Dream Map: Meet the Artists

As our Dream Map Project* unfolds, I will be featuring artists taking part in this collaborative piece of art. Today, we hear from Tony Phillips, also known as The Manbroiderer, whose embroidered Dream is called "The Silence Beneath the Stars."

Tony's artist statement: "My work explores the emotional landscapes of hope, vulnerability, and transformation through the tactile language of embroidery. Inspired by nature and personal storytelling, I stitch narratives that invite reflection and connection. Each thread becomes a quiet act of resistance, a celebration of slowness in a fast world. Through workshops and kits, I share this meditative craft, fostering community and creativity. My practice blends tradition with experimentation, honouring the past while imagining new possibilities in textile art."

Tony's dream uses hand dyed cotton fabric, silk organza and cotton thread, and here is what he says about the dream:

"This piece emerges from a dream I had as a young man—haunted by fear, anger, and the silence I kept during the AIDS crisis. As a gay artist, I use embroidery to process the grief of losing friends and the shame that once kept me hidden. My work explores vulnerability, memory, and queer identity through tactile storytelling. Each stitch is an act of remembrance and resistance—a quiet tribute to those we lost, and to the courage I found in their absence."

How did you come to textile work, and what is the meaning of textile art in your life?

My journey into textile work began with my paternal grandmother. She introduced me to embroidery when I was very young, and from the start, it felt like something more than just a craft—it was a quiet, grounding way to express myself. I kept creating for years, mostly for myself, stitching in the background of life.

After leaving the food industry, I moved into the world of jewellery. That shift opened up a new kind of creativity for me—working with form, detail, and storytelling in a different medium. It was during that time that my practice really began to evolve. I started to see how all these threads—embroidery, memory, emotion, and design—could come together.

Eight years ago, I made the decision to dedicate myself fully to textiles. It felt like coming home. Textile art, for me, is more than a medium—it’s a way of thinking, feeling, and connecting. It allows me to explore vulnerability, identity, and hope through something tactile and deeply human. Every stitch is a way of remembering where I’ve come from, and imagining where I might go next.

Can you share the significance of the dream map for you?

The dream map is deeply personal. It’s rooted in how I felt during the 1980s, at the height of the AIDS crisis—a time filled with fear, silence, and unbearable loss. I was young, scared, and closeted. I watched from the sidelines as friends and strangers suffered, and I did nothing. Not because I didn’t care, but because I was terrified. Terrified of being seen, of being next, of what it meant to speak up or step forward.

This piece is my way of stitching through that silence. It’s a map of what I felt but couldn’t say. Of the grief I buried, the fear that shaped me, and the guilt that lingered long after. Each thread is a reckoning—with memory, with identity, with the parts of myself I hid away to survive.

But it’s also a map of hope. Of healing. Of reclaiming my voice through textile art. The dream map doesn’t offer answers, but it does offer space—for mourning, for reflection, and for imagining a future shaped by compassion and courage.

Do you have a dreamwork practice (i.e. writing a dream journal)?

I don’t keep a formal dream journal, but dreams stay with me—in fragments, in feelings, in the way they echo through my body long after I wake. I often carry them quietly until they find their way into my work. Sometimes it’s a single image—a door that won’t open, a thread unraveling, a voice I almost recognize. Other times, it’s the emotional residue that lingers: fear, longing, hope, or regret.

The dream map came from one of those lingering dreams. It wasn’t something I wrote down, but something I felt so strongly it demanded to be stitched. In that sense, my dreamwork practice is tactile. It lives in fabric and thread more than on the page. Stitching becomes a way of processing what I can’t always articulate—especially the dreams tied to memory, identity, and the parts of my past I’m still learning to face.

So while I may not write my dreams down, I do return to them. I hold them in my hands. I give them shape. And through that process, I find meaning—not just in the dream itself, but in what it reveals about who I am and what I still carry.

What impact have dreams had in your creative journey?

Dreams have shaped my creative journey in quiet but profound ways. They’ve been a source of imagery, yes—but more than that, they’ve been emotional messengers. Dreams have brought to the surface things I wasn’t ready to face in waking life: fear, grief, longing, and sometimes, a fragile kind of hope.

My dream map—emerged from this space. It wasn’t just inspired by a dream, but by the emotional weight of a time in my life I had buried. The fear I felt during the AIDS crisis in the 1980s, the silence I kept while friends were dying, the guilt of doing nothing because I was too afraid to come out. That dream didn’t come with words—it came with a feeling. And stitching it became a way to process what I couldn’t say aloud.

In that sense, dreams have been a kind of compass. They’ve helped me navigate the inner terrain of memory and identity. They’ve led me to create work that’s more honest, more vulnerable, and more connected to who I really am. I don’t always understand them right away, but I trust them. They remind me that creativity isn’t just about making—it’s about listening.

What is your creative method (intuitive, planned, responsive? etc)

My creative method is a blend of intuition and emotional responsiveness, with just enough structure to hold it all together. I rarely begin with a rigid plan—instead, I start with a feeling, a memory, or an image that won’t let go. Sometimes it’s a dream, sometimes a walk in nature, sometimes a quiet ache I can’t name. I sit with it, sketch loosely, and let the materials guide me.

Stitching is slow, and that slowness is part of the process. It gives me space to listen—to the fabric, to the thread, to what’s rising in me as I work. I often find that the piece shifts as I go. What begins as one idea might unravel into something more vulnerable or more layered than I expected. I try to stay open to that.

When I’m designing kits or workshops, I bring more structure in—thinking about flow, accessibility, and how others will experience the work. But even then, I leave room for interpretation. I want people to feel like they’re not just following instructions, but entering into a conversation—with the materials, with themselves, and with the story they’re stitching.

So yes, my method is intuitive. But it’s also deeply responsive—to emotion, to memory, to the quiet things that ask to be seen.

What is the importance of nature for you?

Nature is where I return to myself. It’s not just a source of inspiration—it’s a place of remembering, of grounding, of quiet noticing. The textures, the rhythms, the way light moves through leaves or frost settles on seed heads—all of it speaks to something deeper in me.

In my textile work, nature often becomes metaphor. A tangled root might echo a complicated emotion. A falling leaf might hold a kind of release. I’m drawn to the overlooked details—the lichen on a stone, the curve of a branch, the hush of snowfall—because they remind me that beauty doesn’t have to shout. It can be soft, slow, and still powerful.

Nature also teaches me about cycles: growth, decay, rest, renewal. That’s something I carry into my creative process and into how I live. It reminds me to be patient with myself. To let things unfold. To trust that even in stillness, something is happening beneath the surface.

So when I stitch, I’m often stitching the feeling of a landscape, the memory of a season, or the emotional echo of a walk. Nature isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a collaborator.

Nature is both my muse and my mirror. It’s where I go to feel grounded, to listen, to reconnect with something quieter and more essential. The natural world doesn’t just inspire my work—it shapes its emotional language.

In my emotional series, pieces like Tranquility, Calm, and Peace are rooted in the textures and rhythms of the landscape. A still lake, a soft snowfall, the hush of a forest path—these aren’t just scenes, they’re states of being I try to translate into stitch. Nature gives me the metaphors I need to express what I feel: the tangled root of anxiety, the open sky of hope, the slow unfurling of healing.

It’s also central to my environmental storytelling. I’m drawn to the fragility of ecosystems, to the quiet urgency of conservation. Through textile art, I try to hold space for that—whether it’s a piece about plastic in the ocean or a kit that celebrates the resilience of wild plants.

Nature reminds me that everything is connected. That softness is strength. That even decay has beauty. And in my work, I try to honour that—thread by thread.

Can you share the best advice you've ever received?

The best advice I’ve ever received is actually something I now find myself saying to others: “Take it one stitch at a time.”

It sounds simple, but it holds so much. It’s a reminder to slow down, to breathe, to trust the process—even when the bigger picture feels overwhelming. Whether someone is learning to embroider for the first time or navigating something tender in their life, that phrase becomes a kind of anchor.

In my own creative journey, it’s helped me move through fear, perfectionism, and self-doubt. When I was younger—especially during the AIDS crisis—I often felt frozen by fear, unsure how to act or speak. Now, through stitching, I’ve learned that small, steady steps can still carry meaning. That healing, like art, doesn’t have to be fast or loud.

So I offer that advice in every workshop, every kit, every conversation: Take it one stitch at a time. It’s not just about embroidery—it’s about being gentle with yourself as you create, remember, and grow.

Find Tony on Instagram @themanbroiderer