The Art of Embroidery: Why a traditional 'woman's craft' became a popular form of feminist expression
“The art of embroidery is so deeply and horrifically sexist that it might have been devised by Jim Davidson, Jeremy Clarkson and Bernard Manning while getting uproariously drunk in Hooters.”
In this rather potent blog entry, Why embroidery needs feminism, the author laments the absence of innovative, progressive designs for the modern embroiderer. And yet, quite apart from the alarming mental image the quote above conjures, the issue it describes no longer appears to be the case: a cursory Etsy search proffers a smorgasbord of feminist expression through embroidery.
You can celebrate a variety of breast shapes and sizes or bold, block-coloured statements. If your taste is more vibrators-spouting-positive-vibes then never fear, you’re catered for, and fans of Frida Kahlo are spoilt for choice. From detailed diagrams of the uterus to suffragette slogans; embellished prints of inspirational women to line drawings of the female form, the riot of feminist embroidery is as powerful as it is creative – but why?
At face value, the idea of embroidery as being “horrifically sexist” carries some weight: embroidery doesn’t exactly scream punchy political protest. Characterised by a bowed head and lowered eyes, the very act embodies traditional expectations of women: patience, silence and a focus on the domestic.
Conjuring images of quaint drawing rooms and waiting for the man of the house to return, needlework was once a skill taught to girls as a key indicator of their marriage suitability. The virtues of modesty, obedience and stillness were reinforced by the religious samplers they’d often work from. So how has this conservative feminine pastime become such a popular form of feminist statement?
Precisely because of this apparent disjuncture, that’s how. The American stitcher Betsy Greer is credited with popularising the term ‘craftivism’ to describe the re-appropriation of traditional female hobbies to advocate for societal change. This subversion of social mores is why there’s such a delicious sense of rebellion in taking an embroidery hoop and needle and painstakingly writing ‘Fuck you, patriarchy’ in thread.
I’m yet to see this more beautifully captured than in Shannon Downey’s post-Trump-win protest sign, reading ‘I’m so angry I stitched this just so I could stab something 3000 times.’ No longer a docile and voiceless pastime, embroidery has come to symbolise the strength and power of a woman’s private inner sphere. And in today’s relentless, noisy world, owning our own space is arguably becoming more and more attractive.
Moreover, surviving examples of embroidery (and other textiles) are often the only remaining link between the present day and women of the past. For a long time, women’s exploits weren’t considered significant enough to record. So, between low literacy rates in women and the gendered expectation that writing was an occupation for men, historical needlework offers a rare glimpse into the everyday experiences of our predecessors. Just considering the sheer amount of time a pair of hands spent, centuries ago, holding and crafting these intricate pieces sends shivers up my history geek spine.
But feminism’s relationship with embroidery has not been straightforward. Whilst utilising ‘women’s crafts’ for the resistance is not a new idea (picture Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities knitting the codenames of those intended to be guillotined) this subversion has not always been admired. Some second-wave feminists have been accused of rejecting activities like embroidery exactly because of their feminine connotations, instead favouring traditionally ‘masculine’ behaviours.
Of course, rejecting embroidery perpetuates the problem, further embedding patriarchal distinctions and reinforcing the concept that ‘the masculine’ is intrinsically worth more. What’s wrong with demonstrating patience or taking pleasure in caring for the household? If we look down on the skills passed from woman to woman, who are we really fighting for? No woman or man should be embarrassed by enjoying embroidery, regardless of whether you’re stitching twee scenes of hearthside bliss or an artistic ode to the labia.
Indeed, the concept of embroidery as a ‘woman’s craft’ is itself revealing. The distinction between men’s ‘art’ and women’s ‘craft’ has long been wearily bemoaned, with the art history shorthand ‘old masters’ telling you everything you need to know. One pursuit is intellectual and skilful, revealing universal truths of humankind and is, coincidentally, ripe for the commercial market. The other is simple and utilitarian, perfect for brightening up a tablecloth but lacking scope for public or monetary appreciation…. No gold star for guessing which is which.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the first recorded exhibition of embroidery was as far back as 1798, when 100 of Mary Linwood’s masterpieces (mistresspieces?) were displayed at the Hanover Square Rooms. It was both less pleasant and less surprising, however, to find that her creations were, in fact, embroidered copies of fine art paintings by men (though is there something subversive in men’s art being literally redefined by a woman).
The hierarchical tension between traditionally male or female pursuits has been the subject of many creative explorations, with Judy Chicago’s 1979 The Dinner Party being something of a watershed. The large-scale installation includes 39 place settings that each celebrate a woman from history. The women’s names are embroidered on a table runner and their stories told through traditionally female accomplishments such as weaving, sewing and china painting (there are also an excellent number of ‘butterfly’ or ‘flower’ motifs which look suspiciously like vulvas). Chicago’s work depicts a multi-layered feminist agenda, simultaneously resisting what she calls the “ongoing cycle of omission in which women [are] written out of the historical record”, and fighting for the equal appreciation of overlooked art forms.
The contemporary feminist embroidery artist Sophie (of @sophies_stitching) also uses the art form to fight the good fight. Her Instagram giveaways garner small yet cumulative donations to women’s charities, while Sophie uses embroidery to build female body positivity. She says: “There are always bits of yourself that you don’t like, but I found after doing a photoshoot, looking through all the pictures, drawing them out to see which one I liked best and then spending hours embroidering it – it was hard to hate one bit because now I was looking at myself as a piece of art as opposed to one specific body hang-up. It’s definitely helped me embrace self-love more.”
Sophie now offers beautiful custom embroideries for other people, who laud both the finished piece and, more unexpectedly, the photoshoot process as helping them celebrate their own body. Contrarily, taking an historically private skill to a public domain can have significant personal impact.
There’s a pattern of women turning to embroidery when they have particular cause for anger. Just as Chicago and her contemporaries were responding to the injustices of the 70s and 80s, today’s feminist embroiderers are resisting unequal representation, violence against women and the prevailing gender pay gap (to name but a few of the inequalities women still face).
Should we, therefore, aim to have no further need of feminist embroidery, and to look upon subversive stitching as defunct? Or will our designs and desires develop, growing and changing to meet the societal currents of the time? One thing’s for sure: I feel less of an early-morning needle-stabbing urge now Piers Morgan has left Good Morning Britain.
Title image by NogPepperMe.
Katherine works in heritage outreach and is based in Bristol. When she’s not busy re-examining history from a female perspective, she lives the 19th-century high-life: embroidering, wild swimming and spending far too much money on gin. Find her on Instagram: @_kgwrites_.
