Creating, and milky tea... what more could I ask for?
I’ve always been fascinated by the little treasures people keep—the simple, mundane, handmade things. I always enjoy listening to artists and craftspeople talking about their textile work, their process and inspiration. I love visiting a home and being shown the textile treasures it holds, hearing the stories behind it, how it was made, who made it, where it came from, what the significance of it is, how many generations have enjoyed it.
Handmaking nature-inspired heirloom pieces is one of my greatest joys.
As a student I lived with a landlady who had spent most of her time in North Africa and brought back many beautiful heirloom pieces to decorate her apartment and the attic flat she rented me. We would open some large trunks to admire all the things she had collected, drawers full of beautiful fabrics and hand-stitched garments, heavy wool rugs and exuberant tapestries, bedspreads embroidered in vivid colours and sequins everywhere.
Interactive textures and superb colours are always an inspiration.
As a child, I used to spend many hours with my Italian grandmother. We would go to her bedroom where the diffused Summer light filtered through the latticed blinds, and we settled down to look through her sets of drawers. Piles upon piles of the most intricate creamy lacework, a whole, huge tablecloth of it, heavy linen sheets neatly pressed and folded, big crisp square pillowcases ornate with incredibly delicate embroidery, so neat and perfectly executed. She was an accomplished needleworker… and tried to teach me.
My grandmother also passed on her love of plants and gardening to my mother and I.
Back then I could easily read or draw for hours, but I had very little interest in textile work, and no patience with it. I hated the knots, the needle pricking my fingers and the interminable hours it seemed to take to cover the smallest amount of surface. I hated knitting, every time it would throw me into a rage, the yarn tangling, the needles squeaking under my growing tension, it was just impossible. Crochet, I never even considered and despised. Oh the irony! It is now my very favourite occupation.
The little sewing box my mum made for me 20 years ago.
In my late teens I started sewing to repair clothes for me and my friends. My mum, a very accomplished needlewoman herself, must have been thrilled. She made me a sewing box from scratch, complete with assorted bobins. As I grew into adulthood I developed an interest in upcycling old clothes by bringing them together into very fitted, stylish and comfortable pieces of clothing, all by hand. I was too scared of sewing machines to even go near one! Two years ago I tamed that beast and started experimenting with a sewing machine to amend clothes. It is still a shy relationship; although I love the efficiency of it, I have a marked preference for slow stitching by hand.
Last Christmas, a dear friend presented me with this stunning sewing box.
Now in my late thirties, I am amused and touched to see that I adore the kind of lengthy, repetitive and absorbing work that used to throw me into an instant rage as a child.
I love nothing better than sitting down with a safe amount of thread, good quality needles, or a big pile or yarn and my trusted crochet hooks. This is real me-time, quality time, which I crave and need every day.
In my world...
But it is not just about me. It is about honouring the gentle pace of a slow life where I respect myself and am kind to myself in a way that allows me to do the same for others. Caring for myself by not putting too much on my plate is something I learn a lot about every day through using textile art as a support for living with chronic illness. Seeing where I have been too stretched, overwhelmed and pressured is useful feedback to adapt my activities in a sustainable way and to give myself more time for what nourishes me.
My handmade throw and crochet paraphernalia. I love the tin printed with one of my paintings.
The quiet meditation of textile art which keeps my mind engaged in a supportive way, my hands busy with a productive range of easy gestures and my body relaxed in a restful setting, is really the best for me. It gives me a purpose and dignity as a physically limited person, and totally expands my world. When I set out to create something, it always reveals a tiny inner world, a beautiful story coming alive in a little celebration of ordinary magic which takes me far beyond my actual capacities.
Textile art is fun and opens mini worlds for limitless travels.
So when I sit down to indulge in textile work, not only I am doing it for myself, but I am also doing it for everyone else. By giving myself this time to create in peace and quiet joy, I recharge myself so that I can be rightly available with discernment, poise, and so many stories to tell, without having been anywhere. What is created can then be shared with the world to inspire others, invite them to slow down, to contemplate, to reconnect to themselves and to nature, to expand perceived limitations and fully express our potential. This is the purpose of everything I make.
A few weeks ago: my first embroidery in 30 years... a special moment.
The naturally slow pace of textile work is a beautifully apt way to create a story. A few weeks ago I embarked on the gentle personal challege of creating one postcard-sized textile piece each week. Having started the year with this practice for my paintings, I knew how powerful, revealing and connecting it can be.
I use embroidery to explore what I love best in life and pay tribute to it.
Being part of the 52 Stitched Stories project, I love the immersion into my inner landscape that creating a textile postcard each week brings. I love seeing what everyone else is creating, being a witness to their own stories. Supporting ourselves and each other through the weeks as we do is a very kind, helpful and inspiring space indeed.
