2003 Portrait, Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts
Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts, 2006, 50"W x 50"L Crafsmanship:
Artist: Elizabeth Garlington
Dimensions: 50”W x 50”L
Medium: Fiber/Studio Art Quilt/Fabric Document
Place of Origin: Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts was crafted in my studio located in Memphis, Tennessee from December 2005 to March 2006, professionally photographed on March 30, 2006 (Nashville, TN), and publicly exhibited on April 1-2, 2006 (Nashville, TN).
Materials: Cotton and Polyester Fabrics, Cotton and Metallic Threads, Cotton Batting, Fusible Interfacing, Machine Appliqué and Embroidery
Button Embellishments, Surface Paint (Acrylic), Prismacolor Color Pencil,
Techniques:
Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts is a quilt that is a cloth construction made by joining two pieces of constructed fabric together with cotton batting as a filler in-between the quilt top and the quilt backing. The quilt top is the area of high visual impact, creativity and self-expression — an imagistic, narrative surface expressing my experiences growing up in the southern Bible Belt.
Quilt Construction: Quilting as a technique is the stitching of two pieces of material together with padding in-between. Quilts can be hand-pieced, machine-pieced, hand-quilted or machine quilted. Quilt construction by Singer Sewing Machines was as early as the mid-1800's.
Why I Made the Quilt and What the Work Means as a Whole:
The fabric document, Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts, is a narrative art quilt littered with images, words, and phrases that I have experienced as a southerner "born and bred in the briar patch." In my life, I have been a keen observer of my southern roots and Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts is the format I chose in which to preserve my observations and life experiences—some humorous and some painful. I crafted this work of fiber art because, literally, my sides were splitting to make a narrative work strictly about the southern Bible Belt. I simply had to record, vis-a-vis a quilt, my belief that in the south, everything is sacred and everybody believes in something. I have traveled to many southern spaces and places and have lived in the great southern states of Georgia, Florida, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Mississippi. In my lifetime, I have experienced southern culture at its best and at its worst. I believe that each and every state that composes "the Bible Belt" has a distinct flavor.
DETAILED MEANINGS
Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts: Southern Experiences and Influences
Tennessee Connections:
Throughout my childhood, teenage years, and adulthood, I have traveled to and lived in Tennessee. My sojourns to the state that has often been identified as the "buckle of the Bible belt" began when I attended summer camp at Camp DeSoto in Mentone, Alabama. As campers, we looked forward to the trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee where we would ride the incline to Ruby Falls and Rock City. I have spent a lot of time with family and friends on Lookout Mountain, Tennessee. I lived and worked in Nashville, attended Vanderbilt University, exhibited my works of art at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, Alive Hospice, and Cheekwood.
Mississippi Connections:
The urge to craft a quilt about the southern Bible Belt grew even stronger when I moved to Mississippi three years ago and experienced a completely foreign, yet very southern culture. I had read about southern Baptist fundamentalism and never thought that I would find myself in repeated situations with with members of my community either praying for me or begging me to come to church so that I would be "okay." I've learned that a Mississippian can say anything about anybody as long as the statement is concluded with "bless her heart." I have learned that the question "Who's your momma and them?" means a whole lot more than my simply providing the name of my mother. Lineage and family roots run deep in the south.
Georgia Connections:
Like Peachtree Road, the symbols of the Coca-Cola Company and The Varsity are very reminiscent of my native Atlanta. I grew up eating watermelons on the back brick terrace in the mid-summer months, surviving Georgia-Auburn football games as a freshman at The University of Georgia, driving down 341 South to St. Simons Island, Georgia, and exhilarating in the delight of drinking a real cherry Coke with crushed ice from the soda fountain in downtown Madison, Georgia. I love Moon Pies and RC Colas, plastic, pink flamingos in the front yards of my Florida neighbors, and the classic design of John Deere tractors and Jack Daniels whiskey bottles
RELIGIOUS IMAGES:
The Sacred and the Profane (or Everybody believes in Something)
I attended Vanderbilt Divinity School when I lived in Nashville, Tennessee. The rigorous academic program forced me to question my own belief system, the belief systems of others, and the often aggressive persuasion of specifically southern religious institutions to prod a soul to venture through its chapel doors. In the south, where everyone believes in something, often the destination of the pilgrimage is not to the sacred but to the profane (profane beliefs being popular culture or “counterfeit”). Elvis, Jesus Christ, and Robert E. Lee comprise the southern triumvirate or holy southern trinity so to speak. People make a spiritual journey to their church home, to a civil war reenactment, or to Graceland. People worship the great football coach Bear Bryant and the feeling that a shot of Southern Comfort or Jack Daniels provides on a sweltering, pre-game mid-morning. People believe that Elvis is alive. I have observed people lighting and placing votive candles on the stone wall surrounding Graceland. People worship the money they want to win at the gambling casinos in Tunica, Mississippi. It’s too bad that the “house always wins.” Memphians travel to Rendezvous for ribs, and as recently as early July 2006, President George W. Bush graced the restaurant with a troupe of secret service agents and a Japanese dignitary. People have said that eating ribs at Rendezvous is a "religious experience." Thus, walking through the entry ways of Graceland, Rendezvous, Rock City, SEC football stadiums, or the Hernando, MS Baptist Church provide people with what I would call profound experiences — whether the destination is sacred or profane — the journey has a more than meaningful element. I believe that in "The South," everybody believes in something and everything is sacred.
My feelings about Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts:
I treasure the art quilt, Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts, as the work represents smatterings of my Bible Belt culture that I find both humorous and terrifying. I want visitors to the Tennessee State Museum to witness the slices of southern life I have experienced. It is my hope that Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts will serve both as a testament to southern culture and as a format that both preserves and communicates southern culture. Counterfeit Faiths and Southern Comforts preserves the iconography of a woman’s southern experiences that, hopefully, will be viewed by visitors to the Tennessee State Museum eighty years hence.
IMAGES/ICONOGRAPHY BY CATEGORY
Southern Bible Belt Iconography
Coca-Cola (Coke)
SEC Football
Pink flamingos
Robert E. Lee
Elvis Presley
Confederate flags
John Deere tractors
RC Cola/Moon Pie
Pick-up trucks
Southern Comfort, Rebel Yell, Jack Daniels
The Varsity
Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC)
Outhouse
Aunt Jemimah Pancake Mix
Watermelons
Rattlesnakes
Skoal
Mark Twain references/quotes
Red roses
Git R' Done
Tennessee Iconography
Elvis Presley
Graceland
Pink Cadillac
Rendezvous
See Rock City birdhouse
Jack Daniels
Tennessee license plates
Elvis license plate
"Return to Sender" letter/mailbox
Georgia Iconography
The Varsity
Atlanta Steeple Chase
Florida Iconography
Pink flamingos
Faith-Based Iconography
"Jesus vs. Elvis"
Scopes Monkey Trial, Intelligent Design
Gay Rights
Ten Commandments
From Graceland to the Holy Land
Church/church signage imagery
Baptism
Sign (Snake) Handlers
License Plates
Louisiana
Virginia
Tennessee
South Carolina
Alabama
"Love the South" license plate
Florida
North Carolina
Arkansas
Georgia
Texas
Mississippi
AIDS: If Only
The exhibition opening was held in a gallery which rested on what could be called a boundary, a division, or a property line that divided "old Atlanta" from the "black part of town." The year was 1986. The month was January. Midtown Atlanta was an emerging entity which housed a new and defiant sub-culture yet maintained an old South sensibility. The corner of Peachtree Street and Ponce de Leon Avenue was no longer the sole hub of "Sock," (so named by local culture because he indiscreetly placed a sock in his pants in order to "enlarge" what he believed would please his audience) a homeless, bleach-haired, gay entrepreneur who scalped money from people and handed passers-by The Creative Loafing, the local epistle of all that was Atlanta subculture and sometimes a discarded copy of The Village Voice, while standing on the corner of Ponce and 14th. A year earlier, RuPaul had arrived on the Hot'lanta scene and made his debut, draped in calf-high, rusted leather combat boots and virgin white bridal toile, at Weekends, a Midtown 24/7 club four nights a week and for fifty bucks a night plus tips — only to return to The Big Apple a year later to become Manhattan's top queen of the club scene. Midtown was no longer the only supposed gay part of town nor was it necessarily the other part of town.
The gallery I speak of, Nexus, was still in the process of renovation — an old factory building with distressed remnants of gang sloganry on the exterior's brick surface. The tags produced by my town's inner city gangs read something like a fast-paced Pollock drip painting, albeit in a hastily wrought monochromatic pallet. The interior of the gallery could be labeled early shabby sheik with portions of the plastered wall surface painted a fauxturquoise marble. No matter how hard folks tried to make this space what it was not, it would always be what it had always been. A tall, gaunt man was greeting people at the gallery's entry; directing them up the narrow, dimly lit stairway. As I climbed the dark, wooden steps to a supposed heaven, my feet and legs vibed to the bass vibration of the too early in the night music of The Human League because people were still way too sober and it was way too early for anyone to wrap their heads around what was wanting to take place. The second floor main gallery was splattered with blue neon light. The Mars black ceiling was lit like a fireworks display. Profiles of a dozen Birds of Paradise, housed in a tall, glass cylinder vase and resting on a round table in the second floor foyer, danced in the shadows — the flora would have looked much kinder if only Calla Lilies had been included.
What was also lurking in the shadows and looming like armed, somber sentries, were one hundred works of art produced by one hundred gay men. The exhibition had no title and perhaps this missing element was intentional. It certainly was reminiscent of DaDa--a private mystery encouraging public discovery. The exhibition opening was slated from 7:00 p to 9:00 p — at least that was what was printed on the grey cardstock invitation I received three weeks ago. My former watercolor professor was one of the exhibiting artists. That's why I'm here. A mild and quiet man in his early fifties, I later realized that his violent and violet tinged paintings were his most sublime expression. I was early. It was 8:30 p. If only I was a bit later in my arrival. If only I had worn black. Should I eat some shrimp? I was wearing winter white and I did not want to spill cocktail sauce on my DKNY (everyone was in some kind of designer, post punk/new wave, black retro uniform). I began to notice small smatterings of people entering the gallery just like the salty smell of the catered brine shrimp and Ritz crackers filtering through the space.
I intuited that this was an underworld event that would eventually turn into a cluster fuck that would travel, later in the night and like powdered cocaine and en masse, to another dark loft in the same part of town that only people wearing only black who were trying to be artists but who were really only working in restaurants would understand (or for that matter be invited to attend). Chains and hoops and spikes crafted from a myriad of alloys dangled from ears and noses and eyebrows. Post Sex Pistols, post Halston/ Studio 54, and early Calvin Klein attire were rampant but were only displayed in black. The B-52's were grouped in a corner. My Love Tractor friends solemnly leaned against the cold brick walls wondering why they weren't the opening gig. Natalie Merchant was in a far away corner. Michael Stipe walked through the main gallery. Green eye shadow brazened his cheekbones. His Salvation Army shirt sleeves were languidly draped below his wrists. He saw me and without hesitation or provocation, lit a lightly filtered kiss on my eyebrow and said, "Welcome home, Elizabeth." R.E.M. played later in the night... Radio Free Europe rocked the house.
If only my friend was with me to see this frenzied carnival of sorts. He promised me he would be here. He would tell me how to be. He would fetch my white wine. He would tell me to breeeaathe. We could be small together and lean up against the cold brick walls together and simply watch together. He would softly lean into me and place his big, warm hands in the side pockets of my white denim jacket. His long fingers would wrap around mine and I would feel okay. He would whisper something in my ear despite the competing symphonies that enveloped this space. I only know that in this dark and cold auditorium was a collision of art, music, angst, anger, and raw energy feeding raw pain — a percussive tension was flooding the space, exacerbating the mood and screaming to the drowning sex drum of Enigma.
It's 9:00 p. I am no longer early but am only now blending into the collective media of people, images, and clatter. Alone. I am alone. If only. Only me:
Only my eyes on the artworks that protest back to me. No other voices telling me what they think of the work or that they only like that one or that that one can only mean this or if only the artist had used more color and why did he do it that way and if only he had had AIDS he would understand and if only he had priced it lower he would buy it and if only his partner would allow him to have it he would hang it above the daybed in his loft and if only there wasn't barbed wire around the image and "let's get out of here and go to 688" and if only I understood I would not be here....
I am consumed with watching black-clothed herds of men, the blue-black surfaces of leather reflecting off of more leather and silver metal, that I only really see the white light bouncing off of crystalline glasses of white wine. If only I could understand the imagery.
If only I could absorb the meaning of the acrylic-paint on gun metal, the barb-wire wrapped phallus, linen-draped breasts, Kaposi's Sarcoma, Larry Kramer's Heartsong, reminiscing about weekends spent on Fire Island, and sanguine-hued ribbon tails.
If only I liked the cheap white wine. If only I could fake conversation. If only art wasn't roaring so loudly in my head. If only I could hear my own voice. If only the canvasses had a sweeter message. If only I could stop crying. If only I knew why I cried. If only I could stop. A tightly gaunt and leather bound man, standing next to me and looking at the same composition littered with bilious green heartbreak and painted by my watercolor professor, offered me a linen handkerchief, the fabric lightly brushing my cheek, and said, "If only you understood." If only.
Reflection:
This writing is in memory of the many friends I have had in my life as an artist who have lost their lives to AIDS. I "broke" the rules and threw social currency to the wind by even entering this art/music space in the mid-80's. The experience was pivotal in my work with RAIN (Regional AIDS Interfaith Network) and supporting many families in completing even more 6' x 6' voice tapestries that are threads in The Names/AIDS quilt based in San Francisco, CA.
What I wrote in response to this gallery experience in 1996:
An artist's worst enemy is apathy. I once left an exhibit that deeply disturbed me. I was angry, upset, and even felt a degree of betrayal in response to the artists' work. It took some time, but I came to realize that the artists, in their portrayals of controversial subject matter, had been successful. In retrospect, the collective works caused me to ponder, meditate, pray, think, react, and respond. I still think of the content of the art work ten years later.
The gallery I speak of, Nexus, was still in the process of renovation — an old factory building with distressed remnants of gang sloganry on the exterior's brick surface. The tags produced by my town's inner city gangs read something like a fast-paced Pollock drip painting, albeit in a hastily wrought monochromatic pallet. The interior of the gallery could be labeled early shabby sheik with portions of the plastered wall surface painted a fauxturquoise marble. No matter how hard folks tried to make this space what it was not, it would always be what it had always been. A tall, gaunt man was greeting people at the gallery's entry; directing them up the narrow, dimly lit stairway. As I climbed the dark, wooden steps to a supposed heaven, my feet and legs vibed to the bass vibration of the too early in the night music of The Human League because people were still way too sober and it was way too early for anyone to wrap their heads around what was wanting to take place. The second floor main gallery was splattered with blue neon light. The Mars black ceiling was lit like a fireworks display. Profiles of a dozen Birds of Paradise, housed in a tall, glass cylinder vase and resting on a round table in the second floor foyer, danced in the shadows — the flora would have looked much kinder if only Calla Lilies had been included.
What was also lurking in the shadows and looming like armed, somber sentries, were one hundred works of art produced by one hundred gay men. The exhibition had no title and perhaps this missing element was intentional. It certainly was reminiscent of DaDa--a private mystery encouraging public discovery. The exhibition opening was slated from 7:00 p to 9:00 p — at least that was what was printed on the grey cardstock invitation I received three weeks ago. My former watercolor professor was one of the exhibiting artists. That's why I'm here. A mild and quiet man in his early fifties, I later realized that his violent and violet tinged paintings were his most sublime expression. I was early. It was 8:30 p. If only I was a bit later in my arrival. If only I had worn black. Should I eat some shrimp? I was wearing winter white and I did not want to spill cocktail sauce on my DKNY (everyone was in some kind of designer, post punk/new wave, black retro uniform). I began to notice small smatterings of people entering the gallery just like the salty smell of the catered brine shrimp and Ritz crackers filtering through the space.
I intuited that this was an underworld event that would eventually turn into a cluster fuck that would travel, later in the night and like powdered cocaine and en masse, to another dark loft in the same part of town that only people wearing only black who were trying to be artists but who were really only working in restaurants would understand (or for that matter be invited to attend). Chains and hoops and spikes crafted from a myriad of alloys dangled from ears and noses and eyebrows. Post Sex Pistols, post Halston/ Studio 54, and early Calvin Klein attire were rampant but were only displayed in black. The B-52's were grouped in a corner. My Love Tractor friends solemnly leaned against the cold brick walls wondering why they weren't the opening gig. Natalie Merchant was in a far away corner. Michael Stipe walked through the main gallery. Green eye shadow brazened his cheekbones. His Salvation Army shirt sleeves were languidly draped below his wrists. He saw me and without hesitation or provocation, lit a lightly filtered kiss on my eyebrow and said, "Welcome home, Elizabeth." R.E.M. played later in the night... Radio Free Europe rocked the house.
If only my friend was with me to see this frenzied carnival of sorts. He promised me he would be here. He would tell me how to be. He would fetch my white wine. He would tell me to breeeaathe. We could be small together and lean up against the cold brick walls together and simply watch together. He would softly lean into me and place his big, warm hands in the side pockets of my white denim jacket. His long fingers would wrap around mine and I would feel okay. He would whisper something in my ear despite the competing symphonies that enveloped this space. I only know that in this dark and cold auditorium was a collision of art, music, angst, anger, and raw energy feeding raw pain — a percussive tension was flooding the space, exacerbating the mood and screaming to the drowning sex drum of Enigma.
It's 9:00 p. I am no longer early but am only now blending into the collective media of people, images, and clatter. Alone. I am alone. If only. Only me:
Only my eyes on the artworks that protest back to me. No other voices telling me what they think of the work or that they only like that one or that that one can only mean this or if only the artist had used more color and why did he do it that way and if only he had had AIDS he would understand and if only he had priced it lower he would buy it and if only his partner would allow him to have it he would hang it above the daybed in his loft and if only there wasn't barbed wire around the image and "let's get out of here and go to 688" and if only I understood I would not be here....
I am consumed with watching black-clothed herds of men, the blue-black surfaces of leather reflecting off of more leather and silver metal, that I only really see the white light bouncing off of crystalline glasses of white wine. If only I could understand the imagery.
If only I could absorb the meaning of the acrylic-paint on gun metal, the barb-wire wrapped phallus, linen-draped breasts, Kaposi's Sarcoma, Larry Kramer's Heartsong, reminiscing about weekends spent on Fire Island, and sanguine-hued ribbon tails.
If only I liked the cheap white wine. If only I could fake conversation. If only art wasn't roaring so loudly in my head. If only I could hear my own voice. If only the canvasses had a sweeter message. If only I could stop crying. If only I knew why I cried. If only I could stop. A tightly gaunt and leather bound man, standing next to me and looking at the same composition littered with bilious green heartbreak and painted by my watercolor professor, offered me a linen handkerchief, the fabric lightly brushing my cheek, and said, "If only you understood." If only.
Reflection:
This writing is in memory of the many friends I have had in my life as an artist who have lost their lives to AIDS. I "broke" the rules and threw social currency to the wind by even entering this art/music space in the mid-80's. The experience was pivotal in my work with RAIN (Regional AIDS Interfaith Network) and supporting many families in completing even more 6' x 6' voice tapestries that are threads in The Names/AIDS quilt based in San Francisco, CA.
What I wrote in response to this gallery experience in 1996:
An artist's worst enemy is apathy. I once left an exhibit that deeply disturbed me. I was angry, upset, and even felt a degree of betrayal in response to the artists' work. It took some time, but I came to realize that the artists, in their portrayals of controversial subject matter, had been successful. In retrospect, the collective works caused me to ponder, meditate, pray, think, react, and respond. I still think of the content of the art work ten years later.
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