A Conversation with Audrey Hyvonen
- Sienna Broglie
- May 26
- 19 min read
Updated: May 27
Interview May 1, 2025 with Sienna
Audrey Hyvonen of Big Top Quilts is our June Makers of the Month.
Learn more about her Fiber Collage Workshop here.
Audrey Hyvonen is a fiber artist and teacher whose quilting and collage work embody her renegade spirit. Her work spans a wide stylistic range, from realistic to abstract, and explores subjects as varied as pet portraits and political statements. Audrey’s work does not always fit the mold of precision associated with the craft of quilting but instead approaches quilting as an art form, free from the bounds of technical excellence in the pursuit of expression. Her work is not always beautiful but sometimes jarring or bold or agitating– the intention being to make people question and think. In her own words, “Quilting is a creative way to share messages with the world, offering a soft entry into hard topics.”
When did you first start quilting?
I started quilting when my kids were really little. I went to what I’d call a traditional quilt shop, picked out some standard quilting fabric, but I was too nervous to ask for help. So, I just quietly followed someone around the store who asked for a beginner pattern, and I bought whatever she bought.
Back at home, I set up in the basement with some scissors and cardboard, and just started figuring it out—how to follow a pattern and piece things together. My first quilt was all rectangles, mostly in muted blues and greens.
About halfway through, I visited a different fabric shop, and it was like walking into a candy store—bright, spicy, modern colors everywhere. I was instantly drawn to them. So I bought a bunch and mixed them into the project I was already working on. The end result was this wild-looking quilt that somehow still managed to feel kind of boring—but it was mine, and it was the start.
What is quilting and why do you love it?
Quilting is both a craft and an art form. It began out of necessity—taking scraps of fabric, sewing them together to make something large enough to cover yourself, adding a layer of insulation for warmth and weight. A quilt is what I like to call a "peanut butter sandwich": it needs a top layer, a middle (usually batting), and a bottom layer, all stitched together.
I quilt using a sewing machine, though some people prefer to do it entirely by hand. What I love most about quilting is that I taught myself—I made up my own rules. Traditional quilters place a lot of value on precision and I don’t. I am a bit of a renegade when it comes to quilting and the rest of the world too. If you have rules, I will want to break them. Quilting gives me an outlet to be rebellious.
For example, when I brought my first quilt to a retreat, I used glitter thread in the bobbin and sewed upside down with bare feet. People were taking pictures of me because it was so unconventional. And I loved that. I liked challenging their expectations while still learning the techniques. I can make a tight quarter-inch seam allowance that doesn't shadow around a dark fabric with the light fabric if I want to—but I get to decide when and why that matters. That’s what I love most: helping others realize they are the artist. They get to set the rules for their quilts.
These days, I’ve moved into doing more collage work with fabric. It still fits the “peanut butter sandwich” definition of a quilt—there’s a top, a batting layer, and a back, and it’s all stitched together—but it’s not usually a bed covering. It’s more what I call “small wall art.” It’s quilting as art, not just function.
That said, I do enjoy making utilitarian quilts sometimes. I just don’t like doing big ones—they’re time-consuming, hard to manage, and I don’t need more for my house. They don’t sell well either. People love them, but then they let their dogs sit on them! And I think, if we’re putting that much time and heart into something, let’s put it on the wall. You really have to be okay with letting go if you’re going to watch your work be worn down like that.
You mentioned the origins of quilting as taking what you have to make something new– can you talk more about that?
In American quilting history, a lot of it comes from practicality. People would take worn-out work clothes—things that had been patched over and over until they couldn’t be worn anymore—and repurpose them into quilts. You used what you had because that’s what was available. There’s something really beautiful about that kind of resourcefulness.
But there’s also a very different quilting tradition in European history. In some upper-class circles, quilting was more about displaying wealth. Women—who often weren’t given much power or agency—would spend huge amounts of money on luxurious fabrics and then create intricate embroidery and quilting as a way to show status. So it’s almost like there are two opposite origin stories: I have nothing so I'm gonna make a quilt and I have everything so I'm gonna make a quilt.
What about barn quilts? Do you know where that tradition comes from or what their significance is?
Yes! I’m really into barn quilts. I’m on the program committee for my local quilt guild—it’s a very traditional guild—and we recently did a survey asking members what kinds of programs they’d like to see. Barn quilts ranked really high on the list. It was funny, though—about half the people were like, “What even is that?” and the other half were super interested and wanted to learn more.
I don’t have all the answers, but I believe the tradition has roots in Pennsylvania Dutch culture, and it’s really just a form of decoration. I don’t think there’s a deep symbolic meaning behind most of them. It’s more like, “I love this quilt block, so I’m going to paint it on my barn.”
And honestly, I love that! It’s such a unique and creative way to bring quilting into the public eye. You can even go on barn quilt tours—in Vermont, for example, they have whole trails where you can drive around and see them. It’s a fun and beautiful way to connect quilting with local culture and history.
Since you just mentioned the quilting guild, can I ask you a bit more about that? What exactly is a quilting guild, and how do you enjoy your time there? It seems like such a unique part of the quilting world—because not every art form has something like that.
So I'm a member of a few quilting guilds—I've been part of four different ones over time. They all share some similarities, but each has its own personality too. At their core, a quilting guild is a community of quilters who meet—usually monthly—to share ideas, techniques, and projects. There’s often a “show and tell” element where members present their work and get either praise, critique, or both.
What I really enjoy about guilds is when there's a strong educational component that’s balanced with social connection. One of the guilds I’m in right now is completely online—it’s a regional group for Montana and Idaho studio art quilters. The members are really into collage and more contemporary quilting approaches. Many of them do what’s called surface design, which involves printing or dyeing fabrics and layering embellishments, then stitching through all three layers, keeping it technically a quilt. That group feels like a great fit for me because the work really resonates with what I do, and there’s a strong sense of camaraderie.
On the other hand, my more traditional guild has a different focus. They put a lot of energy into community outreach—making quilts to donate—and they’re very involved in organizing quilt shows, usually once a year or every other year. It’s a different vibe, but both types of guilds offer something meaningful.
That’s really interesting, and it ties into a question I had sent you earlier. My impression has always been that quilting guilds tend to be fairly traditional. But when I look at your work—especially your more freeform collage pieces with abstract shapes and bold colors, or even some of your more politically charged quilts—it feels like you’re pushing beyond that traditional space. Could you talk about how your work fits into that more traditional quilting world, whether that’s within your guild or just more broadly? Have you had any conversations or experiences where your style or subject matter didn’t quite fit in, and how have you navigated that?
Yeah, definitely. In the traditional guilds I’ve been part of, those groups are usually large enough that I’m not the only one doing something different. I can usually find a handful of people—maybe four, five, six—who are really intrigued by what I’m doing. They’ll say things like, “This feels so creative,” “It’s so innovative,” “You're political views are similar to mine, let's talk more about that.” I can share enough of who I am that my people can find me.
As for everyone else, they tend to be curious from a distance. They might not be openly supportive, but they’re never hostile. And honestly, I’ve got pretty thick skin. I want my art to make people react. Most of the time, traditionalists say, “Oh, that’s so beautiful,” which isn’t really what I’m going for—or they just look at it and maybe seem a little taken aback.
Sometimes I lurk around at shows where my work is on display, and I’ll hear people talking about it when they don’t know I’m the artist. They’ll stop, read the description, look a little alarmed, and then keep moving. But if it gets them to talk or think, I’ve done what I set out to do. Not everyone thinks the work is beautiful—and that’s great, because sometimes it’s not meant to be. Sometimes it’s supposed to be jarring or bold or agitating. But often, people don’t yet have the language to describe what they’re seeing, so I try to be patient with that.
In contrast, my experience with SAQA—the Studio Art Quilt Association—is completely different. That’s the online, regional guild I’m part of, and their mission is to position quilting as an art form. They work to get quilts into galleries and museums, and they support artists through mentorship and professional development. We get access to museum curators and gallery professionals who talk to us about what kinds of work they're looking for, how to submit to calls for entry, how to write an artist statement, and how to photograph your work professionally.
It’s a very different conversation—much more in the art world than the craft world. And I’d say that’s really the difference: I’m making art within a craft space, which can be a bit of an affront in traditional settings. I don’t match my points, I don’t always aim for symmetry, and some people feel like I’m not meeting their standards. That’s fine. I’m the square peg in the round hole—and I’m okay with that. I don’t need to fit perfectly. What I can do is show people there are other ways to create, and that different doesn’t mean wrong. It just means different.
That’s such an interesting distinction you made between art and craft. In craft, the technique and precision are often the point, whereas in art, it’s more about the expression, and things like matching seams or clean edges aren’t always the priority.
Shifting a bit from that idea of art vs. craft, I’d love to talk about the stylistic range in your work. You create both more representational, realistic collages and more abstract, expressive quilts. I’m curious—do you approach those different styles in the same way? Are you inspired by the same kinds of things, or does your process change depending on the style? What stays consistent for you, and what shifts when you're moving between realism and abstraction?
That’s such a great question, and honestly, it’s one I hadn’t really thought much about until you sent it in advance. It’s actually something I’ve been exploring more recently, especially with the help of a quilt mentor I’m working with through SAQA (Studio Art Quilt Associates). She’s been asking me similar questions: What do you like about your own work? What defines your style? Do you gravitate toward animals, landscapes, bold colors? Those questions have really helped me reflect more deeply on what I’m doing.
For a long time, I struggled to even see my own aesthetic. But now, after making enough work and watching how it evolves, I can start to trace where I was, where I am, and maybe where I’m going.
When I’m working on something abstract, I usually begin by playing with color and shape. There’s not always a strong narrative or theme—it’s more about visual exploration. For instance, I did a small series of abstract pieces for an installation in a hospice and palliative care office. That series was guided by the emotional tone I wanted to convey: peace, comfort, calm. So even though the pieces were abstract, they were shaped by purpose. I chose softer colors, gentle lines, and low-density quilting to keep things soothing. One piece in the series even leaned slightly toward landscape—based loosely on a mountain reference image—but that was more the exception.
Those pieces weren’t collaged; they were what I’d call improv pieced—sewing together different fabrics in a spontaneous, unscripted way. I really love teaching that technique because it’s about letting go, trusting the process, and learning how contrast and composition guide the eye.
Lately, though, I’ve been more focused on representational work, especially based on images. Right now, I’m deep into a bison series. I started by gathering tons of bison reference photos and putting together a mood board. At first, I was working in browns, which felt necessary to figure out shape and tone. But I didn’t want to stay in brown—I was craving color. Just recently, I finally made the leap and created a couple of bison in blue and orange, and I loved them. I sent a photo to my husband and he was like, “This is it,” and I totally agreed. That’s where I’ve been trying to go.
What I’ve learned is that I often need to work out the form—get the shapes and values right—before I can start pushing the colors into more expressive territory.
Collage vs. Quilting: What’s the Difference?
So, technically, quilting is the process of stitching together three layers: the top, the batting, and the backing. But the top layer—the visual part—is where all the variation happens.
Sometimes, I create that top layer through piecing—sewing fabrics together in blocks or improv shapes. Other times, I build it through collage, which in quilting terms is often called appliqué. Specifically, I do raw-edge fusible appliqué, which means I cut shapes out of fabric, fuse them onto a background with adhesive, and then stitch them down.
So in my typical process, I might start with a pieced background—say, a sky, mountain, and lake sewn together to give a bit of texture—and then layer my collage elements (like a bison) on top using fusible appliqué. I then stitch over those layers to anchor them, and finally, I quilt through all three layers to add texture and detail. Some call that last part thread painting, but I usually just call it quilting or stitching.
I’ve also started mounting pieces on stretched canvas instead of finishing them with a traditional quilt binding. I just staple them to the back of a cheap canvas frame. It’s faster, I don’t have to do tedious hand-sewing (which I can do, but don’t enjoy), and it presents the work more like wall art—which is how I want it to be seen. If I am going to hand-stitch, I’d rather it be embroidery that’s meant to be seen, not just hidden binding work on the back.
Tradition vs. Innovation in Quilting?
That difference—between visible, expressive stitching and hidden, precise craftsmanship—also highlights a broader shift in the quilting world. Not long ago, quilting by machine was seen as "cheating." If it wasn’t done by hand, it didn’t count. But that’s changed dramatically in the past 20 years with the rise of home sewing machines, long-arm quilting machines, and new approaches to what quilting can be.
There are still traditionalists who place a lot of value on precise binding techniques and perfect points. That’s totally fine—it’s part of the craft’s legacy. I know how to do it and will for certain showpieces, but it’s not where my passion lies. I care more about expression and impact than perfect symmetry. And stitching with a machine? It’s efficient, it’s expressive, and it works beautifully for the kind of art I want to make.
What did you study in college? Was it art or art related?
I went to Hampshire College, which is a pretty unconventional school—there are no grades, and you basically design your own curriculum through independent projects. I studied a mix of things: yoga, physics, kinesiology... sort of a blend that leaned toward science and movement, though it wasn’t officially pre-med. After college, I did take the pre-med route and even applied to medical school. My husband went on to med school, but partway I changed my mind. I ended up having kids and raising them.
So I guess I’d say my focus in school was science and kinesiology. It was a great foundation for fields like physical or occupational therapy—really anything involving the science of the body.
Okay, this might be a tough one—I know I can never think of names on the spot—but are there any artists you look to for inspiration?
That’s a good question—and actually, I was asked something similar by a mentor recently. She didn’t frame it as “Who inspires you?” but more like, “Pick six pieces that have ever made you stop and go ‘Wow.’” So I went through that exercise, and now I have a little corner in my studio where I’ve taped up those images—some are works I love, and some are by artists I admire.
There are a few Salvador Dalí pieces up there. I’ve been fascinated by his work since high school—someone gave me a big coffee table book, and I was obsessed. But more recently, I read a biography of him and… honestly, I kind of hate him now. He was a problematic person in a lot of ways, and I’ve learned that much of his work may not have even been done by him. He apparently hired people to replicate and mass-produce his art, which really changed how I see it. So I still have a complicated admiration for the visual impact of his work, but not the man himself.
Another early influence was Georgia O’Keeffe—also someone I loved starting in high school. I think of her as one of my first "art crushes." Her work just stuck with me.
More recently, within the quilt and fiber art world, I’m incredibly inspired by Bisa Butler. She’s made a huge impact in the art world for good reason. She creates stunning fiber collage portraits—mostly of African-American historical figures and moments—using African textiles that carry deep symbolism. There’s this incredible layering of meaning in her work: the visual story, the person portrayed, and then the cultural significance of the fabrics she uses. The more you know, the more powerful it becomes.
Another artist I admire is Chawne Kimber. She’s actually a math professor, but also a fiber artist who does what I’d call “slow stitching.” Her quilts are very political and deeply personal, often addressing African-American history, systemic injustice, and her own family’s story. I love her meditative, steady approach—she’s not loud or flashy, but her work carries real weight. It’s like a quiet but persistent form of protest and storytelling.
I don’t think my work is directly like either of theirs, though maybe there are some similarities. I also work in collage, and while my portraits tend to be animals—especially bison right now—I’ve done quite a few dogs too. It’s kind of funny, because I’m not a huge animal person, but those are the pieces people often commission. A lot of the dog portraits I’ve made have been gifts—like someone saying, “Can you turn this photo into a quilt for my daughter?” So it’s meaningful work, even if it’s not where my personal inspiration necessarily starts.
What is the significance of the bison? It is a symbol you keep coming back to in our conversation.
That’s a great question. The bison—unlike, say, the dog portraits people commission—is purely a personal obsession. No one’s asking me to make them. It started after I moved to Montana. At first, I had a jackalope phase—I made about five or six jackalope portraits, placing them in different park scenes. But the more I researched, the more I realized jackalopes are really more of a Wyoming thing. People in Montana didn’t quite connect with it, so I moved on. I went through a bit of a dry spell after that, mostly making traditional quilts or using other people’s patterns—bed quilts, baby quilts, things like that.
But the bison kept coming back.
There are a few layers to it. First, there’s this saying—and I’ve tried to verify if it’s biologically accurate, but like a lot of animal lore, it’s probably been exaggerated—that bison face into storms, unlike cattle who turn away and huddle. The idea is that by facing the storm, they get through it faster. It’s been anthropomorphized, of course, but that message really stuck with me. When my mom was going in for heart surgery, I held on to that image. I gave her bison thank-you cards, a bison pillow, and even got little stuffed bison for her and my dad—to kind of embody strength and courage. At that point, I wasn’t yet making bison art, but I was deeply fixated on the animal.
Then I learned about how bison—and many herd animals—circle around their most vulnerable members: the young, the injured, the old. The strong ones face outward, ready to protect. And for me, that mapped powerfully onto the idea of community protection, especially for the trans community. I have trans friends and friends with trans kids, and that image of circling the vulnerable hit home.
So I created a bison design with the phrase "Respect existence or expect resistance"—with the word “or” placed in the nose of the central bison. I put the design on t-shirts, flags, aprons—things people could buy. The proceeds went to the Glacial Queer Alliance. It felt like a meaningful act of allyship, like the art was doing something.
Then, a few weeks later, the National Park Service started using bison imagery in various campaigns, and I thought—okay, clearly the bison is becoming a bigger symbol, but I was already there. I’d even bought a bison embroidery kit as a kind of recovery project after surgery—something simple and meditative.
More recently, I’ve been working with a mentor through the Studio Art Quilt Associates, and I told her about my bison fixation. She challenged me to create a goal: six small bison pieces by May 1st. That’s actually my deadline—today. I have two more in progress to finish by the end of the day.
She also asked me if I thought of the bison as a kind of power animal. And I do, I think. It’s not just a striking form for composition—it’s this symbol of strength, facing fear, protecting community. I’m still unpacking all the reasons I’m drawn to it, but the bison is definitely something I keep returning to.
I love it, so the bison is what you're inspired by right now, what your, work is revolving around at the moment.
Yeah, and it’s not my only form of political action, but when I get tired of emailing senators or going to marches, I can go into my studio and work on bison pieces and still feel like I’m contributing to the resistance in a meaningful way.
Are you teaching right now?
More than I have in years—yes. I taught an improv workshop in January, and one of the students from that class shared her experience with a different guild up in Whitefish that I didn’t even know existed. She invited me to teach for them, so I did that in March.
Now I’ve got an exciting opportunity coming up in June with The Making Place. I’ll be teaching my Find Your Happy Place workshop, which is something I developed back when I lived in Massachusetts. I’ve taught it a few times with different groups, and honestly, it feels especially relevant right now—we could all use a happy place these days.
So, tell me a bit about your time teaching in Massachusetts. What kind of work were you doing there? Were you affiliated with a school, or were you working more independently as a contractor or freelancer?
I’d say my teaching work in Massachusetts was pretty varied. They had a grants program through the State Arts Council that supported teaching artists, so I applied for and received several of those grants—sometimes collaborating with others, and sometimes working solo. The settings weren’t always traditional classrooms; some were more community-based, like pop-up workshops in public spaces.
One project I did was in a second-grade classroom, where I was essentially a guest art teacher. I focused on concepts like camouflage versus contrast—really introducing the kids to visual elements like making a mark and understanding color. I taught them how to thread a needle and make an “X” stitch on a circle of fabric, choosing high-contrast color combinations so their stitches stood out. Then I took all their stitched circles, sewed them into two lap-sized quilts, and we hung them in the principal’s office. Every child had made a visible mark, which was meaningful.
Another project I pitched was a 12-week curriculum for high school students that focused on the history and social significance of quilting—how personal experience can inform artistic expression, and how quilts can be used to make a statement or foster collaboration. Unfortunately, COVID hit just a few weeks in, and we tried to keep it going over Zoom, but the class gradually dropped off. In the end, I mailed little fabric packets to the students with the hope they might keep creating on their own.
I also taught in less formal spaces, like libraries. One project involved a large, intricate quilt I wasn’t sure I’d ever finish. I wrote a grant to take it on the road as a “quilt in progress.” I’d go to different venues, set up a little display with my sewing machine, layout boards, and fabric pieces, and just work on it for a few hours. People could come up, ask questions, and engage with the piece, which was about bathroom access—visually inspired by black-and-white bathroom tiles. It was a slow, repetitive process, but talking about it with curious passersby, especially kids, made it really worthwhile.
That particular grant wasn’t about selling the quilt—it was about sharing the process and the message. I think I got paid around $400, most of which went to marketing and insurance, but it covered my expenses and validated the work. Just being paid to make a political and personal statement, and to have those conversations with the public, was incredibly rewarding.
Are there opportunities for art or teaching grants in Montana similar to what you experienced in Massachusetts? Have you found the same level of support for arts education and community programming here?
I haven’t found the same kind of grants here. Montana seems to offer more artist residencies—like staying in Missoula for a month, working at the library, showing your work, and maybe leading workshops—but most of those are site-specific. You have to be physically present at that location to participate.
What I really appreciated about the teaching grants in Massachusetts was that they were more integrated within schools. You partnered directly with schools, which could be tricky with scheduling, but I didn’t have to travel far—I could stay at home and just go to the school on art days.
Maybe there are similar opportunities here in Montana, but I haven’t found the right agency or network yet. To be honest, I haven’t been looking very hard, so I can’t fully answer that.
Well, that exhausts all of the questions that I have for you. Do you have anything else that you want to add that I didn't touch on?
I really want people to know that fiber art is fun, forgiving, and easy to play with. After all, we pick outfits every day, layering colors and fabrics, and quilting is just an extension of that. It’s a creative way to share messages with the world, offering a soft entry into hard topics.