painting is faster; why use embroidery?
Paintings can indeed be quicker to produce: three per year? per month? per week? per day? But paint is messy. Yarn and thread, on the other hand, are clean, dry and quiet. Fiber is warm: literally and figuratively also. Its familiarity is both comforting and attractive. You let down your guard; it draws you in. In the presence of tapestries, most people will literally walk closer to them.
It's fun to see the pieces taking shape in my hands; like the pleasurable anticipatory tension one feels when assembling a puzzle. They are mysteries, unfolding stitch by stitch. Those stitches, soft but yet not smooth, provide texture by casting shadows and reflecting light. Coupled with realistic drawing, that tiny amount of physical depth brings the images closer, giving them a more immediate sense of presence. That immediacy thrills me. In the months that they're still in my studio, the stories they tell become more concrete and nuanced in my mind, just as they would in a steadily lengthening conversation.
I usually work while seated. When my body has less to do and focus is narrowed to what's in the hands and before the eyes, within moments both body and mind naturally calm down. Some of that sense of peace occurs subconsciously because working in this posture also evokes an earlier time in my life spent in the company of my mother and aunt who gave me my first lessons. The warm, cheerful gentleness of those two women, encouraging over and over again the efforts of a child they loved, still lingers.
It's fun to see the pieces taking shape in my hands; like the pleasurable anticipatory tension one feels when assembling a puzzle. They are mysteries, unfolding stitch by stitch. Those stitches, soft but yet not smooth, provide texture by casting shadows and reflecting light. Coupled with realistic drawing, that tiny amount of physical depth brings the images closer, giving them a more immediate sense of presence. That immediacy thrills me. In the months that they're still in my studio, the stories they tell become more concrete and nuanced in my mind, just as they would in a steadily lengthening conversation.
I usually work while seated. When my body has less to do and focus is narrowed to what's in the hands and before the eyes, within moments both body and mind naturally calm down. Some of that sense of peace occurs subconsciously because working in this posture also evokes an earlier time in my life spent in the company of my mother and aunt who gave me my first lessons. The warm, cheerful gentleness of those two women, encouraging over and over again the efforts of a child they loved, still lingers.
In this photograph, I'm the big girl standing behind the twins. Here also are my aunt, Mildred, (left) and my mother, Hazel, (right) who, despite active lives, not only taught me to embroider but enjoyed several types of needlework themselves. This helped me look at embroidery as a fun thing to do.
In truth, there are drawbacks to using embroidery to form images. It's slow. The greater the realism aimed at, the longer it takes to achieve it. Slowness, while meditative, limits productivity. There is only so fast a large embroidery with thousands of hand-applied stitches can be produced.
If you're constantly deciding what to do next, it's even slower. So, I plan as thoroughly as possible before actually stitching. That usually (but not always) means foregoing the pleasures of spontaneity. I'm working hard to break through my one-per-year average. In fact, one large piece takes longer than two smaller pieces because it's heavier and must be turned repeatedly (upside-down or backwards) to work all sides. Yet, I never begrudge the time it takes and most people appreciate immediately how much time that must be.
Everybody asks how long it takes to make one. That's hard to predict since it depends on things like the number of figures in a scene (they should relate to one another in size and style while the background must relate to both). Also important is the size of the piece, the clarity of the reference photos and the thoroughness of my plans before stitching begins. A rough estimate is that 32" x 32" or larger may take nine months or more. Smaller can be less. 36" x 60" may take a year and 1/2 plus... Five or six hours of stitching per day and five days per week are optimal and, when working consistently at that pace, I get slightly faster each year. Sometimes I'm swept up in the process and want to spend 10 hours or more (don't want to eat, don't want to sleep - just stitch and listen to audio books). Too many days like that cause eyestrain. If I take too long a break (to draw, do beadwork, sew or lay attic insulation), my brain switches gears and I begin to forget some of my skills at translating reference material or mental images into stitches. More than a few times, I've started new pieces wondering how in the world I'd be able to create them. At times like that, (instead of a plan forming spontaneously - if gradually - in my mind) I see what you might see: a pile of thread and an outline on plain fabric.
[ Image above: Yellow TomCat(s), 2006, detail. Private collection.] The complete piece of which this detail image is a part contains a scene which examines of the moment between temptation and the decision to be faithful or not.
If you're constantly deciding what to do next, it's even slower. So, I plan as thoroughly as possible before actually stitching. That usually (but not always) means foregoing the pleasures of spontaneity. I'm working hard to break through my one-per-year average. In fact, one large piece takes longer than two smaller pieces because it's heavier and must be turned repeatedly (upside-down or backwards) to work all sides. Yet, I never begrudge the time it takes and most people appreciate immediately how much time that must be.
Everybody asks how long it takes to make one. That's hard to predict since it depends on things like the number of figures in a scene (they should relate to one another in size and style while the background must relate to both). Also important is the size of the piece, the clarity of the reference photos and the thoroughness of my plans before stitching begins. A rough estimate is that 32" x 32" or larger may take nine months or more. Smaller can be less. 36" x 60" may take a year and 1/2 plus... Five or six hours of stitching per day and five days per week are optimal and, when working consistently at that pace, I get slightly faster each year. Sometimes I'm swept up in the process and want to spend 10 hours or more (don't want to eat, don't want to sleep - just stitch and listen to audio books). Too many days like that cause eyestrain. If I take too long a break (to draw, do beadwork, sew or lay attic insulation), my brain switches gears and I begin to forget some of my skills at translating reference material or mental images into stitches. More than a few times, I've started new pieces wondering how in the world I'd be able to create them. At times like that, (instead of a plan forming spontaneously - if gradually - in my mind) I see what you might see: a pile of thread and an outline on plain fabric.
[ Image above: Yellow TomCat(s), 2006, detail. Private collection.] The complete piece of which this detail image is a part contains a scene which examines of the moment between temptation and the decision to be faithful or not.