The Gift That Never Gets Given
a man in search of a quilt
2008-12-25
By Eric Easter

For fifteen years now, I’ve been somewhat obsessed with the notion of giving a quilt to my children for Christmas. Which is odd since I’ve only had children for the last six years.

The obsession started after viewing Faith Ringgold’s’ “The Church Picnic” at the High Museum in Atlanta in the early 90s, and being fascinated with the storytelling element. Though Childs paints on quilted fabric, that was less interesting to me than the quilt’s finer details – the threads, the squares – swatches pieced together over time. Each piece seemed to tell a story.

And so began the notion to create my own quilt. Partly because something about the idea of fabric as a diary resonated with me. And to be truthful, the thought of death was another incentive. I tend to plan way in advance, and if had kids and kicked the bucket suddenly, I wanted there to be something more tangible and practical than an insurance check to leave them. Something that could provide warmth in a storm, comfort on a chilly night and also remind them of lives lived before – square by storytelling square.

And so I’ve been saving my most cherished pieces of clothing ever since, in a huge box in a storage unit down the block. They are all clean and in pristine condition. I have not cut them into pieces yet, because I’m not quite sure how this quilt stuff works.

There are all sorts of things in this box, things that reflect moments both strange and ordinary. There are also phases, in style, in culture, in maturity – green suede pants and an asymmetrical shirt from my punk phase. Pre-“American Gigolo” Armani and early Hugo Boss (when it was made in Germany, not Ohio) from my Euro style period and Yamamoto from my Japanese-influenced summer. There is the hipster, the young professional period, the artist, the man in black, the writer, the entrepreneur, the politico, the sower of wild oats, There’s the shirt that got torn in the square in Cape Town the day Mandela was released and the shirt I got married in. Each piece a story.

Problem is, I don’t sew. Sure, a button, a sock or a hem if I can’t get to my tailor, but a quilt? I don’t think so. And unfortunately trying to find a quilt-maker who can do the job for me has been much more of a notion than the quilt itself.

There are the questions I have a hard time answering. One big quilt or one for each kid? What kind of batting? (What the hell is batting?) What kind of stitching? (Is there more than one kind?).

By my estimate, in the last five years I have spoken with or e-mailed about four dozen quilters an have had no luck. Quilting is more than a skill, apparently. Quilters fancy themselves as artists. Fair enough. But that also means that my special quilt is at the mercy of another person’s vision. That is understandable, but a frustrating reality for a very personal project.

There are quilters on the web who will take your box of clothing and a deposit and make you a quilt. But you get the barn, the kitty cat or the granny. Neither suits my taste.

Then there is the expense issue. Who knew? I was expecting the high three figures. But thousands?

Quilters have suddenly developed Gee’s Bend syndrome. Their sewing has been officially deemed “important folk art”  and they have  added several zeroes to their price to compensate for the new designation. That’s wonderful for them, but my obsession is a good economy obsession. In a bad economy, I can just keep up with the insurance premiums.

My 2009 resolution is to find a Quilt Whisperer, someone who can go with the basic concept and run with it without too many questions. Just take the box and get something back to me before another holiday goes by. Then again, I’ve said that every year, but this Christmas the kids get a Wii.

Eric Easter is Chief of Digital Strategy for Johnson Publishing Company, Inc. He writes about politics, culture and technology for EbonyJet.com.