R&S: Phunk'd Craftyhoar Fabric Scrap Placemats

Phunk'd placemats + my plant children

I am sure I have said it time and time again that I am a hoarder. The deeper I delve into the depths of crafty creativity, the more the things I hoard become endless an possibility for birthing crafty brainchildren. I have been teaching myself to sew for quite some time now and have been reusing/re-purposing many of my old clothes in an attempt to make new ones. One day while trying to sew myself a jumper following youtube seamstress Meesha TV tutorial on How To Make a Jump Suit Easy at the end of her video she reminds us to 'never throw away your scraps'. Since then I have been hoarding scraps of fabric from all of my sewing projects. 

My MeeshaTV Jumper (from old house clothes)

Now, there comes a brief fleeting moment in every hoarders life when you tell yourself 'this shit is too much'. It is accompanied by an overwhelming sensation of being consumed by things, then followed by the moment of reassurance when we become complacent in our hoarding tenancies and remind ourselves that the purpose of these things will soon be revealed. Needless to say I have a lot of crafty supplies that need storage, so I decided to look up a DIY tutorial on how to make baskets. I found this really simple how to make a fabric basket by TheCraftyGemini that uses cotton clothes line wrapped with fabric to make beautiful baskets of different sizes. With the purpose of my fabric scarps finally revealed, and being far eager to get this project popping I soon found myself annoyed and dejected. For some reason mine just didn't turn out as fly as the ones in the video. They were flat. No matter how hard I tried in all of my frustration I couldn't get them to be basket like. Crafting always has its up and downs and the first rule to remember is that no one is born a master, phunk ups will happen! And sometimes the phunk ups that can be a product of our frustrations, efforts and imagination end up manifesting into new ideas we had never envisioned. In my attempts to make fancy baskets I ended up with these beautiful placements that I so fitting like to call Phunk'd. 

Phunk'd Kanga Placemats

To get this final product I followed CraftyGeminis' tutorial minus a few tweaks; I used twine instead of cotton (because it was what i had) and just sewed in a flat circle until I got the desired size for my placemats. I didn't spend any $$$ on the supplies cause they are what I have lying around, but twine can be bought at the dollar store and you can use any old fabric you wish! Including old shirts, sheets etc.

Materials

My girlfriend reminds me all the time that stuff will happen, it is the way that we respond that shapes who we are. In the case of crafting, sometimes it can be really frustrating, time consuming or it just get all kinds of phunk'd up. But when we open our minds to the possibility of creative solutions, we become the masters in manifesting new kinds of magical creations!

Smiles :)

Tuly Maimouna

Throwback: Craftgression

Yellow Pompom Scarf
double crochet stitch

It's always interesting for me to see how any artists craft progresses the more involved they become. I have been rediscovering some of the old things I had made and forgot to share! I went through a pompom scarf faze a couple of years back and I made this one here for a close friend of mine. This is what I like to call a throwback craftgression (craft progression) this is one of the first few things I had ever made! You've seen where I am, now see where i was!

Smies :)
Tuly Maimouna

Kitenge: Profit Seeking & Cultural Appropriation

Kitenge Earrings

I have been thinking a lot about cultural appropriation lately. Is it possible that even members of a given ethnic or cultural community can participate in the appropriation of their own culture? 

I was in East Africa for a while earlier this year. I went to visit family, go to my cousins wedding and just relish in the happiness of being back home. As a part of that visit I made sure to attain as many crafting supplies as possible, mostly glass beads, vitenge, and jewelry making accessories. I can never find nice and affordable vitenge here in Canada, and all the other crafting materials are so much cheaper there than here. So I merrily went around connecting with other crafters in markets, in my home area, and with Non-governmental organizations (NGOs) that support local crafting entrepreneurs to find wholesale prices. With every new product I came across I was ecstatic at the thought of the money I was saving for the quality I was getting. When I got back to Canada and found inspiration enough to get into the crafting groove I started making earrings. If y'all don't know by now, I love big earrings. Hate the heft though. So I thought that these super lightweight and boldy coloured kitenge earrings would be perfect. As I started making and selling them I had this growing feeling of discomfort and constantly thought to myself thought, 'am I selling my own culture for financial profit?' I started feeling like I was participating in the process of rendering cultural artifact to commercial product. I realized that I have absolutely no idea what the history of vitegne are within my countries of origin and instead of trying to learn their meaning I have rendered them nothing more than fashion accessory. For example, remember my post on kangas? Kangas often reflect current events. The sayings written on the bottom are not neutral or without meaning. They can tell stories of political or historical events, reflect religious values, offer advice and knowledge through proverbs, or have encouraging words. They are used during wedding rituals or when someone gives birth to carry babies. In short they have social value and meaning. Of course they are sold and produced for profit, but attached to them is meaning and purpose.

Beyond that I started looking at all the different ways that African cultures and artifacts have been appropriated as object for consumption or display. In museums, through micro finance projects in developing countries, curios shops, the north American/European fashion industry...and in all of this continental Africans gain little economically. In buying raw materials cheaply and selling finished products at a higher price am I contributing to sustaining poverty in my own home for personal gain? How am I any different from the multinational corporations who extract raw resources like oil, gold, tanzanite and diamonds then refine them and produce finished products for consumption? Am I excused simply because I have roots there? Oh Capitalism. What are the implications in representing my culture as fashion, is the financial or aesthetic trade off worth it? What do you think?

Smiles :)

Tuly Maimouna

Kimya: The Power of Silence

In June of last year a friend was very ill and was taken off life support. In the midst of hurriedly attempting to navigate the Ontario medical system through hospital visits, story time, family conversations, and connecting with specialists it seemed there was so much happening around her life at such a fast pace that I was very unsure of what to say or do. Watching her quickly deteriorating health I began to feel powerless in the situation and silence suddenly became my place of refuge, partially forced and partially out of dejection.

In an attempt to remain strong I started forcing faces to cover up my choked back tears and closeted crying from the world. Silence due to stigma, silence due to fear, silence out of respect, silence out of understanding, silence out of sadness, silence out of disbelief. When she died on June 14th 2013 I felt overwhelming despair and guilt for being complacent in my silence. I then began to equate silence with weakness and cowardliness. Silence came to represent images of my failure as a friend and its consequences, the horrific images of her lifeless black female body.

For a long time after her death I shut down and remained quiet. I kept my thoughts to myself, I blocked people out, lost interest and hid my intimate self away out of shame. It was as if I was trapped internally and externally by silence. Wordless-ness came to represent the greater part of the last year for me. I was caught  in deep thought reflecting how it was possible that  a young black woman could die in Canada under such disgusting circumstances. I was disillusioned to start thinking about Ontario health institutions as sites of structural violence against black bodies, in the case of my friend not only did they contribute to limiting her access to specialized care as a living being, but they also affected whether or not she got to die with dignity. It was heavy thinking about the broader political and economic contexts that contributed to her death, and I was pissed the phuck off. Her truth was tangled up in medicalized rationalizations of her death and entirely glazed over the larger health inequities that exist in our society, especially for poor racialized womyn.

It wasn't until March of this year when I was at two day retreat that things started to change. I remember being hyper aware of not wanting to say a word to anyone and feeling intensely awkward inside of myself. Whenever we were asked to speak or even just in causal conversation my heart would race. I would feel my heart pumping in my chest, my eyes would fill with tears and I'd develop this hard dry lump in my throat. On the second day of the retreat we were asked to participate in an activity. We were asked to write a word on a piece of paper based on how we felt and move around the room and explain to others why we had chosen that word. I had chosen silence, but I couldn't speak, I just cried. Openly in the arms of a gentle stranger I finally felt peaceful, like I was able to mourn the loss of my friend and the sadness+anger I felt around the circumstance in which she died. It was like coming out of the closet. I realized that my silence was a way of being compassionate with myself, to slowly try and understand and reflect on everything that happened at my own pace. Silence is the opportunity to be with my thoughts, and be within myself in a way that does not involve verbal communication. In that moment silence and compassion gently became intertwined and I was finally able to step outside of myself and gain a different perspective of death, mourning and loss and the realities of structural violence. The initial fear of exploring death and lifting the veil to reality is something that without silence I would not have been able to experience and learn from. The process of turning death to memory through reflection and crochet opened up a space to think critically about inequity and the intersections of class, race and gender. So to my friend gone too soon in life and death you have given me strength to be courageous and act with compassion. You have helped to redefine what community is and how to keep people in our community especially those whose voices are not prioritized. You have taught me the difference between passive and active silence and have opened up a space within me to be able to reflect on how to work advocate for change critically and with love.

So remember Polar Vortex? I dunno about y'all, but last winter was something fierce and I learned a harsh (and freezing) lesson. So I felt compelled to be thoroughly prepared in case we get glazed over with ice again! I made this fall inspired ruffled green, brown and yellow cowel with different kinds of acrylic blended yarn from this pattern on Crochet N' Crafts. I love it! I used about 5 skeins of yarn for this and it took roughly a day to finish making. The shell stitch is really great cause it gives a bobble/ribbed kind of look when complete and it adds for extra warmth! I love making things that reflect the turn of seasons, to me they are metaphors for the different kinds of transitions we make in life and the preparations we make for coming change; whether they be crocheting a cowel to keep warm or making mental and emotional preparations in silence to inform how we support each other, I am in the process of learning to move forward in ways that make sense to me and speak to my lived experiences as well as the lessons learned alongside the people I have grown with.

Kimya
Ruffle Infinity Cowel
%100 Acrylic Blend

Kimya Cowel

Kimya Cowel

Many smiles :)

Tuly Maimouna

Tumaini: Dolls for Black Girls

Michelle (left) + Friends

I played with dolls until I was 13 years old, with all the active imagination and thrill necessary to make their world come to life. In my imagined world, my dolls were typical city people facing the troubles of relationships, girlfriends, boyfriends, cheating, and work. I had this Groovy Girl and I named her Michelle, she had light brown skin and big curly brown hair. I loved her dearly and used to 'borrow' my next door neighbors Groovy Girls clothes so she would always be looking fly. Although she had brown skin I remember always wishing that I could have beautiful bouncy curls like hers instead of my ole brillo like hair. I always used to make her swing her brown curls with attitude, wishing I could do the same. I was jealous of her and she soon became my ideal standard of beauty and penetrated my imagination. When making Sims characters, Michelle. When I would draw pictures, Michelle. When writing stories, Michelle. When trying to represent myself, Michelle. When thinking about who was beautiful, Michelle. Rarely did I see girls or women who looked like myself in my imagination.

Michelle was one of two black dolls I owned growing up. The second, her name is Stephanie. I have had her for as long as I can remember, but I have no recollection of ever playing with her. Stephanie is a dark skinned doll with shoulder length black yarn hair that resembles locs, she has a coy and full smile, broad nose, green and brown eyes that look up and to the left, and she wore a kitenge (Kenyan dress) - which has since been lost. She never garnered any interest in my childhood imagination so she remained at the bottom of my closet, then in a cold basement, then in a storage unit. A couple of years ago I finally unearthed Stephanie with surprise from a garbage bag full of toys I had been meaning to give to my younger cousins. Despite being in my adult years I gently dusted her off, warmly gave her a hug and apologized. Suddenly Stephanie seemed so beautiful and worthy of my love. Michelle who had also been in the bag with Stephanie harbored no sentiment, despite how integral she had been in my childhood she looked unfamiliar to me like an imagined person from a distant past. I threw Michelle + her friends into my suit case and delivered them to my cousins in Kenya who received them with delight, but I couldn't ignore the feeling of guilt I had giving them dolls that they likely couldn't see themselves in. 

I think there is something to say about people - particularly children, being able to see themselves in the things that they love. Whether it be TV shows, story books, games, or in my case dolls, I think having access to accurate representations of how we see ourselves is important in developing a sense of who we are. Flaws and all, I never realized how much of a privilege it was to be able to insert and see myself in my own imagination until it actually started to happen.

Tumaini
[To-My-Knee]

Tubetops, flowing skirts, bright prints, dreadlocs, pink hair and bare feet make me feel sexy

 I tend to be unimpressed with many things and question everything.

My waist is narrow and my hips are wide.

My booty is big and I have black stretch marks above my hips.

Smiles,

Tuly Maimouna