Essay by Melanie Sky for Contextualising Practice
Acknowledgment
I acknowledge the Dja Dja Wurrung, Woi Wurrung, and Boon Wurrung peoples of the Kulin Nation as the Traditional Owners of the lands on which I live, work, and study. As I commute across these Countries, I recognise their enduring connection to land, waters, and culture. I also acknowledge the vital role that art and storytelling have played on these lands for thousands of years. I pay my respects to Elders past, present, and emerging.
Introduction
There are times in creative practice when an artwork teaches you something you did not set out to learn. This essay reflects on one such work, Hey Bear. What began as a risk became a personal exploration of practice, voice, and visibility, rooted in feminist resistance. It prompted reflection on intention, identity, agency, and the quiet power of craft. The work invited me to consider how space is taken up – materially, publicly, and politically – in a world still shaped by gendered expectations. Through making and documenting, I engaged with the politics of visibility, safety, and the everyday negotiation of taking up space. Ultimately, Hey Bear marked a turning point in my practice: a move away from painting toward what I now describe as expanded crafting – an approach grounded in resistance, material sensitivity, and intentional making. In doing so, I argue that Hey Bear revealed how craft enables both personal practice and political resistance.
From Risk to Resistance
Hey Bear, as shown in Figure 1, was conceived in response to a painting studio project titled Risk, where we were asked to push our practices into unfamiliar or uncomfortable territory. For me, the risk was not in the making, it was in being seen. Reading Feminist City: Claiming Space in a Man-Made World by academic Leslie Kern during the summer of 2024-25 influenced the creation of Hey Bear. Written at the beginning of the ‘Me Too’ movement, Kern’s work resonated with me on a personal level, particularly the chapter titled City of Fear (Kern 2020:22, 127–145). Kern describes how women move through urban spaces, constantly calculating and avoiding risk, which mirrors my own experience (Kern 2020:127–145). The artwork became the beginning of finding my voice to confront my fear of being seen, echoing art historian Nancy Princenthal (2019:11) that ‘finding language for violence is the first step in mitigating its effects’. The question that sparked the artwork came from a 2024 viral online debate: ‘Would you rather be stuck in the woods with a man or bear?’ (Greer et al. 2025:1). Like many women, I instinctively chose the bear, and the outraged response from men only reinforced this decision (Greer et al. 2025:1, 4). It was the first time I brought together bold colour, intentional process, and text to speak without metaphor – a small but significant act of saying what I meant and meaning what I said: I CHOOSE THE BEAR.
In making Hey Bear, the portability of a small embroidery hoop made the process feel sustainable and personal – a quiet act I could return to anywhere (see Figure 3). These domestic and public sites of making were not neutral; they were shaped by interruption, care, and negotiation . Stitching in public, particularly on the train, felt exposing, especially given that I was working with neon orange fabric. My decision to stitch on the train challenges the assumption that such acts belong only in private feminine domains (Brown and Mortensen Steagall 2023:155; Kern 2020:8). The experience taught me that the visibility of feminised craft still feels transgressive when performed outside the domestic sphere (Bratich and Brush 2011:239; Robertson 2011:191). For me, the idea that such practices are still considered ‘too girly’ (Robertson 2011:191) to be done in public only reinforces my desire to practice them as an act of feminist resistance and presence – to take up space. The embodied gesture of stitching on the train became part of the work’s message; a quiet resistance as much as an act of creation.
The Politics of Process and Material
Crafting, particularly embroidery, has long served as a powerful instrument of political and cultural resistance, deeply rooted in feminist art history. By choosing to hand-stitch my piece, I entered a lineage of women who have used thread as both a tool and a weapon. As art historian Rozsika Parker argues in The Subversive Stitch, embroidery carries a dual legacy: both as a symbol of domestic constraint and as a form of feminist agency (Garber 2013:56; Parker 2012:15; Robertson 2011:184). I now recognise this legacy humming through Hey Bear’s needlework, with each stitch carrying the weight of both rebellion and conflict.
Feminist artists have actively reclaimed marginalised forms of artistic practice, such as embroidery, ceramics and performance, transforming them into a form of resistance (Bryan-Wilson 2017:18; Parker 2012:13; Princenthal 2019:12). From the 1970s onwards artists like Judy Chicago and Faith Ringgold wove feminist protest into textiles, while Suzanne Lacy and Ana Mendieta turned to performance and installation to confront sexual violence (Bryan-Wilson 2017:18; Parker 2012:13; Princenthal 2019:13). These diverse strategies made space for making the personal political and allowed craft to become a form of resistance rather than decoration – a legacy that Hey Bear continues. Yet, this period was not without contradiction. Second-wave feminism rejected craft, often viewing it as regressive or complicit in the patriarchal roles from which they sought liberation (Grace and Gandolfo 2014:60; Parker 2012:12; Robertson 2011:185). I understand that conflict, albeit from a different perspective. I have felt the internal tension: the fear that using textiles or ceramics over painting makes my work less serious, the hesitation to be “just” a crafter. That anxiety still lingers, shaped by the very hierarchies of value that earlier feminists were trying to dismantle.
Responding to this complex feminist history, the labour of Hey Bear became part of its message. It allowed me to sit with the discomfort of being seen, building power gradually instead of all at once. Making the work helped me locate myself within a lineage of feminist makers and the broader context of contemporary craft. As Professor Kirsty Robertson argues, political craft resists the constraints of fine art and reclaims domestic forms to speak to power (Robertson 2011:184). Hey Bear became not just something I made, but a reflection of my core values and convictions, made in quiet resistance to the violence women navigate daily.
A Quiet Kind of Protest
Through the making and ongoing documenting of Hey Bear, I have come to understand the principles of craftivism and even see myself in this movement. Writer Betsy Greer describes craftivism as a practice in which craft becomes a site of activism (Bryan-Wilson 2017:26; Corbett 2017:4; Greer 2011:175; Lothian 2018:16; Parker 2012:17). Craftivist and author Sarah Corbett (2017:22) expands on this through her concept of ‘gentle protest’, a form of activism grounded in empathy, quietness, and care (Greer 2011:183). Corbett’s approach offers an alternative to dominant protest cultures, and it is here where I feel the work sits comfortably, within this quieter form of activism (Corbett 2017:22). Additionally, Hey Bear also aligns with what Princenthal (2019:13) describes as ‘social practice’, a form of art that engages directly with social issues, particularly around gendered violence and activism.
As Corbett (2017:181) has noted, craftivism also invites participation, encouraging dialogue, community action, and shared reflection. I recognise Hey Bear was not intended as a call to action, or what Corbett (2017:184) describes as a ‘catalyst for change’, it was a personal reckoning. As Betsey Greer (2011:183) writes, craftivism is ‘about using what you can to express your feeling outward in a visual manner without yelling or placard waving’. In that spirit, I feel my first attempt at craftivism holds its ground. I was not speaking for anyone else; I was claiming space for myself, in my voice, I was not hiding behind metaphor or material – I was speaking directly (Greer 2011:183). The strength of this work lies in that quiet conviction: not in its ability to mobilise others, but in the clarity and courage of its intention. For the viewer, responses will vary; some may resonate with the text, others may not understand the reference at all. Artist Sayraphim Lothian (2018:18), in her book Guerrilla Kindness and Other Acts of Creative Resistance, reassures me: ‘your acts of craftivism can speak for you’, especially when you are just starting. Activism comes in many forms, and I am still learning what mine looks like. While this iteration of Hey Bear was personal, it has helped me recognise how the principles of craftivism could inform conversations, educational projects, or collective actions in the future.
As part of Hey Bear’s ongoing development, I began temporarily installing the work in public locations, including the RMIT city campus and alleyways across Melbourne, Naarm (see Figure 4). Its lightweight material allowed for easy portability, making it possible to explore how craft-based work can quietly intervene, occupy space, and activate sites for reflection or social change (Corbett 2017:176; Garber 2013:61; Princenthal 2019:13). The location decisions were never without caution; each installation involved a negotiation of personal safety (Corbett 2017:176, 178). Returning to Kern’s ideas in Feminist City, in cities, women’s experiences are shaped by a sense of vigilance, a feeling that resonates deeply with my encounters in public space (Kern 2020:105). In response, I photographed the work in shifting public spaces – a quiet way of negotiating visibility, vulnerability, and safety in places that rarely feel neutral. As a woman and an artist, taking up space in public with a feminist message can feel dangerous, a reminder of the gendered barriers embedded in urban environments (Zampaglione and Mercurio 2024:380). The artwork’s title references the television show Alone (2015), where contestants, tasked with surviving in the wild, warn off bears by calling out ‘Hey Bear’ to avoid unexpected encounters. If only it were that easy to deter men. It echoes the fear many women carry – the quiet, constant calculus of wondering whether they are safe. A fear that the viral man-versus-bear debate captured with uncomfortable clarity. In this context, bringing the work into public view became more than a creative decision; it was a deliberate act of risk, aligning with the project’s provocation to be seen, to speak, and to take up space.
Reframing Practice
I have come to understand that Hey Bear marks a turning point in my practice: a shift not just in materials, but in values, identity, and the kind of artistic space I want to occupy. For most of my creative life, I identified as a painter. I loved the fluidity and immediacy of paint and its capacity to communicate gesture and emotion (Shiff 2024:8). Early in my degree, I realised a desire for my work to operate within what is termed expanded painting: practices that stretch beyond the canvas into objects, installation, and textiles (see for the idea of expanded painting Titmarsh 2017:2). As my practice evolved, I was drawn to forms of making that offered a more intentional and embodied sense of authorship. I could have painted the words onto a canvas, but instead, I reached for what was around me: leftover fabric and recycled threads. I also did this deliberately, knowing the symbolic connection between my words and embroidery, which Parker (2012:14) describes as ‘a medium with a heritage in women’s hands, and thus as more appropriate than male-associated paint for making feminist statements’. In creating Hey Bear, I stepped away from traditional painting methods to embrace materials and techniques that better reflected my intentions.
Although my earlier work included ceramics and textiles, I did not arrive at crafting through domestic tradition or inherited skill. Despite the gendered expectation that women are raised with these skills, I never learnt to embroider, knit, crochet or perform most handicrafts. My fine motor skills are inconsistent at best; my stitches wander and take on a life of their own. This reflects how I have always approached making: instinctively, unconventionally, and with intention rather than technique, through a collaboration between me and the materials. Making Hey Bear was no different; I had never used tulle in this way, nor had I attempted appliqué before. As with many artworks from the past, I learnt through the participation in the process, not through formal instruction but out of a need to give form to an idea (Jefferies 2011:224; Parker 2012:20). Through the making of Hey Bear and the reflective process of this essay, I have come to identify as a crafter, not one defined by tradition or skill, but by process, intuition, and feminist intent. This shift opened the door to a more expansive way of working, a deeper understanding of my practice and the space I take up within it. I now refer to this approach as expanded crafting.
Expanded crafting is a practice or field of study, personal to me, linked to the evolution of my sense of place and grounded in material sensitivity and a conscience mode of making. Craft theorist Glenn Adamson argues that craft is not defined by a fixed material or process, but rather is an idea – a position I interpret as a mindset (Adamson 2007:1, 4). With this mindset, expanded crafting emerges in response to the binaries that continue to separate art from craft, public from private, and aesthetics from political resistance. Like expanded painting, it is not defined by medium but by approach: a willingness to work outside the frame, both literally and figuratively (Titmarsh 2017:16). Expanded crafting holds space for imperfection, emotional labour, and feminist intent. It values process as much as outcome and positions materials as tools of disruption (Bryan-Wilson 2017:29). It makes space for stitching in public, for quiet protest, for the use of reclaimed materials, and for authenticity that speaks louder than refined technique ever could (Corbett 2017:22; Robertson 2011:195). This way of working is materially grounded but conceptually open, a space where I can bring my full self into the work in the future. As shown in the making of Hey Bear, where painting once offered me immediacy and fluid expression, crafting demands slowness, repetition, and care. It asks for attention to the small, the tactile, and the seemingly insignificant qualities often devalued in the art world but deeply meaningful in the context of feminist making.
Conclusion
This all started with a risk. While Hey Bear may not be radical in the broader context of contemporary art, it felt like a risk for me. It was a step towards something unfamiliar – visibility, vulnerability, and voice. It marked a shift in my practice: a moment of exposure, of being seen not just as an artist, but as a feminist, a challenger, a risk-taker. The artists who came before me made space for linking craft, activism, feminism, lived experience, and identity. From them, I am developing a practice of expanded crafting, one that offers not just ways to make, but ways to take up space. It helps me reimagine where and how my voice might be heard. Since creating the work, I have been asked by my painting studio lecturer if I will continue engaging with feminism, as doing so keeps me ‘too close to the patriarchy’. I reject that notion. To disengage would be to disappear. In that sense, this shift from painting to expanded crafting becomes not just a material evolution, but a political one. The work joins the wider, ongoing project of feminist craft: to challenge assumptions about value, voice, and who is allowed to take up space.
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