of justice, resistance, and the sacredness of burial rites, centring on Antigone's defiance of Creon's decree forbidding the burial of her brother Polynices. For the Greeks, proper burial was not merely a personal obligation but a sacred duty, essential for ensuring a soul's passage to the afterlife. Antigone's actions assert Polynice's humanity and challenge Creon's attempt to erase him from collective memory. The amphora's role as a funerary object parallels these themes. By depicting Antigone's burial of Polynices, my vase emphasizes her commitment to preserving his legacy and upholding the gods' eternal laws. The meander pattern reinforces the cyclical nature of justice and morality, while the black-figure technique connects the story to ancient Greece's cultural and artistic traditions. Crafting the amphora allowed me to engage with these themes tactilely, translating the play's abstract conflicts into a physical medium that celebrates memory and resistance. Antigone was first performed during the City Dionysia, an ancient Athens festival celebrating art and religious devotion. The theatre was a communal experience, offering audiences a platform to explore moral and civic dilemmas (Goldhill). The play's tension between divine and human authority resonated deeply with its audience, as burial rites were sacred obligations that reflected both individual and collective values. Over the centuries, Antigone has transcended its cultural origins to inspire movements for justice and human rights. Its themes of resistance and sacrifice have remained relevant, highlighting the power of individual conviction in the face of authoritarian rule. As a narrative vessel, my amphora aligns with this legacy, serving as both a commemorative object and a medium for retelling Antigone's timeless story. The crafting process allowed me to situate the play within its historical and cultural framework while reinterpreting it for a modern audience. Crafting this amphora deepened my understanding of the intersection between material creation and literary analysis. The imperfections in my work, from uneven lines to improvised materials, mirrored the human flaws and moral struggles central to Antigone. As Antigone's defiance highlights the tension between human and divine law, my crafting process underscored the fragility and persistence required to transform abstract ideas into physical art. This project also illuminated the enduring relevance of ancient art and storytelling. By adopting the black-figure tradition, I connected with a craft that has preserved cultural narratives for millennia. Creating the amphora became an act of preservation and reinterpretation, bridging the ancient and the contemporary. Through this project, I gained a deeper appreciation for how craft can illuminate the universal themes of literature, enriching both the creative and analytical aspects of interpretation.
• "A terrible newspaper headline" / "The Bell Jar"
  This artificial newspaper reconstructs the clippings that recount Esther Greenwood’s suicide attempt in Plath’s novel. For the collages, I took the newspaper images described alongside the headlines in the text and portrayed them in a conceptual manner that incorporated the novel’s central themes. I typeset the headlines by hand, printed them on UVic Libraries’ Vandercook printing press, and then scanned everything to arrange it digitally into the form of a 1950s newspaper’s front page. Crafting this newspaper urged me to meditate on the symbolism of print media in The Bell Jar, as Esther struggles with her ambitions for the future, her mental health treatment options, and the social demands on young women to be modest and domestic as well as sexually enticing. This newspaper represents Esther’s metaphorical bell jar and the media’s reality-distorting role in producing and maintaining that bell jar. BECKY TURNER ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Using methods of collage, typesetting, and digital arrangement, I crafted this 1950’s newspaper that recreates the clippings recounting Esther Greenwood’s suicide attempt in Plath’s novel (The Bell Jar 198–99). The crafting process reminded me of the subjectivity of media; every decision I made—about type font, which magazines to use, and which images looked best together—influenced the overall presentation and its perception by viewers. Typesetting was very enjoyable, but it brought to mind the invisible decisions that go into the production of a text. To Esther, her portrayal in the magazines told her she was nothing more than a “scholarship girl” in fancy clothing (198). Much of Esther’s sense of self is tied to the magazines, newspapers, and tabloids she reads, which contributes to her distorted perspective of reality. In collaging the images, I had the opportunity to think about the pressure on women to be attractive, healthy, happy, and maternal—or, in other words, to be the perfect housewife. By synthesizing these demands into the collages, I created a newspaper that represents the reality-distorting, metaphorical bell jar over Esther’s head. Through my crafting journey, I explored the history of printing, the origins of collage, and the connections of these crafts to The Bell Jar and Sylvia Plath’s own life. Historically, printing was a field dominated by men. Women were told that their “professional incompetence,” both physically and intellectually, barred them from being able to compose lines of type or operate a letterpress (Betts 21). This rationale was completely false, as the records we have of women in printing prove that they had no such problems (21); however, because women were rarely allowed to be in official unions or have their printing recognized, there is a historical lack of these records documenting women’s work (Battershill 13). When women were allowed into the occupation, it was often because their husband or father had died, and someone was needed to replace them (12–13). Moreover, women were rarely paid fair wages (Betts 23). As printing became more automated, it developed a reputation as an artisanal craft (141) for the women “who were denied access to [it] for centuries” (13). The modern letterpress community relies heavily on group support and sharing to preserve the knowledge needed to restore and operate machines. Today, we can learn how to engage with this historically masculinized craft in a feminist, amateur way (Battershill 10). Through engaging in the generative printer-press relationship that is inherent in the use of a letterpress (Betts), we can honour our own participation in the process and the legacy of women forgotten by history. A collage is “a work made by assembling various forms to create a new whole” (Adibi 1). It was invented alongside paper itself, but since then has utilized many crafting forms beyond paper, including painting, wood work, architecture, and music (2–5). Nowadays, most collage work is conducted by hobbyists. Collaging requires its creator to trust the process and take risks as they paste images together. It is a messy, imaginative, and inspiring process that opens up pathways to think about images and themes in texts and the ways in which they can be portrayed. This form of invention boosts self-confidence and creativity (7), and allows for the creator to develop a more critical view of spaces (13). It also led to the art of décollage, in which layers are torn away to reveal something underneath. In décollage, the artist must trust themselves to rip and tear the paper to reveal a better final image. The idea of stripping away parts of oneself can be either toxic or empowering, in the same way that pasting layer upon layer can create either a beautiful culmination of art or a mess of secrets. In this way, collage becomes a metaphor for growth, development, and the formation of identity. Sylvia Plath was a talented American poet who struggled with her mental health, and one month after releasing her first novel, The Bell Jar, she killed herself (Poetry Fndn 4). The novel was originally published in 1963 in England under the pseudonym “Victoria Lucas.” Plath’s mother fought the publication of The Bell Jar in the United States until 1971, fearing that it would upset those who had inspired characters, and some accounts say that even Plath did not think of the novel as serious work (Smith 92). Once it did become available in the US, the novel quickly rose on the New York Times best-seller list and has remained popular since then, although the initial reception in England was only modest (93–94). Plath discusses gender roles and social expectations for a young woman’s career, relationships, and sexuality through a realist lens that accounts for the sociopolitical world of the 1950s. As feminist reviews of these concepts became more popular, Plath’s own life was conflated with that of her protagonist (95). Her suicide greatly influenced this reception of her book (Poetry Fndn 6). Feminist interpretations of the novel as a biography, as well as psychoanalytical readings, were not without merit, as Plath’s writing illustrates her struggle with depression. At the age of 20, she attempted to kill herself by swallowing sleeping pills (4). She survived and was treated with electroshock therapy, just like Esther in the novel. Mental health aspects aside, the novel expertly describes the pressures of “the mutually exclusive options of career and marriage/motherhood” in the 1950s and ‘60s (Smith 99). Plath likely experienced many of the same internal and social conflicts as Esther. There are four collages included in my mock newspaper. The first, under the headline “SCHOLARSHIP GIRL MISSING. MOTHER WORRIED,” is described as a “tarty” photo of Esther in her scholarship-money clothes, looking false and extravagant (The Bell Jar 198). The deconstructed face represents the lack of clarity and connection Esther feels with herself. Each of her idealized features is the epitome of beauty on its own, but together they form a monstrosity. The subtitles allude to her dissatisfaction in striving towards the unattainable ideals of womanhood. In another magazine from her time in New York, Esther looks as glamorous as the other girls in the program as she wears an evening dress and drinks a fancy cocktail (207). However, the image is posed and false, for she comments earlier that it is the sort of photo that would make everyone think she “must be having a real whirl” (2). The other collages employ ransom note-esque qualities with their cut-up letters. This technique draws attention to the demands that society makes of young women, and their harsh, threatening quality, such as the emphasis on marriage as the ultimate goal in the second collage. Esther worries that “maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterwards you went about numb as a slave,” for this is the image of marriage that surrounds her (85). The third collage contributes to Esther’s glorified perception of her disappearance with its storybook image of a search party in the woods, and the last collage deals with her suicidal tendencies, using the motifs of inadequate healthcare and escapism. “Crazy,” with a giant question mark, embodies the question marks that are “all [Esther] could see” at the end of the novel (243). She is healed, but will she stay that way? Her body is represented by a mummy that is interlaced with features of the ambulance; in this way, Esther becomes her own saviour. “I am, I am, I am,” declares “the old brag of [her] heart,” illuminating Esther’s resolution to continue despite everything (243). In creating this newspaper, I was able to understand the influence of the media on how mental health, social ideals, and stereotypical demands are depicted to the public. I came to appreciate the invisible efforts required to produce print media and the rich legacy behind such media. The precise order and organization of typesetting juxtaposed with the chaos and ongoing process of collaging reveal the different ways that form can relate to content. As Caroline Levine suggests in “The Affordances of Form,” we can understand the unpredictable consequences and reader interpretations of different forms colliding (8). I hope that in my exploration of media and social themes in The Bell Jar, I have guided readers to an understanding of issues from the 1950s that are still present today. Returning to the question of The Bell Jar as an autobiography, we might now consider Levine’s idea of treating “fictional narratives as productive thought experiments that allow us to imagine the subtle unfolding activity of multiple social forms” (19) and imagine Plath’s novel as the experimental representation of social conventions that she observed in her own life.
• An Intimate Space / "By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept"
  My final piece for the course was to set up a display for the pop-up art show, designed to (hopefully) create a sense of intimacy and reflection for the viewer, a drawing in. I used a battered old trunk found at the side of the road some years ago, along with a lamp and an antique wooden chair to create the look of a bedside table – or a place of waiting, or perhaps even an altar (all interpretations work well with my chosen text). The trunk stands for travel (of course); I was hoping to evoke a feeling of a journey, a departure, or just waiting in Grand Central Station when your beloved has forgotten to pick you up. The lampshade, a wine-coloured velvet with a raised floral pattern, reminds me of the novella’s theme of bloodletting (blood sacrament). Scattered abalone shells represent Big Sur, California, where Smart’s affair with George Barker began. The shells have a weathered exterior, but when you flip them to look inside there are delicate, iridescent lines that look like waves approaching the shore. The Bible is cracked open to the Song of Songs. My two paper crafts, “Kelp in Amorous Coils Pin Down the Pacific” and “When Your House is on Fire,” are also featured in the display. Smart’s prose is raw (and demanding) in her exploration of love, loss, and longing – obliging the same from me when I attempted to engage with the text through crafted forms. The materials I used – shells, torn paper, and discarded objects – (hopefully) reflect the text’s fragmented, raw, and vulnerable interior. ML PRENGER ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: The novella By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept was first published in 1945 by Editions Poetry London (a small press). It did not come in like a lion: there was not much fuss around the book then, and only 2,000 copies were printed. It was not until the book was republished in the 1960s that it started gathering more attention. It has always been a polarizing work, for different reasons at the time of initial publication than readers might find today. I have read multiple reviews from modern readers who call it out for being the stuff of teenage girls’ diaries (gushing). I believe the cultural context of the time is critical to consider. It was written at a time of anti-adultery laws, but also at a time when being homosexual was considered criminal. Both Smart and Barker were bisexual and were involved in an extra-marital affair. In the novella, Barker confesses to Smart about a passionate encounter with a young man, a “blonde-sapling” with “blue eyeshadow” (78), in the backroom of a print shop; Smart’s response is one of regret that she cannot turn herself into a “printshop boy with armpits like chalices”(8). Smart not only confessed to criminal offences, but she had them published. Her mother raced to have the book banned in Canada, burning all the copies she could get her hands on. Smart describes her mother as having a “clutch [that] held me in every way, with claws of biology and pity and hysterical hypnotism, and made me long for my annihilation. Can even Freud explain the terror of that clutch?” (69). Through Smart’s double use of scripture as both inspiration and shield, the novella’s connection to the Bible, particularly Song of Songs (but also Psalm 137—“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion”), speaks to the broader tension of the time (which is newly relevant again today, one could argue) when religion and morality were wielded to enforce cultural conformity. Smart’s work subverts the sacred text, reclaiming scripture to validate her love and suffering and using it as a shield to defend herself. When I read this book for the first time, I was in my 20s and (at that time) an evangelical Christian. I was also a closeted bisexual (leaning more towards lesbian) and unable to live an authentic life out of fear of rejection and eternal punishment (yes, hell). I was madly in love with a woman, but we were both too scared to talk about it openly because we both came from religious homes. This was the late 90s/early 2000s, and while people were not imprisoned in Canada for same-sex relations, same-sex marriage was still not legal, a fact that confirmed (for me) that there might be something wrong with me. I cracked open this book for a Canadian literature course and was both horrified and mesmerized by Smart’s blasphemy. It was beautiful (I was always a fan of Song of Songs), and it unlocked me. I was already set in motion to release myself from the noose of religion at the time, but Smart allowed me to fully cut the umbilical cord from whatever held me in its clutch. Love is love (we understand this now), but, in 2000, it still didn’t feel that way (for me). But Smart had recognized her truth and, decades before (I was born), declared it to the world. Reading her work again 25 years later, I am still inspired by Smart’s courage. Her novella is about love – messy, painful, and forbidden. My crafted projects allowed me to physically work with the visceral elements of this novel, to take her story and my own and fold, tear, and twist them together to explore that painful (universal) experience of love, loss, and longing.
• Weaving Timelines / "The Midnight Library"
  This braided object represents the braiding of the different timelines in Nora’s life that make her the person she is at the end of the novel. The circular shape represents the cyclical elements in the novel. The pale green and brown represent Nora before she dies (birth). Brown conveys the comfort and stability of Nora’s life at the beginning of the novel, while pale green signifies her untapped potential and the nurturing she needs in order to evolve. Purple, the colour of the library, embodies the mystery and wisdom she encounters after she tries to end her life and finds herself at the library (death). The library books are dark green, representing growth and limitless opportunities for transformation (rebirth). By exploring different lives, Nora eventually discovers her true self and integrates all the lessons she has learnt to create the life of her dreams. MARA MIRCIOIU ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Rag-rug making first became widespread during the Industrial Revolution and experienced fluctuating popularity throughout its history (“Rag Rug”). Initially, making rag rugs was a common way to repurpose old clothing, and such rugs were made mainly out of wool (“History of Rag Rugs.”). The rag rug’s main purpose was to keep floors warm before fitted carpets became common (“History of Rag Rugs”). They were valued for their practical use rather than regarded as pieces of art. Although in the present day, rag rugs are appreciated as a form of art, they were not recognized and appreciated by “the needlework elite” until recently ("History of Rag Rug Making"). There is less research available on rag rugs compared to other textile crafts because of their lack of widespread appreciation and because their history has primarily been passed down through oral tradition ("History of Rag Rug Making"). Nonetheless, rag rugs have had a strong impact since their invention; they are a method of creative reuse and serve as a critique of modern mass production (Shaffer). I chose Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library for my project. This novel was originally published on August 13, 2020 by Canongate Books in the UK, quickly becoming an international bestseller due to its themes of mental health resonating with readers during the COVID-19 pandemic and because it achieved widespread attention on social media platforms such as Tik Tok (Wikipedia). The Midnight Library was named a bestseller by The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and The Washington Post (Wikipedia). The novel was nominated for the Audie Award for Fiction (2020) and the British Book Award (2021), and it won the Goodreads Choice Award for Fiction in 2020 (Wikipedia). It is sold in multiple formats, such as eBook, hardcover, audiobook, and paperback (HarperCollins). When I first enrolled in ENSH 482, I doubted that crafting could impact my understanding of a work of literature, let alone teach me anything about a novel of my choice. However, after comparing the process of making a rag rug to the form and themes of The Midnight Library, I realized I was completely wrong. I created this rag rug to demonstrate the crafting skills I learned in this class and to show how the process of crafting the rug has deepened my comprehension of my literary text. My process started by choosing a craft. Given that the rag-rug activity was my favourite we did in class, it was the first one I thought of. I reflected on my first rag-rug creation experience and realized that my rug, like my story, has cyclical elements. My understanding of the cyclical elements in the novel is reflected through my selection of colour and the circular shape of the rug. The novel unfolds in three main stages, which I have categorized as birth, death, and rebirth. The novel begins with the line “Nineteen years before she decided to die, Nora Seed sat in the warmth of a small library” (Haig, 1). The introductory chapter lasts 2 pages before readers are transported to “twenty-seven hours before [Nora] decided to die” (Haig, 5). Readers know upon reading the first line that Nora will die, yet at this moment she is introduced and brought to life in readers’ minds. As she approaches her death, Nora avoids anything that challenges her or takes her out of her comfort zone. She constantly dwells on the happiness of others and wishes that she could be someone else. For this reason, I selected the colours pale green and brown to represent the first stage of the novel. Brown is often associated with comfort and stability ("Exploring”). This colour association relates to Nora because she constantly wishes her life were different but refuses to make changes. Pale green is a colour that represents something in need of nurturing, like a young plant. Initially, Nora is deeply dissatisfied with her life. She is aware of her need for help but struggles to find a solution to her unhappiness, seeing death as her only option. Once Nora decides to die, she is transported to a library. Not only is its exterior partly purple, but the colour purple has associations with mystery and enlightenment (“Color Psychology”). While in the library, Nora plays chess with the librarian, Mrs. Elm, while surrounded by books. Each book contains a life Nora could have lived if she had made different choices. Initially, Nora does not want to try any alternate lives and plays chess with Mrs. Elm. However, Mrs. Elm helps Nora understand and navigate the library through the game of chess, showing her that a single life holds countless possibilities, just like how there are countless chess combinations. Mrs. Elm represents Nora’s inner guide throughout the narrative. She uses chess to teach Nora to look at her life from different perspectives, ultimately inspiring her to grab a dark green book off one of the bookshelves. The colour dark green represents growth, renewal, and the unending cycle of life ("Forest Green"). The moment Nora decides to pick up a book, she does not stop trying alternate lives until she finally realizes that the only life she wants to live is the one she had before she tried to end her life. She tries out various lives and learns valuable lessons from each one. Ultimately, she discovers that none of the alternate lives suits her because she never feels genuinely like herself in any of them. Each time Nora experiences a new life, it feels like starting over, as if she is reborn. Once she chooses to return to her original life, she does so with an entirely new perspective, bringing all the wisdom she has gained from her past experiences. The colours are interwoven rather than appearing in subsequent phases because both the evolution of Nora’s life and the structure of the novel are non-linear (Haig). For instance, after exploring various lives, Nora wants to give up and even considers dying for good. Moreover, in each life she explores, she is a different age, and readers transition between different timelines. Creating my rag rug was not a linear process either. I restarted my rug in the beginning stages because I didn’t like the result. I also corrected mistakes along the way when I accidentally looped pieces of fabric through the same hole too many times. Just as I had to unravel and adjust the fabric to achieve the desired design, the narrative's non-linear structure allows for flexibility in exploring different moments and choices in Nora's life, ultimately creating a richer, more complex character and story. Another formal aspect of the book that I better understood through the process of creating my rug was the importance of the use of casual language in the novel. I watched several videos and read articles about rag-rug creation, but many explanations were unclear because they often used jargon that wasn’t accessible to someone like me, a “non-crafter”. My struggle to find a clear tutorial made me appreciate the straightforward and engaging language in my novel, even though it often addressed complex philosophical concepts because Nora has a passion for philosophy (Haig). The novel depicts the human experience of facing and overcoming struggles, a process that is recurring and cyclical. By creating my rag rug, I gained a better understanding of the themes of perseverance, regret, personal growth, the impact of perspective, and flexibility in my novel. I often resonated with the protagonist’s feelings as I went through my creative process. For instance, like Nora, I, too, felt like giving up at times because my rug kept getting knotted. In the end, Nora and I both made it through the hardships we encountered and took the lessons we learnt with us. Crafting the rag rug helped me better understand the non-linear structure of The Midnight Library, as I myself experienced a similar sense of nonlinearity while making my rag rug. The experience also deepened my appreciation and understanding of simple, clear language over more complex, technical language. I will definitely be creating more rag rugs in the future.
• The Life of a Hyena / "A Little Life"
  This art project is double layered. On the first layer, there is a collage that depicts the novel aesthetically, with images from magazines, newspaper, printouts, and the bible. Jude St. Francis, has religious trauma from a man named Brother Luke at the monastery he grew up in. I thought that bordering the collage with excerpts from the Gospel of Luke would be a powerful statement. Other images depict mental health, NYC, and hints of his community. The second layer consists of string art. Jude envisions his life’s tormentors through the motif of hyenas that rip apart his mind. The hyena string art has different threads leading away from the center, depicting the different people that inflicted harm on Jude that led to his deep rooted trauma. The artwork overall is haphazard and messy, but that was my intention. The novel is lengthy and filled with so much passion and pain that I found it made sense for my craft to emulate this chaos. RIA SHEORAN ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara was published in 2015 by Doubleday Publishing. It was nominated for twelve notable awards. Through learning about the impact of crafting on my understanding of a text, I have gained insight into the structure, point of view, and emotional themes of the novel. Upon publication, the novel quickly snowballed in popularity, with significant reviewers talking about its substance and impact. The New York Times reviewed the novel in September of 2015. The review explained that the novel is ripe with trauma and consists of a “relentless downhill trajectory” that could have been made more powerful and less predictable if Yanagihara had focused on less traumatic events. They proclaimed it to be “the most talked-about novel of the summer” and praised the novel’s substance, while also acknowledging that it is longer than it needs to be and deserves both negative and positive reviews. Jeff Chu wrote a review for Vox in December of 2015, stating, “A Little Life is the best book of the year. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.” He says that the prose is “so stunning that it would stop me, pushing me back to the beginning of a paragraph for a second read.” The content of the novel is so harrowing that he cautions readers to be wary before attempting to read it. Goodreads, the popular reviewing site open to the public, racked up many contrasting reviews. One reviewer rated the novel with one star, writing, “The writing is actually gorgeous. I can see why many, many people like this book. Really, Hanya Yanagihara knows how to use language. Unfortunately, the story she told was not worthy of it. The longer I read this book, the more I dreaded reading it, the worse my feelings got as I read, and the more I hated it for existing.” On the other end of the spectrum, a positive review states, “Its brilliant writing, its broken characters, and its bleak, unforgiving story dug into my heart, into the very pores of my skin.” The consensus from top readers and reviewers seemed to be that though the novel is heavy in content and hard to read without preparation, its writing is phenomenal and deserves the popularity it has gained. The craft project I undertook consists of two layers of work. The first layer is a collage depicting the novel and how I see it aesthetically. The second layer is an attempt at string art, depicting the face of a hyena, with different threads leading away from it signifying the people who traumatize Jude St. Francis through his life. Collaging originated all the way back in 200 BC in China. The technique slowly made its way through medieval times, and artists used materials such as gold leaves and gems. In the nineteenth century, it turned into the art form that it is today, using newspaper and magazine clippings, photographs, text from books, and a jumble of photographs and objects glued together on a canvas (Adibi, 2021). Because collage is such an old and versatile art form, I knew there was a lot I could garner from using it in my project. String art was originally meant to aid the education of mathematics. In the 1800s, a mathematics teacher, Mary Everest Boole, used it to explain geometric concepts to her class. The nature of the activity and the final result made it a popular crafting activity in the twentieth century. Open Door Enterprises created string art kits in the 1960s that skyrocketed the technique into an art form (Ross, 2024). Given the length of the novel, I originally struggled to allow myself to focus on specific parts. Using collaging seemed like a beneficial way to incorporate different elements of the text to see how they worked together aesthetically. I had two questions going into the collage that I wanted to answer: How did happiness and sadness work together in the text? And how did point of view work in shaping Jude St Francis’s character? For the first question, I realized that they did not work together and were in fact the same thing within the novel. Sadness overlapped with happiness in a way that was hard to conceptualize, but by physically placing papers on top of one another through the collage, I could visually represent this overlapping. Feeling one emotion at any singular time is rare because the human body tends to feel more than one at any time. Jude’s mental health constantly reminds him of his pain no matter how positively he manages to shape his life. The novel’s point of view is narrated in the third person, occasionally switching to the first person. Harold Stein, Jude’s adoptive father, is the only character who speaks in a first-person point of view, and it is interesting to see how his contribution is solely for the purpose of shaping Jude’s character. Given this information, I was prompted to use images that reminded me of Jude as the only member of his community, which is how he sees himself from his perspective on his life. The third-person point of view explores different characters’ lives, and using a collage to show elements of a community physically depicts the scope of how many characters are actually integral to the story. Jude’s poignant mental-health struggles led me to add a second layer with string art. Using hyenas as a motif for pain was a concept that stood out to me as highly important in the novel. Despite all that Jude suffers, there would be no story to tell had he not been irreparably traumatized by the events in childhood. His deteriorated mental health was an important concept to follow, and, by physically depicting a hyena, I made sense of the way that he thought of his abusers. Through my art project, I led five lines of string away from the hyena to single out the abusers in Jude’s life. At the starting point, they overlap with each other slightly. This overlapping was not intentional, but, upon reflection, I realized that despite his abusers targeting him at different times in his life, when he thinks about them, they are all grouped as the same. Having them overlap within the string art of the hyena made sense because the hyena became a depiction of Jude’s mind to me. The scattered and messy nature of the strings represent his mind as a jumble—and, through his perspective, we see this jumble. The strings that lead away from the hyena show that, when viewed from a different perspective, each instance of abuse impacted him differently, whether physical, sexual, or emotional abuse.
• Carried Stories: How Readers Shape Stories / "The Song of Achilles"
  This series of linocut prints and blocks represents the act of retelling and reinterpretation as undertaken by Madeline Miller in The Song of Achilles. Each print depicts themes or scenes from the novel, each on a different type of “urn” or carrying device. The series aims to depict how stories are a method of carrying stories physically and through space and time, allowing readers to give them new life.
• Woven Narratives / "Green Grass, Running Water"
  This woven piece, crafted from yarn and rags, illustrates the complexity of Thomas King’s Green Grass, Running Water. The legend identifies each material used and the plotline, formal feature, or cultural narrative it represents. I depicted each chapter by weaving with the corresponding materials, braiding them together for chapters with multiple elements, beginning at the loom’s centre. I initially expected a clear visual representation of the novel’s structure to emerge. Instead, the materials blend together, reflecting how King’s storytelling becomes increasingly interconnected the closer you look. Creating this piece helped me engage with the text in an embodied way, translating my reading experience into a physical exploration of its intricate combination of elements. Through this process, I developed a deeper appreciation for King’s layered storytelling, which intertwines Indigenous and settler experiences. Rather than obtaining an objective, singular understanding of the novel’s form, this craft object reveals its rich, interwoven complexity. ELISSA FRIELINK ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: Green Grass, Running Water, Thomas King’s most canonical work, is widely regarded as a Canadian classic, praised for its storytelling and cultural significance (Archibald-Barber 142). First published in Canada in 1993, the novel was quickly embraced by academics internationally and is still taught in many universities (142). The novel’s intricate structure challenges readers, yet students respond positively to the text, as I did when I first read it in a Canadian Literature course (141). I created my craft object, Woven Narratives, by combining weaving and rag rugging as data visualization tools to help me understand Green Grass’s intricate form. King employs Indigenous oral storytelling to incorporate intersecting plotlines, telling an elaborate story that challenges dominant literary conventions. The novel’s structure and King’s numerous references to Indigenous and settler cultures contribute to the novel's complexity. My piece explores and visually represents this intricate structure. The legend shows the materials I chose to represent plotlines, formal features, and cultural narratives. I depicted each chapter by weaving with the representative materials of that chapter and braided materials for chapters that combined plotlines, the frame narrative, or cultural narratives. I wove chapter after chapter until the whole novel was represented. The process helped me explore embodied learning as a pedagogical approach to literary studies. Before weaving, I created a digital key, categorizing each chapter according to the elements I wanted to represent. I cross-referenced the key with the physical novel while weaving, revealing elements I had initially missed. This iterative process deepened my understanding of the frame narrative, which I represented with thin white yarn. The frame narrative opens the novel with the unnamed narrator saying, “So. In the beginning there was nothing. Just the water” (1). Coyote appears and comments on the water, and the narrator responds, saying, “[h]ere’s how it happened” (3). The frame narrative introduces the story’s central question: where does the water come from? This question is answered in the mythic realm when the narrator and Coyote travel through blended Indigenous and Biblical creation stories involving water, and in the realist realm through a narrative involving multiple characters’ plotlines that unite due to a flood. King depicts an “oral storytelling event” where the novel’s narratives are framed by the narrator telling Coyote a story (Hulan and Warley 126). While I recognized the beginning and end of the frame narrative in my initial reading, weaving it into my piece clarified its formal role throughout the novel. Blanca Schorcht discusses King’s “interfusional” style that “transforms the oral into written forms” through repetition and a circular narrative structure (204). The frame narrative reappears in repetitions I initially missed. In Part One, Lionel and Norma pick up the Four Indigenous Elders who escape from a psychiatric hospital. Lionel gets out of the car and finds himself in an ankle-deep puddle (97). Other characters also encounter mysterious puddles and repeat the question: “Where did the water come from?” (98). I wove these repeated questions into my piece with thin white yarn that was easily lost amongst thicker yarn and rags. King brings the realist plotlines back to the frame narrative by reiterating the central question, reminding the reader of the oral storytelling unfolding between the narrator and Coyote. Losing sight of the white yarn in my rag-weaving, I realized how easy it was to lose the frame narrative when I read quickly, consuming the plot rather than contemplating King’s multilayered storytelling. Weaving encouraged me to slow my reading and find the frame narrative within layered stories through material reflection. I found countless other references to the frame narrative that I initially missed until I sat with the text in an embodied way. Part One concludes with the narrator repeating, “[i]n the beginning there was nothing. Just the water,” circling back to the frame narrative. King ends each section this way, revisiting the beginning and starting a new creation story, reflecting the cyclical nature of oral storytelling. The circle is completed in the novel’s conclusion when Coyote remarks on the water resulting from the flood, and the narrator responds, “[h]ere’s how it happened,” suggesting the start of another story (431). By weaving the frame narrative into other material, I reflected on what I read in an embodied, tactile way that helped me understand King’s repetition that creates circular narratives, depicting an oral storytelling event. I originally planned on illustrating the presence of the Hollywood Western in my piece as a cultural narrative, similar to Indigenous and Biblical creation stories. The Western is a book and movie genre that tells stereotypical stories about conflicts between cowboys and Indigenous peoples. I refrained from including the Western as a cultural narrative in my piece because I was unsure if I could fit another material into the loom. As I wove characters' plotlines in the realist realm, I realized the significance of the Western genre for both thematic and formal reasons. Characters like Eli and Lionel read and watch Westerns that perpetuate harmful stereotypes of Indigenous peoples as savage, prehistoric, and destined for extinction. Rather than alluding to these stories, King explicitly tells them. In a fragmented sequence over multiple chapters, King tells Eli’s story while describing the plot of a Western novel he reads, exposing its stereotypes and their effect on his identity. King's portrayal of the Western genre illustrates the dangers that arise when certain stories become popularized and are “granted authority over other stories in terms of its worldview,” which can have “long-term, often destructive effects” on representation and identity (McGill 4). The Western genre becomes an important part of the novel’s plot when the Elders enter a Western movie and the narrative so that the Indigenous group defeats the cowboys (322). Characters in the realist realm watch and are confused by the subversion of conventional Western plots. King’s incorporation and rewriting of Westerns depict his belief “that people should aim to improve narratives by retelling them” (McGill 251). King indicates that cultural narratives, while impactful, are not fixed. His playful manipulation of Westerns thematically challenges stereotypes and adds complexity to his portrayal of Indigenous identity, while making the Western part of the novel’s plot. My choice to omit this element shows the impossibility of my goal to understand the depth of the novel’s structure and represent it to the viewer within the confines of my loom. I initially envisioned my final product as a form of data visualization, resembling an orderly weaving piece that would clearly depict each chapter and its contents. I expected my piece to explicate the form of Green Grass and then communicate it to the viewer through clear visual patterns. However, my actual product resembles a rag rug–a practical, economic object that emerged in 18th- and 19th-century Britain from reused “bits and pieces” and “torn scraps of things” (Steedman 262, 272). Carolyn Steedman notes that historians often romanticize rag rugs, imbuing them with symbolic meaning that contrasts with their utilitarian origins among the working-class poor (277). While my craft object did not arise from utility, my assemblage of varied, textured materials mirrors the ragged aesthetic of rag rugging. The blending of these materials reveals the extent of the novel’s interconnected complexity, which I thought was more knowable and less complex than it actually is. Like historians' romanticization of the rag rug, the meaning I wanted to project onto my piece differed from its actual meaning—an illustration of the novel’s intricacy and demonstration of the need to personally engage with King’s storytelling to understand the novel’s structure. In “Against Mastery: Teaching Thomas King’s Green Grass, Running Water,” Robert McGill reflects on the dangers of asserting mastery over the novel by seeking a totalized understanding of its form and intertextual allusions in educational settings (249). My attempt to objectively understand and represent the novel’s form through data visualization mirrors such efforts at mastery. Green Grass exemplifies the pedagogy of Indigenous storytelling, which resists “orthodox conclusions” and fixed meanings (253). The stories invite listeners to engage deeply and draw their own conclusions that may differ from the storyteller’s intended message (253). While I anticipated achieving clarity through tactile creation, rag weaving further revealed the novel’s complexities to me as I physically interweaved the narratives onto my loom. King’s work illustrates that different narratives can co-exist while resisting assimilation into each other. King does not create one objective master narrative, but rather a complex story supporting many perspectives and interpretations. After crafting my piece, I still had unanswered questions, showing that deep engagement with Indigenous literature is more valuable than seeking a single, objective interpretation. The value of Woven Narratives lies in my process of making it, and I recognize its limitations in communicating knowledge that is meant to be personally experienced through King’s storytelling. Rag-weaving allowed me to engage with Green Grass in an embodied way, experiencing the interconnection of the novel’s stories by weaving them into my piece. While I deepened my understanding of the frame narrative, I did not fully grasp or communicate the novel’s overall structure through data visualization. Instead, my process enriched my appreciation of King’s interweaving of stories into a whole, complex narrative. Like King’s storytelling, my object resists objective interpretation. I hope it will encourage viewers to seek their own interpretations of the text, reading not just for the written narrative but to engage deeply with King’s storytelling.
• Souvenirs / "The Little Prince"
  This series of postcards, letters, and photos represents an imagined collection of correspondence between the Little Prince and the Rose. Scrapbook, collage, and letterpress techniques transform the abstract lessons the Little Prince learns on his journey into tangible memories. The Little Prince collects and carries with him various items that represent his shifting perspective on life and willingness to grow. Each lesson embodies how wonder, connection, love, and loss can be felt and remembered through sensory experiences, whether through the physical act of carrying a letter in one’s pocket or the creation of a new bond. The meticulous act of deconstructing previous material into a new item (collage) and carefully typesetting letters together (letterpress) reflect how important life lessons require endurance, patience, trust, and the bravery to challenge preconceived notions. This series emphasizes how tactile engagement deepens our understanding of life’s most essential truths and provides souvenirs to carry with us. MELANIE TURUNEN ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: What we feel shapes how we understand the world—but what about what we touch? In The Little Prince, author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s poignant messages about love, friendship, and loss remind us that we can only truly see the world with our hearts, not our eyes. My project explores whether we can also perceive the world through our sensory experiences. Using postcards, letters, and photos, I create an imagined correspondence between the Prince and the Rose, employing scrapbook, collage, and letterpress techniques to transform the abstract lessons of his journey into tangible memories. Ultimately, my project explores how physical representations of emotional experiences help us better understand and connect with intangible concepts like love and wonder, offering deeper insight into the meaning of Saint-Exupéry’s text. The Little Prince was first published in French and English (translated by Katherine Woods) in April 1943 by Reynal & Hitchcock. Initially, The Little Prince received a modest reception, spending just two weeks on the New York Times Best Seller list, compared to the success of Saint-Exupéry’s earlier work, Wind, Sand, and Stars. Critics were divided on whether the novella was meant for children or adults. Despite puzzled reviews, Reynal & Hitchcock claimed that the novella “[changed] the world forever for [its] readers” (Castronovo), and British journalist Neil Clark called it one “of the most profound observations on the human condition ever written” (Clark). By 2024, The Little Prince had sold over 140 million copies, making it the second-most-translated book in history, with over 550 translations. Adapted for film, radio, ballet, and other media, it remains celebrated for its deep reflections on love and life. The novella’s themes of imagination, wonder, and emotion lend themselves to various art forms, including scrapbooking. Scrapbooking originated in the sixteenth century with the album amicorum or “friendship book,” used primarily by “male aristocratic university students” (Day 564) to document their travels and studies. The “commonplace book,” another precursor, served as a personal repository of knowledge, quotes, and letters. By the late nineteenth century, with the rise of photography and the manufacture of decorative elements like ribbon and lace, scrapbooking evolved from a “predominantly textual to a more visual practice” (Day 562) used to document significant life events such as births, marriages, and travels. Scrapbooking enables artists—both historical and contemporary—to preserve fleeting moments, explore personal narratives, and experiment with mixed media. Through scrapbooking, I transform the Prince’s intangible feelings into concrete forms. When the Prince realizes he does not know how to love his Rose properly, he journeys across the universe, discovering the true meaning of friendship, love, and loss. I reimagine these themes as physical mementos kept in a travel scrapbook. Like the “commonplace books” of the past, my scrapbook becomes a repository of memories and emotions, combining pieces of the Prince’s journey (collage and letterpress) with my interpretations of the novella, much like how our memories accumulate and shape our understanding of the world. Just as the Prince learns that “it is only with the heart that one can see rightly” (Saint-Exupéry 87), my scrapbook invites viewers to engage with my project not just visually but also through touch and emotion, bringing abstract lessons to life in a personal and tangible way. Moreover, letterpress printing allowed me to explore the physicality of communication. Invented by Johannes Gutenberg in the mid-fifteenth century, letterpress printing revolutionized communication by enabling mass text production. All writing had previously been done by hand—a time-consuming and expensive process—but Gutenberg’s printing method made books, pamphlets, and personal letters more accessible. By the eighteenth century, letterpress printing was integral to communication, with organized postal systems supporting broader social correspondence and creating “communities of interest […] which previously would not have been possible to exist” (Meaney 6; Anderson). The physical impressions left on paper allow viewers to feel the texture of text and image, fostering an intimate connection between creator and recipient. The Rose’s letter to the Prince makes the lessons of love, connection, and growth tangible. The Rose reminds the Prince that he must “endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if [he wishes] to become acquainted with the butterflies” (Saint-Exupéry 40), teaching patience through hardship and uncertainty. I did not originally intend to incorporate letterpress into my project. However, as I typeset and inked my quote, I realized how letterpress—like love—requires us to arrange and rearrange, embracing mistakes and clarity to create something meaningful. Throughout the Prince’s tumultuous journey, he overcomes most caterpillars, “except the two of three that [he saves] to become butterflies” (87), showing how carrying a physical reminder of his strength helps him persevere. While emotions are immaterial and ephemeral, written communication allows us to physically hold onto them. Printing this letter showed me how tactile communication and engagement help us reflect on how we connect and grow through our interactions. Furthermore, collage demonstrates the Prince’s journey as he assembles new perspectives from old ones. While collage techniques date back to 200 BC, when paper was invented in China, the art form emerged in the tenth century when Japanese calligraphers “[applied] papers glued together to write poems” (Adibi 1). Collage spread to Europe by the thirteenth century, gaining popularity in the nineteenth century for creating “memorabilia such as photo albums and books” (Adibi 2). Collage allows artists, past and present, to explore human experiences by using fragments and layers to create visual narratives that reflect how our experiences shape our identities. Collage is central to my project, reflecting the Prince’s journey of transforming narrow, materialistic views into deeper lessons while preserving his innocence and wonder. By the end of the novella, his perspective is a collage of lessons, love, and loss. The two collage postcards represent the lessons that the Prince learns on his journey. The postcard from Asteroid-330 reflects the Geographer’s lesson on exploration and self-reliance, with the surreal image of making a bed in space symbolizing how the Prince must face challenges with wonder and courage. Upon arriving on Earth, surrounded by a vast desert, he realizes that “what makes the desert beautiful […] is that somewhere it hides a well” (Saint-Exupéry 93), illustrating how hidden challenges can be enlightening. The postcard from Asteroid-325 shows how the King’s authoritarian nature teaches the Prince that true connection requires understanding, not power. The gathering of people symbolizes how growth depends on friendship, connection, and seeking help. My project evolved as I worked on it, with the final addition being the collage letter from the Prince to the Rose. Made from cut-out letters and words, the letter demonstrates how time spent with something deepens our understanding of both the world and our relationships, whether with a loved one or a story. The letter is both a collage of the Prince’s personal growth and my journey of getting to know the novella through crafting. The larger collage image of the Prince and the Pilot symbolizes how the Prince’s final lesson about friendship is intertwined with loss and longing. The Pilot “lived [his] life alone” (3) before crashing his plane into a desert and meeting the Prince. Over eight days, they explore how the desert—representing life—can be both “beautiful (70) and “a little lonely” (72). As the pilot repairs his plane and the Prince’s journey ends, they realize that relationships require growing together, sometimes in different directions. The black-and-white collage background symbolizes Earth’s isolating and disenchanting nature, while the hole in the centre (a result of their friendship) allows colour and life to emerge. Together, the Pilot and the Prince overcome loneliness, filling their lives with imagination, innocence, and love. Tearing the magazine to create this photo was intimidating at first, but it soon taught me how the loss of something can lead to the creation of something else—something beautiful, meaningful, and full of potential. Lastly, the collage Polaroid of the Prince and the Rose captures the Prince’s realization that the Rose “has tamed [him]” (80), highlighting the deep emotional connection with and responsibility he feels toward her. The Prince’s love for the Rose develops gradually as he reflects on their relationship and the lessons from his travels. While my project focuses on making the intangible tangible, the Polaroid echoes the idea that “what is essential is invisible to the eye” (87). Despite being photographable and composed of physical matter, the night sky remains vast and unknowable. The silhouettes of the Prince and the Rose are cut from a night sky, displaying how their love, though represented through sensory experiences and physical correspondence, cannot be fully understood through mere sensory perception. The Prince and the Rose’s bond exists beyond the visible world, where true connection transcends sight, touch, and articulation. While love can be explored through collage and letterpress, it ultimately resides in a space that only the heart can truly understand. The collaborative nature of my project reflects the Prince’s journey of piecing together lessons, mirroring my engagement with The Little Prince. By assembling fragments into a coherent whole, my scrapbook helped me explore how sensory engagement can deepen our understanding of complex ideas and uncover insights missed in previous experiences. Through my transforming the Prince’s emotions into physical objects, the abstract concepts of the novella became more concrete to me, from the nature of love to the value of hands-on, tactile learning. As we learn to love our own Roses, it is through caring for them and attempting to make the night sky a bit more tangible that we may come to grasp the depth and ineffability of love.
• Would this get me a husband worth £10,000 a year? / "Pride and Prejudice"
  This object is a hand-embroidered peacock feather. The peacock symbolizes pride, which is evidently a prominent theme in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I have stitched 61 barbs for this feather—one for each chapter in the novel. Each chapter has an additional forest green-coloured marker for every time the novel explores women’s labour and women’s value in the marriage market. While creating my piece, I discovered how important tension was to the embroidering process. Tension was both helpful and destructive to the process; tension is also present throughout the novel. While embroidering, the embroidery hoop provided good tension as the hoop kept the fabric taut, allowing my stitches to be quick and seamless. Alternatively, that was caused by the thread tangling together made the process more difficult. In the novel, tension allows the characters to challenge their own thoughts, feelings, and the society they exist within. SIMRIT GREWAL ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: The opening line of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (1813) encapsulates the themes that Austen intends to explore in her novel. Austen’s narrator wittily informs the reader that “it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife” (Austen 1). Critics interpret this line as ironic: a well-off man does not actually want a wife, but his society needs him to want one. Austen’s novel explores the different facets that make up her society, such as familial reputation, gender, marriage, and money. Austen establishes that income and subsequent social status determine a man’s desirability in the marriage market. Alternatively, a woman’s desirability in the marriage market is determined primarily by her family’s social status. The women in the novel have “marriage [as] the goal of [her] life, and if a woman plays the courtship game right… she stands a good chance of having a rather pleasant life” (Scheuermann 199). Women’s livelihood depends on both their family’s fortune and the skills they acquire through a proper education in society. Miss Bingley explains that “a woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages” (Austen 79). Women are indeed expected to be skilled homemakers and craftswomen and to demonstrate elegance and propriety to be desirable in the marriage market. Needlework was deemed the most important craft among the many skills women were expected to master (Schaffer 28). While both men and women performed the craft in aristocratic societies, when Austen’s novel takes place, in the early nineteenth century, the “handicraft became coded as a woman’s hobby specifically, and it was increasingly identified with … domestic management” (Schaffer 33). The ability to run and manage a household was an important skill for a woman to have, and women who excelled in the skill were deemed more valuable in the marriage market. Income was fixed, and women felt the constraints of the fixed income, often relying on “their fathers’ income and wealth during their upbringing” or their husbands’ wealth “after their fathers’ death” (Herman 207). Women were forced to be savvy in the marriage market because “it was the only provision for well-educated women of small fortune” (Austen 255). While knowledge of embroidery, the world, and the arts was considered necessary for a woman to be well-educated, her education often failed to directly equate to a greater income. Instead, women leveraged these skills to bolster their desirability in the marriage market. Marrying a wealthy suitor was the only way for a young woman to guarantee financial security. While Austen does not prominently feature needlework throughout the novel, the ease with which “Elizabeth took up some needlework” demonstrates how pervasive and mundane the craft was in their society (Austen 93). Elizabeth takes on the craft outside her home, signifying to the reader that needlework was an easily accessible, everyday pastime. Needlework allows for multitasking. Elizabeth can productively create something while simultaneously engaging in the social environment. Elizabeth is likely creating a design she found out of a pattern book, which was “specifically intended to provide models for embroidery and lace” (Watt). Schaffer states that patterns at the time were often focused on bringing the natural world into the home and making the natural appear “cleaner … than it would have been in its original condition” (Schaffer 32). Elizabeth’s design likely incorporates some natural elements, such as flowers. I chose to embroider a peacock feather, partially to emulate the designs inspired by nature that Elizabeth would be creating. I also chose to embroider a peacock feather because the peacock symbolizes pride, and the imagery was present in the book’s art from even the early days of publication. Pride and Prejudice was originally published anonymously in three hardcover volumes (Todd 51). Although the first edition does not obviously feature peacock feathers, the first edition’s deep green cover art visually reflects the peacock’s aesthetic. Further, the first edition’s spine has gold banding that mimics the classic peacock feather (Jankowski). The novel received mostly good reviews and was popular from its initial publication, as evidenced by the second editions being published later that same year (Todd 54). Amongst pleasant reviews, Austen also received criticism. Charlotte Brontë later classified the novel as a disappointment with “a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers” (Southam 139). Brontë and others condemned Austen’s work for being too frivolous, clean-cut, and thus unrealistic. Austen’s writing, they complained, removes tragedy and instead emphasizes life ultimately working out. Austen’s narrative style makes her writing appear to lack tragedy. She uses free indirect discourse to provide readers with insight into her characters’ internal dialogue, in addition to their interactions with each other. Free indirect discourse allows Austen to highlight internal conflicts, specifically how tension affects Darcy and Elizabeth’s relationships with each other. The novel’s title identifies both characters’ vices: Darcy is prideful, and Elizabeth is prejudiced. Darcy’s pride becomes apparent when he rejects Bingley’s attempts at getting him to dance with Elizabeth. He evaluates her as “tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt [him]” (Austen 23). Darcy insults Elizabeth, leading her to believe that he is uninterested in her; however, Darcy’s internal dialogue informs the reader otherwise. After becoming better acquainted with Elizabeth, Darcy “really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger” (Austen 104). Darcy experiences tension as he attempts to reconcile his growing feelings for Elizabeth. Elizabeth also feels tension. She must reconcile her prejudice towards Darcy with newfound information that counters her characterization of him. When Darcy’s maid describes him as “good-natured,” Elizabeth “almost stared at her” in disbelief (Austen 508). Although readers are privy to both Darcy and Elizabeth’s inner conflicts, the two characters present themselves as unaffected by the other. Tension was crucial for my embroidery. When fabric is too tough or rigid, pulling the needle through it becomes incredibly difficult. Fabrics like denim made my hands hurt when I embroidered too long. For this project, the cotton fabric was easy to work with, but the design’s intricacies combined with my lack of skill made the embroidery floss tangle together on the back. At times, I was weaving the needle and thread through knotted clumps of embroidery floss. Pushing through the extra layers created unwanted and unnecessary tension. While tension can present challenges, the pressure was also beneficial. While embroidering the peacock feather, I quickly realized that the tension provided by the embroidery hoop was tremendously helpful for creating clean stitches. When the fabric was stretched taut on the hoop, I was able to make multiple chain stitches in quick succession. The needle weaved through the fabric faster, and I often had to pull on the excess fabric to create more tension as I completed the project. Although the tension that came from trying to weave the needle through the tangled embroidery floss tested my patience, the tension was overall both helpful and necessary to successfully complete my project. Growing to appreciate tension through embroidering the peacock feather illuminated how important tension was for Darcy and Elizabeth’s reconciliation. Darcy admits how important Elizabeth’s rejection was for him because she “taught [him] a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous” (Austen 766). Darcy’s initial proposal was both pretentious and presumptuous; he assumed that Elizabeth would have to accept his proposal out of necessity. In Darcy’s mind, he was only doing Elizabeth a service by asking her to marry him. He confesses that after the rejection, his goal became to “obtain [Elizabeth’s] forgiveness … by letting [her] see that [her] reproofs have been attended to” (Austen 767). The contradiction between the acceptance Darcy expected to receive from his proposal and the reprimand that Elizabeth gave him forced him to be introspective. His successful introspection leads to positive character development that dissipates Elizabeth’s prejudice towards him. She convinces her father of the “gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone” (Austen 782). The embroidery process provided insight into how important tension is for the novel’s plot development. Without good tension, the embroidery process is frustrating and painstakingly slow. Similarly, the productive tension between Elizabeth and Darcy caused them to eventually develop respect for each other, respect that would become the basis for their romance.
• “A Mass of Lightning in One Clap of Thunder” / Les Misérables
  This craft object is an exploration of perspective and location in the fourth part of Les Misérables. In my reading of the novel, I focused on the impressive number of locative details that Hugo includes in each character’s exploration of Paris. I traced the details of an 1834 map of Paris onto fabric and then embroidered the paths of each character, with each colour representing a different perspective. Areas with dense embroidery are places that attract the most attention in this section.  My intention for this piece was for the line of perspective to be traceable from the beginning of the narrative to the end, but due to overlapping threads, that’s no longer possible. However, this piece still emphasizes which characters and locations are the most significant in this section and also provides an interesting spatial representation of the novel. ELIZABETH DUCHESNE ON WHAT THIS CRAFTED OBJECT TEACHES US: For this project, I worked with the text Les Misérables and used the crafting medium of embroidery. Les Misérables is a deeply detailed novel in terms of location, with the last three parts taking place primarily in Paris. I wanted to explore place in conjunction with perspective within the text and how these aspects of the text might be depicted in a physical medium. As part of my making, I employed both drawing and embroidery, as I needed a base layer of map that could be clearly differentiated from the embroidery. I created an embroidery that displays both location and perspective for all of the characters, as well as the places mentioned within narration (in light purple) and digressions (in dark purple). For this piece, I aimed to combine the aesthetic elements of embroidery with data visualization and mapping. For depicting the different ways characters inhabit locations, I employed a few different techniques. For digressions, which did not include a particular perspective or place, I used a chain stitch (one stitch per page). For places where characters spent several pages, I used petal stitches to depict the number of pages they spent there. For journeys and for pages that discussed going to more than one place, I used a French knot as a marker for when the page changed. When working with ‘narrator’ sections where no specific character was focalized, I noticed that these scenes often worked as montage sequences, with at times ten or fifteen places mentioned per page. This increased frequency of location shifts produced the effect of the city being alive with activity. The most intense pages were those describing the insurrection, where Hugo would mention 10-20 different locations on each page. Through embroidery, I think I captured the intensity of this sort of urban wildfire, particularly in the sense in which Hugo describes it: “The insurrection had made of the centre of Paris a sort of inextricable, tortuous, colossal citadel” (Hugo 915). Hugo’s most evocative description compares the innumerable uprisings springing up to “a mass of tongues of lightning in one clap of thunder” (914). I think the intensity of the overlapping threads conveys this imagery well. I started this project by going through my chosen section of the novel (Part 4) and typing out the various perspectives and locations within it. For better clarity with locations and paths, as well as for the map to base my craft on, I referenced “Visualizing Les Misérables,” a website that exists as part of a research project conducted by Michal P. Ginsberg at Northwestern University. The novel’s major locations within Paris were marked within the project’s maps, as well as a few of the paths of the characters in the fourth part. I then made a digital mock-up for my embroidery using a drawing program. For many of the places listed by the narrator, I had to search through either Google maps or the French language Wikipedia (if the street no longer existed). I then cross-referenced that information with the 1834 map used by the Ginsberg project to locate the street itself. Some locations I was unable to find at all, and so I had to skip over them. This practice allowed me to consider how landmarks persisted or were destroyed over time in Paris since the setting of the novel. The novel itself was written thirty years after the book is set, so many of the places within the novel no longer existed at that point. The most notable landmark in this section is the elephant monument, which was situated at the Place de la Bastille and demolished sixteen years before the novel was published. Part of this novel’s purpose, then, was Hugo’s attempt to remember and preserve the Paris of his youth. Les Misérables’ original French publication was incredibly successful: shortly after its publication, the Daily News in the UK reported that “[w]ithin two days […] five thousand copies were sold; two editions were exhausted in one week, and a third, of 7000 copies, is announced” (“Literature”). Another British newspaper described how in Paris “[t]he booksellers’ shops were literally besieged as long as a copy remained unsold, and by four o’clock there was not one to be had” (“Foreign Intelligence”). Isabel Hapgood’s English translation also received great praise when published in 1887 in the US. Her edition was originally sold for the price of “$7.50” for five volumes bound in cloth, “15.00” for five volumes bound in leather, and in a “[p]opular edition in one volume” that cost a more affordable “$1.50” (“Multiple Classified Advertisements” 2). The Boston Daily Advertiser pronounced that Hapgood had accomplished the task of translating “with more than her accustomed skill” and furthermore declared that “Miss Hapgood ought to be congratulated on her success” (“Books and Authors”). When embroidering the piece, I found it easier to differentiate the threads as compared to the lines on the digital mock-up because threads had a feature of layering, which would show what came first or later. However, the multiplicity of the threads eventually culminated in viewers’ inability to follow the chronological order (particularly notable when the light purple thread crossed the middle section of the piece). I had originally intended for the path to be traceable, but this intention turned out to be difficult to achieve with the amount of overlap in the center of the piece. For future crafting exploration, I think I would recommend choosing a story with fewer overlapping locations. The piece still maintains its value in terms of representing the networks of the plot as a whole, as well as the significance of certain places (based on how many pages the characters stayed there). I think the value of the piece lies in expressing the frequency of location, the closeness of the places (for example, I had no idea that Marius’s house was only a few blocks away from the prison), and the frequency of characters’ perspectives within the plot. Eponine, for example, only has around nine pages where her perspective is at the forefront. The other difficulty I found with the actual embroidery was the inability to be exact in terms of location. Since I had to trace the map onto fabric, inevitably the fabric shifted, and some of the road placements were moved closer or farther apart. The locations of the major places are correct, but for the one-off locations mentioned in the narrator-montage sequences, the roads were often too small to draw in, so I had to approximate based on landmarks. The other difficulty I found was that when transferring the digital lines into embroidered stitches for the insurrection sequence, it was very difficult to tell the lines apart, and I got lost. I eventually made my way to the end of the sequence, but it was a bit more approximate than I intended. My methods were unable to capture everything, nor was I realistically able to do so. Embroidery has been used across cultures and centuries, but I feel that the form that I was most inspired by for this object was Victorian embroidery. In “Fancywork and Bourgeois Culture,” Nancy Bercaw argues that by “consciously endowing each object with a message, fancywork makers created a bond between the object and the self” (Bercaw 243). Victorian women used their embroidery as carriers of self-expression and self-encoding. By creating embroidery, as the maker, I am implicitly adding something of myself to the object. However, just as crafting is able to encode messages about the person making it, so too is it useful for encoding other information. By combining aesthetic techniques with data, one can make meaning in ways that actively engage the viewer more than plain text would. As Talia Schaffer notes, Victorian crafting was conceived as “improv[ing] on nature by preserving, cleansing, arranging, and fixing the materials that nature had left in chaos” (Schaffer 32). By crafting, materiality is made into meaning—and, for this project, materiality is made into a unique understanding of Les Misérables.