Jeffrey Stenbom smooths out an inch-wide piece of fabric cut from his old army uniform and attaches it to his loom. This strip of fabric he ties with another torn strip from a different military uniform, then he weaves the fabric through the warp thread of the loom, which is parachute cord.
Time and time again, the Iraq War veteran and art teacher at Normandale Community College repeats the meditative movements of weaving. A strand of fabric is from a World War I uniform he bought on eBay; the next is from an army combat uniform his grandfather wore during World War II in Europe; the next is from the Air Force suits worn by his other grandfather, who served in the Korean War and the Vietnam War.
This will eventually become an American flag woven from uniforms from every military conflict the United States has engaged in since World War I. It is one of 10 artworks commissioned by USAA, the military-focused financial services company, that will be displayed at each of USAA’s 10 regional offices.
But Stenbom’s largest work – a 25-by-12-foot American flag that took 1,200 hours to weave – is already complete, on display at San Antonio International Airport for the next six months for the 100th anniversary of the ‘USAA. He will then move permanently to USAA headquarters in San Antonio.
“So much history,” says Stenbom, holding up part of a World War I uniform. “There are so many stories, untold stories, with each of these uniforms.”
You can assume that Stenbom’s story is a simple story of veteran patriotism.
It is partly true. The message of the Freedom’s Threads flags he wove for the USAA is simple: Stenbom wants to make sure the sacrifices of military veterans are not forgotten. There is symbolism in the intertwining of all the stories of these veterans.
But look deeper and Stenbom’s story is as tortured and convoluted as his dark and powerful artistry.
Apple Valley, 44, father of three, is first and foremost a glass sculptor. One of his pieces is a glass replica of the combat boots he wore in Iraq, resting in a bed of 5.56 millimeter rifle casings. Another is a sculpture that crushes a grenade and a human brain. Another is a display of 7,300 glass dog tags, the number of American veteran suicides each year.
Stenbom’s art lives in this darkness. His darkness stems from a harrowing deployment at the start of the Iraq War that left him with post-traumatic stress disorder.
“It’s not just about raising awareness about sacrifice,” he said. “It’s post-war, PTSD, suicide of veterans. It’s not pretty. I’m not one to do pretty art. I do a lot of stuff that talks about death. I was there all the time. I do a lot of stuff with skulls. My fiancée and my parents, they’re like, ‘I know you did this thing, but it’s so sad!’ [But] I have to do it. It’s part of the help I have to deal with the things I’ve been through. Before doing art, I was lost.”
He wants his art to light up the darkness, because that’s what art has done for him.
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Stenbom was on a break from college when 9/11 happened. Eight days later, he joined the army. At the end of September, he was in basic training. He’s trained to be a cavalry scout, the eyes and ears of the army: get out in your Humvee and hunt down the bad guys.
He was deployed to Kosovo in 2002, then in February 2004 went to Iraq as a squad leader with seven soldiers under his command. He was just north of Samarra, living in former grain storage silos in the heart of the Sunni Triangle, when the insurgency heated up that spring. Its base was hit by rockets and mortars almost daily.
“I remember the first time I was shot, and it was like, ‘What the hell is this?’ ” he recalled. “Then it changed. Days when you didn’t get shot became weird days. That’s when you knew things weren’t right.”
The soldiers struggled with the heat and lack of sleep, but worse was the uncertainty. The insurgents did not wear uniforms. The Americans never knew who the enemy was. Once, an improvised explosive device, or IED, detonated next to Stenbom’s Humvee, lodging shrapnel in his hip. Another day in July, a suicide bomber attacked a base where Stenbom had been the previous night. Six American soldiers died.
While in Iraq, Stenbom’s first son was born. In August, he went to R&R to meet his son, and his sister killed herself at home. All the emotions piled up and shattered him. He was suicidal. He tore up an emergency room when military doctors told him he had to go back to Iraq.
With the help of military psychiatrists, he was returned to the United States. He was filled with rage. Some felt duped by a war under false pretences; some went from the war zone to the home front. Once, at his parents’ house, he threw a table against the fireplace, smashing it. He didn’t know why he had done it. His grandfather took him for help.
Stenbom knew he wanted to go back to school. On a whim, he took a fused glass art course at Normandale Community College. Spending hours merging shards of glass drove the war from his mind.
“It started to give me a passion, drive and focus, energizing me like it hadn’t happened since before the war,” he said. “I was lucky. If it wasn’t for this class, I don’t think I’d be here, man. I’m sure I would’ve been dead.”
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Now armed with a master’s degree from Tulane University, Stenbom teaches the same class he credits with saving his life. At the beginning of each semester, he tells the students about his journey. He tells them that he was a non-traditional student, like some of his class. And he shares how art like these American flags woven from military uniforms saved his life.
“It’s not just fabric,” said Taylor Clark, a retired Navy officer and executive sponsor of USAA’s 100th anniversary. “Each is a different story of commitment, honor and service.”
The giant flag at San Antonio International Airport weighs 100 pounds. It includes 6,500 feet of parachute cord and fabric from 140 military uniforms from all six military branches.
“There’s something sad about that,” Stenbom said. “I deconstruct these uniforms – taking them apart, cutting them up – and there’s a lot of history in there.”
Sometimes when he rips the pockets, things boil over. An N-95 mask. Tobacco that has never been used. Grains of earth or sand from a distant country. Stenbom always wonders about the stories it contains and how similar they are to his own.
“My mission is to raise awareness of sacrifice,” he said. “That’s the point of my art – to make sure the message gets across. I want people to think about all these stories.”
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