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Directions for questions 37 to 39: The passage given below is followed by a set of three questions. Choose the most appropriate answer to each question.
“What is art, anyway?” said my disgruntled ex. “If you have a four-year-old son who draws you a heartfelt picture you will keep for decades and which represents the world to you, is it not art? And do you only become an artist once your work is showcased in a gallery?" I quickly cut him down, replying that art with a capital A had specific qualities to it: it could summarise the struggles of a generation (something rarely found in a child’s drawing), it was recognised by peers as worthy, it often used specific skills which required years of practice, and its conceptuality often said something about the human condition. He vehemently disagreed. With hindsight, I believe we were both right.
I was reminded of that argument recently when visiting a very special exhibition at the V&A museum, which moved me in ways I did not foresee. Quilts, 1700-2010 is Britain’s first major exhibition devoted to quilts and patchwork. It brings together a formidable collection of 70 delicate masterpieces, from hundreds of pieced wool hexagons made in the early 1800s to a chistening baby quilt sporting the tiniest details to Tracey Emin's To Meet My Past, a modern take on patchwork as a vehicle for storytelling.
As family heirlooms, quilts often play a role. Beyond being passive decorative objects, those scraps of fabrics have an awful lot to say if one is willing to pay enough attention. The small but glorious imperfections of a 350- year-old christening panel bring us back to times when not only all sewing was painstakingly done by hand, but also done at the end of the day, by candlelight. The recycling of fabrics, compiling bits of rustic cottons salvaged from old pyjamas and lea-towels, bares the proof of poor families’ ingenuity and extreme thrift. Likewise, fancy velvets and silks especially shipped from India feature on quilts made for well-to-do Victorian housewives, illustrating the luxury in which rich families were basking.
But it doesn’t stop, of course, in England. Take the Amish quilts, so conservative in their austere symmetrical patterns, which shyed away from the “crazy patchwork" of the early 1900s. Or the African-American quilting tradition, which told tales of resilience and escapism during the slavery years. The final stitch might have been made dozens of decades ago, but those works managed to survive and tell stories thanks to an overwhelming amount of creativity and savoir-faire.
And yet, for all their mind-boggling patience, few of the crafters behind the collection’s items will ever enjoy any posthumous recognition. The majoiity of quilts were made by anonymous women (and men) with their helpers, which further sets the exhibition apart from traditional art displays. It is unsure that many of the quilters considered their craft to be art in and of itself - some made murals to be hung on walls 01 even banners meant to be political statements, others more practical items to celebrate a special occasion, such as wedding quilts. There is some sadness in that many names stood behind hours of labour without the opportunity to acknowledged, but this also makes those objects more approachable (and less pretentious) than art with a capital A.
This brings me back neatly to my ex-boyfriend and our little disagreement. Is quilting, and by extension, crafts such as knitting or woodcarving, art? When it comes to the things that matter - historical importance, ability to provoke emotions, display of intricate skills - I believe the answer is a resounding yes. Crafts may traditionally quietly belong to the domestic sphere but when exhibited for all to see, their significance takes on a life of their own.
“What is art, anyway?” said my disgruntled ex. “If you have a four-year-old son who draws you a heartfelt picture you will keep for decades and which represents the world to you, is it not art? And do you only become an artist once your work is showcased in a gallery?" I quickly cut him down, replying that art with a capital A had specific qualities to it: it could summarise the struggles of a generation (something rarely found in a child’s drawing), it was recognised by peers as worthy, it often used specific skills which required years of practice, and its conceptuality often said something about the human condition. He vehemently disagreed. With hindsight, I believe we were both right.
I was reminded of that argument recently when visiting a very special exhibition at the V&A museum, which moved me in ways I did not foresee. Quilts, 1700-2010 is Britain’s first major exhibition devoted to quilts and patchwork. It brings together a formidable collection of 70 delicate masterpieces, from hundreds of pieced wool hexagons made in the early 1800s to a chistening baby quilt sporting the tiniest details to Tracey Emin's To Meet My Past, a modern take on patchwork as a vehicle for storytelling.
As family heirlooms, quilts often play a role. Beyond being passive decorative objects, those scraps of fabrics have an awful lot to say if one is willing to pay enough attention. The small but glorious imperfections of a 350- year-old christening panel bring us back to times when not only all sewing was painstakingly done by hand, but also done at the end of the day, by candlelight. The recycling of fabrics, compiling bits of rustic cottons salvaged from old pyjamas and lea-towels, bares the proof of poor families’ ingenuity and extreme thrift. Likewise, fancy velvets and silks especially shipped from India feature on quilts made for well-to-do Victorian housewives, illustrating the luxury in which rich families were basking.
But it doesn’t stop, of course, in England. Take the Amish quilts, so conservative in their austere symmetrical patterns, which shyed away from the “crazy patchwork" of the early 1900s. Or the African-American quilting tradition, which told tales of resilience and escapism during the slavery years. The final stitch might have been made dozens of decades ago, but those works managed to survive and tell stories thanks to an overwhelming amount of creativity and savoir-faire.
And yet, for all their mind-boggling patience, few of the crafters behind the collection’s items will ever enjoy any posthumous recognition. The majoiity of quilts were made by anonymous women (and men) with their helpers, which further sets the exhibition apart from traditional art displays. It is unsure that many of the quilters considered their craft to be art in and of itself - some made murals to be hung on walls 01 even banners meant to be political statements, others more practical items to celebrate a special occasion, such as wedding quilts. There is some sadness in that many names stood behind hours of labour without the opportunity to acknowledged, but this also makes those objects more approachable (and less pretentious) than art with a capital A.
This brings me back neatly to my ex-boyfriend and our little disagreement. Is quilting, and by extension, crafts such as knitting or woodcarving, art? When it comes to the things that matter - historical importance, ability to provoke emotions, display of intricate skills - I believe the answer is a resounding yes. Crafts may traditionally quietly belong to the domestic sphere but when exhibited for all to see, their significance takes on a life of their own.
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Question : 37
Total: 60
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