When I was a kid I used to make little people out of Sculpey Clay— Sculpey babies, Sculpey moms, Sculpey girls with curls like the ones I wanted but couldn’t have. They had names and personalities, and when I left them in the oven for too long and their edges blackened, I would be seriously upset. Playing God was a little too stressful for me, so now I use Sculpey to make beads and earrings.

This week, however, I’ve been thinking a lot about God. Even though I’m curious about what others have to think, I don’t talk about God often. I asked my friends if they believed in God while we were in the Craft Center, listening to Fleetwood Mac and having fun with Modge Podge—a glue, sealer and finish. 

God is maybe in the ocean, or in the sky, or in the ground. All around us, a man, a woman, a genderless being, our Savior, our protector. God inspires fear or love—or both. What most people seem to agree on is that God—if they believe in God—is our creator. There are as many creation stories as there are cultures.

Humans are enthralled by creation stories. Evolution, our factual creation story, doesn’t assign an actor, and so I see the idea of God as the original crafter. Every time we make something we are recreating a tiny bit of that original making, in that we are crafting something the way we want it to be—putting it into the world, giving it a purpose.

So maybe my fascination with people making things, crafting things, stems back to the human desire for a creation story. Maybe my thought that crafting is a way of showing love for others, defining one’s selfhood and place and just figuring out a way to not freak out about life because you’re doing something else with your hands has something to do with the comfort that people get from the various creation stories.

People don’t always craft with intention; they’re not always making something in a particular way or for a particular purpose. But I think humans have always liked to believe that we were made in a particular way, for a particular purpose, even if we have no idea why or what for.

I don’t have any answers. I’m not sure I want to have any answers. What I actually believe in, or what my friends hold to be true, is almost less interesting to me than all the possibilities, all the creation stories, all the myths, all the truths.

When I make something—really make something, think about it, invest myself in it, put it into the world—there’s a moment of letting go. All the crazy, intense effort is in the process and the product becomes something that floats, borne by the reactions (or lack thereof) of other people. 

Crafting isn’t always so intense or imbued with meaning. For most people, most of the time, it’s a hobby or a way to make someone smile, a distraction from something else. 

I didn’t find God in the Modge Podge. But it’s good to ask questions. It’s good to think about the world in a way that I usually ignore. Whether my Sculpey becomes little people or little beads, clay is clay, and I can make of it what I will. 

Beatrice Rafferty Elementary  School on the Sipayik reservation in Pleasant Point, Maine has an art room, craft corners in the classrooms and the Passamaquoddy Language and Culture classroom, home to beads, dream-catcher rings and crayons that smear rainbows on small hands.

Sipayik is the larger of the two Passamaquoddy tribal reservations in Downeast Maine; Beatrice Rafferty is the only school on the reservation. After kids finish their worksheets in Passamaquoddy class, they grab coloring pages and the crayon dust flies. A droopy-eared pajamaed rabbit is captioned, “Mahtoqehs—rabbit.”

I spent a week on Alternative Spring Break (ASB) in the language classroom of the school, which overlooks the Passamaquoddy Bay. I came home with a stack of drawings and colored pages inches thick—I have “mahtoqehs,” “pesqahsuwehsok—flower,” and images of the traditional Passamaquoddy double curve.

On Friday, we met with Madonna Soctomah, a former tribal representative to the Maine state legislature. She told us about her experiences growing up on the reservation and then about her time in the legislature, where she worked with politicians who knew nothing about her community. On the reservation, she faced poverty. Off it, she faced racism and a government that wanted to erase her language and alter her way of life.

One of my ASB members asked what she thought our group, which traveled to Sipayik ostensibly to help with the issues facing the community, could actually do with our week.

Soctomah told us to absorb everything we possibly could, to listen and to learn, and then to tell other people what we had seen and heard. She also asked us to treat her people as humans.

Working in the classroom—my organized community service project—I met nearly every child who attends Beatrice Rafferty. Five-year olds sat on my lap and thirteen-year olds told me about their crushes. All the while, we colored and drew, heads together, attracted by the quiet spell of craft time.

The two teachers in the classroom told me about their childhoods, opened their library of Passamaquoddy history books, showed me the craft of beading a dream-catcher, and patiently corrected my Passamaquoddy pronunciation. (The Passamaquoddy “s” sounds like an English “z,” “d” like a “b” and “t” like “d”). As children filed in and out, the teachers would quietly tell me whose parents were separated or gone and who had suffered unspeakably in her five, or seven, or twelve years of life.

On my last day in the classroom I cut out dozens of paper flowers—pesqahsuweskil. The teacher gave me green tempera paint, and on the glass doors that framed the bay glittering with chunks of snow and ice, I created an image of spring.

Before I left, the teacher asked me to close my eyes, and she clasped a bracelet around my wrist. She had beaded it in blue and cream and violet. When I expressed how beautiful it was, she laughed, saying that beading was easy, her hobby. She pointed at the paper and paint on the doors and said that my work was something she could not make. We hugged good-bye.

We gave gifts to each other—colored-in mahtoqehs, bracelets, even window decorations—because we connected on a fundamental level, through conversation and crayons. To receive a craft made by someone else—someone you have known for a short time but will never forget—is a tremendous gift.

To share everything that I learned about Passamaquoddy culture, language and life would take endless pages and hours. 

Stories of suffering and oppression, stereotypes that evoke a mythologized way of life, can never define people. I cannot define their entire community in words, but I can tape rabbits to my walls—rabbits colored in during craft time by five-year-old kids—and tell college students about my new friends who made them.

We spent the sun-dappled day collecting trash from the banks of the lake, where water-weeds lounged against mud and rock. With gloved hands bearing Hefty bags we uncovered bottles, plastic bags and a small mattress from the tawny tumble of loam, leaves and pine needles on the peninsula. 

Spirits were high as the group of Bowdoin first years, my Pre-O leaders and myself tramped back to our van. After our morning of community service, we were spending our afternoon with Molly, a renowned basket-weaver at the Indian Township reservation of the Passamaquoddy tribe of Downeast Maine.

Molly welcomed us to her back porch overlooking the smooth water and fed us generously. We talked with her and several of her grandchildren about their lives on the reservation. As the sun dipped into the lake, Molly brought out bundles of dried sweet-grass and began to teach us about her craft.

The Passamaquoddy tribe has lived in Downeast Maine for over 12,000 years. Along with the Maliseet, Penobscot, and Micmac tribes, the Passamaquoddy form the Wabanaki people of Maine. The Wabanaki are the “Dawn Land People”—the first nations of the East.

The tribe currently has 3,369 members and two reservations, Indian Township and Pleasant Point. I travelled to the Pleasant Point reservation for my Pre-O trip and then led a new group of first-years to Indian Township last August. In March, I will be returning to Pleasant Point for an Alternative Spring Break trip. If I had gone on a different Pre-O, I doubt I would know that the reservations exist.

The reservations are about a four-hour drive from Brunswick. The tribe holds over 200,000 acres scattered throughout Maine resulting from years of legal battles after the tribe initiated the Maine Indian Land Claims Act in the late 1960s. The land settlement was a fraction of the tribe’s original claims and their legal status within the state remains fraught.

The tribe has been using sweetgrass, which is sacred to the Passamaquoddy and Micmac tribes, to weave baskets for countless generations. Baskets are also woven from strips of ash wood.Sweetgrass grows in the wetlands of the reservation lakes. Dried, it has the color of straw but is malleable and oily. It smells like freshly cut grass and spices. The sweet perfume, mixed with barbecue and pine, intoxicated the air around us.

If the smell fades, a dip in water revitalizes the grass. Molly, who is the president of the Maine Indian Basket Alliance, braids and twists the sweetgrass into patterned, floral creations.Fancy basket making developed in relatively recent history. Traditionally, basket-weaving women worked for their families, crafting baskets for everyday use. As industrialism and capitalism developed in the newly formed United States, Native families struggled to maintain their traditional economy and lifestyle. The fancy basket industry grew when Native artists began selling their crafts to tourists as art, not for everyday use. Molly, who is one of the few professional basket-weavers left in the community, told us how she works on her baskets for weeks or months at a time; her family has a distinctive flower that marks their work.

In Molly’s capable hands, the sweetgrass twisted into smooth ropes. Granddaughter mimicked grandmother, braiding and chattering about her own baskets—she wanted to start making fancy baskets soon. As Molly worked, she told us about her history, the history of her craft, the history of her land—how a white man had tried to steal her property, where she and many of her extended family members live and where she also rents cabins to visitors. Her family fought back.

Molly taught our group how to make the sweetgrass braids that build baskets. We tied the ends of our braids together—small, sweet wreaths. Ours were jagged at the edges, the braided strands crooked, unlike Molly’s that were smooth and round.

We left Molly’s house bearing our first attempts at her craft, scampering as mosquitoes flooded the dusk. Molly showed us her studio-shop on the way out: dozens of beautiful baskets, the braids of sweetgrass bearing centuries of changing culture, tenacity and pride.

We began our day doing community service on the lakeshore, relishing the sunshine and the company. My co-leader and I wanted our first-years to have a good time, to learn something, to see the exquisite Downeast woods and waters and, to experience the communities of Maine’s Native population. Our project, a few hours dedicated to revitalizing the lakeshore, was as much service to our own aims as to the community’s.

Molly’s hands working the sweetgrass told a story that we were still struggling to learn, a history much less relatable to our lives as Bowdoin students.

I keep my little sweetgrass wreath on my windowsill by my desk. Periodically, I dunk it in water, so my room is faintly scented, a delicious—if crudely made—reminder of Indian Township.

My parents named me Penelope in homage to Homer’s classic epic “The Odyssey.” Penelope is the wife of Odysseus, lauded for her cleverness and loyalty. While Odysseus went off to war for a decade and spent another few years getting into trouble with beautiful goddesses and many-headed monsters, Penelope remained at home in Ithaca, constantly pursued by uncouth men. Famously faithful, Penelope told her suitors that she would only choose a new husband when she finished weaving a great shroud. Every night she would unravel her day’s work. 

The meaning of her name embodies her craft: in Ancient Greek, “pene” means weft (the thread that is drawn through a loom to create cloth) and “ops” means face or eye. Combined, the syllables imply her cunningness and skill at the loom. In modern etymology “Penelope” is translated more directly to “weaver.”

Identifying people by their crafts or trades is common practice, particularly in English surnames: there are Bakers, Smiths and Fishers—all male trades and names passed down through paternal lineage. Similarly, Penelope carries her own craft in her name—the craft that represents her cleverness, skill and loyalty.

Names are our ultimate and original identifiers, and women have historically given theirs up to assimilate into their husband’s family. By wearing her craft as her name, Penelope is identified by her own work, not her husband’s, contradicting the Ancient Greek view of women as objects. That Penelope should be named after not only her craft but also her cleverness is emblematic of her strength as a woman.

Painter or sculptor, knitter, quilter, baker or writer—the things people create can act as powerful identifiers. 

These days, most people are not named after their crafts. Not very many Smiths actually spend their days at the fires of the forge. 

Though I am a Penelope, I have never woven anything fancier than rainbow potholders from those (very fun) loom kits for kids. But I do make other things—mostly peculiar yarn creations, invented baked goods and birthday cards.

Knitting overlong scarves does not define my identity in the same way that other creative outputs do. Writing English papers and short stories or planning activities to do with my mentee at Brunswick high school—these things appear on my résumés, building an image of me for the world. Outside of the crafting marketplace, knitting is not a desired skill. Neither is weaving potholders.

But they bring me a very particular fulfillment. The process of crafting—knitting, sewing, weaving, dyeing—requires purpose and concentration from start to finish. Everything I craft is my idea, my vision. There is a nirvana in counting stitches, matching fabrics and pondering colors that carries through to the satisfaction of finishing something—unlike the agony of writing a paper which leads to the final manic burst of happiness and relief when it is handed in.

So I carry my crafts, not in my name but in my mind and my hands. I knit through house meetings, paint for my friends and patch my jeans when I fall on my knees. The peaceful process of crafting, the pleasure at finishing something—even if I don’t particularly like it—culminates in the sense of self that comes with knowing that I may not be marketable, but I can still create and express myself through those creations. That’s a way of being that I want to hold on to.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that the alternative etymology of Penelope relates to the Greek word “penelops,” which means “duck.”  I like ducks, from afar, and it’s good to remember that even the most gifted of people can still be birdbrains. But when people ask me what “Penelope” means—I usually stick to “weaver.”

Penelope Lusk is a member of the Class of 2017

Art has existed for thousands of years, but our definitions of and uses for art have changed over time. This is the first in a series of pieces that will explore the perception and use of art and crafts throughout history, as well as their place and relevance in the modern world. 

Around 1.76 million years ago, early humans created the first hand-axe by striking the edges of stones into flat, pointed shapes. Fast-forward to 40,000 years ago—almost nothing on the evolutionary timeline—and humans wrought five-note flutes from mammoth tusks. Thirty-thousand years ago, bone needles stitched clothing from rough hides and skins. And over the next 15,000 years, humans developed all major forms of art, using pigments, stones, animal parts and clay to paint, draw, sculpt, engrave and make music.Two years ago when I got into Bowdoin, my mother began sewing me a quilt. She chose a pattern (repeating Xs and Os). She selected favorite, familiar scraps from her rag bag—flowers, pinks, greens and oranges. She cut, pieced, pinned, sewed, batted, backed and finally machine-stitched smooth whorls through the layers of fabric. 

When I moved into Maine Hall, she told me that if I didn’t want to keep it on my bed—if I thought it was embarrassing that my mother made me a quilt, or if I didn’t like the pattern—I could put it right in storage. I kept the quilt.

 My mother’s quilt falls into the legacy of millions of years of human creations. Quilts and quilt patterns are prominent in American history. Generations of frontier women taught their daughters the useful arts of quilt -making, knitting, lace-making, weaving, spinning and dyeing, which all developed alongside human civilization as homo sapiens moved indoors. Long after the needle was invented, the domestic arts were born.

Tools made for pure necessity began a tradition of human creation to memorialize culture and to demonstrate love. From the bone needles that brought life-saving warmth in furs and hides were born the silver needles that stitched African visual traditions into slave quilts; one of those silver needles latched into the sewing machine that my mother keeps by the big window in our home studio. 

The earliest examples of pigmented stone, crude flutes, and even simple needles and axe-heads are treasures because they document the origins of humans’ creative expression, the very beginning of humans’ unique desire to expose their souls through a particular medium. 

Modern forms of creative expression are innumerable—digital arts, writing, performances, 100 iTunes music genres, and the vestiges of the once-necessary domestic arts.

Today, the domestic arts are likely the least respected, least popular form of creative expression, but perhaps the most used art form for demonstrating love. To make a person an item to wear, to use—a scarf or a dress or a blanket—in an era when Walmart and Amazon bring commodities cheaply to our fingertips, is an ultimate labor of love. 

Unlike fine arts, which are not purchasable in the same way a quilt is purchasable, crafts turn creative expression into a form of love, for the self, for someone else, for the very act of sewing, knitting, or weaving. New to our time is the qualifying statement when the quilt is finished—you don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to.

My mother told me I didn’t have to keep the quilt she made me, that I didn’t have to use the quilt, and so I wonder: when did homemade quilts become embarrassing, instead of precious? How did acts of creative expression—from weaving to sculpting—that have been part of human history for legions of time shift from ways of recording stories, of celebrating tradition, of exploring the beauty of the world, to the trope of the starving artist?

In the pieces that follow in this column I hope to explore what we can learn from considering the breadth, depth and width of human expression through creative arts—in history and in modernity.  I will also address the significance of making things—for ourselves and for other people—and what that does for self-image, personal growth and the growth of societies. 

Humans make things. We make useful things, pretty things and superfluous things. Things for each other, for ourselves, for pets, for the dead. Forty-thousand years from now, when archaeologists uncover our civilizations, what will their findings tell them?

-Penelope Lusk is a member of the Class of 2017

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