Chicago
Cultural Center – Gallery Guide Essay
By Margaret Wertheim and Christine Wertheim
“We could crochet a coral reef,” Christine had mused,
pointedly using the conditional tense while the woolly forms piled
higher on our sideboard. We innocently put an announcement on the
Institute For Figuring website seeking crafters to join us in this
potential hyperbolic undertaking. From around the globe pictures
started to arrive by email, then packages in the post. Helen Bernasconi,
a former mathematics teacher and computer scientist, now sheep
farmer in Bonnie Doon, Australia, sent in a fan-like form budding
with hyperbolic curlicues made from wool she had sheared from her
sheep, then spun and dyed herself. A Hungarian graphics designer
in Liverpool, England, Ildiko Szabo, posted a shoebox of pastel-colored
anemones. Heather McCarren, a PhD candidate in geoscience, mailed
in a collection of tiny mercerized cotton florets. The tectonic
plates of our continent shifted when Vonda McIntyre, the author
of a novel about Louis XIV’s encounter with a sea monster,
emailed photographs of her beaded jellyfish and flatworms.
Hooked now, we began trawling on Flickr and discovered Helle Jorgensen,
a former research geneticist, who had given up academic science
for a life of handicraft and beachcombing; Helle was crocheting
sea creatures from plastic bags. A net search revealed that we
were not the only ones hand-making coral. In the Australian town
of Bendigo, Marianne Midelburg had already crocheted her own reef
from yarns scavenged in thrift stores and junkyards; in Vienna,
Petra Maitz was presiding over the “Lady Musgrave Reef”;
in the 1960’s, Helen Lancaster had preceded us all with her
appliquéd “Coral Forest.”
Each of these new outcrops realizes potentialities we had not
even guessed at. In Rialto, CA, Shari Porter crochets hyperbolic
forms guided by the Holy Spirit; latter day versions of the Shakers’ “gift
drawings.” In Boston, Rebecca Peapples makes miniature marvels
of beaded Byzantine splendor, while in Cedar Hill, Texas, Evelyn
Hardin crafts a steady stream of woolly mutants seemingly coughed
up from the stomach of some bilious leviathan.
Every person who takes up this craft creates new species of crochet
organisms and we have come to see the project as a collective experiment
in textile-based evolution. Just as all living creatures result
from variations in an underlying DNA code, so the species in these
handi-crafted reefs arise from deviations in a single simple algorithm.
Slight variations in the kind of yarn, changes in the rate of increasing
stitches, even shifts in crochet tension make significant differences
to the morphology of the finished form. Sarah Simons in Culver
City has invented an entire taxonomy of “radiolarians” by
combining the insights of hyperbolic crochet with traditional doilies
patterns.
HYPERBOLIC CROCHET was itself the outgrowth of an unexpected branch
of geometry. For two thousand years mathematicians attempted to
prove that the only possible geometries were the flat, or Euclidean,
plane, and the sphere. Great minds expended themselves on the effort,
only to discover in the nineteenth century that a third option
was logically necessitated. The discovery of this new “hyperbolic
space” ushered in the field of non-Euclidean geometry, the
mathematics underpinning general relativity, which aims to describe
the shape of the cosmos. Mathematicians’ skepticism about
hyperbolic space had been based in part on their inability to imagine
how it would look, for they had no way to model it physically.
Most were thus astounded when, in 1997, Dr. Daina Taimina, a Latvian émigré at
Cornell University, presented a hyperbolic structure made with
crochet.
Nature, meanwhile, had discovered the form in the Silurian age.
Lettuces and kales - the crenellated vegetables - are manifestations
of nearly hyperbolic surfaces, while in the oceans, corals, kelps,
sponges, nudibranchs and flatworms all exhibit hyperbolic anatomical
features. And so a woolly manifestation of a reef is not as unlikely
as may first be supposed. Through the lens of crochet we may thus
discern a hitherto unsuspected line connecting Euclid to sea slugs.
Ways of constructing once perceived as “merely” women’s
craft, and dismissed from the cannon of scientific practice, now
emerge as revelatory forms of a more complex, embodied way of thinking
about the world both mathematically and physically.
“EVERTHING has been created out of sea-mucous, for love
arises from the foam” wrote the German polymath Lorenz Oken
in his Elements of Physiophilosophy, a poetico-scientific account
of evolutionary processes that preceded Darwin by nearly half a
century. From simple mucul protoplasts, Oken imagined the spectrum
of life unfolding over the eons. Coral reefs, too, are generated
from protoplasmal seeds: On a single night, timed to the cycles
of sun and moon, whole sections of reef release gametes into the
water in a mass-synchronized spawning ritual. These spectacular
displays allow sessile coral polyps, which cannot move themselves
to disperse offspring over vast distances. So too crochet reefs
send out spawns. Starting from an initial garden of anemones and
kelp, the IFF and our contributors have now produced a variety
of different sub-reefs, while other crafters have been inspired
to their own fully formed wonders: among them, the mysterious Dr
Axt in Portland, Inga Hamilton in Belfast, and Barbara Wertheim
in Melbourne. The Chicago Reef exhibited here is a magnificent
result of this spawning, a communal triumph created by more than
a hundred Windy City women, who have each, as it were, inhaled
a hyperbolic spore.
But this collective celebration is motivated also by an ecological
urgency, for coral is being devastated by global warming, agricultural
run-off, urban effluent and marine pollutants. 3000 square kilometers
of living reef are lost every year, nearly five times the rate
of rainforest elimination. Ironically, as reefs disappear a sinister
substitute is growing beneath the waves: In the north Pacific ocean
the world’s plastic garbage is accumulating, fifty years
of plastic trash building into a vortex twice the size of Texas
and 30 meters deep. The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, as it is known,
is a ghastly analog to the Great Barrier Reef, an aquatic “wonder” of
appalling dimensions that continues to accrete. To highlight this
monstrosity and our own role in its making, the latest spawn of
the IFF is a toxic reef called Bikini Atoll - a hybrid assemblage
made from yarn and plastic garbage. Our challenge for the future – and
the reason we have chosen to exhibit this work– is to help
raise awareness of this plastic problem, an ecological cancer whose
stain will mar our planet’s face for geological time.
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