Unsung icons: Cross stitch A nostalgic way to pass the time
COMEDIAN DAVID SMIEDT TAKES AN IRREVERENT, BUT APPRECIATIVE, LOOK AT THE CLASSIC THINGS THAT DEFINE YOU-BEAUT AUSSIE LIFE
For a generation raised on the concept of two-wears-and-you’re done fast fashion, it may be difficult to comprehend how long their forebears held onto things. Where do you think all those vintage Gucci/Coogi sweaters you’re now paying hundreds of dollars for online came from? Well, the longevity of these items is partly due to years of ad hoc repairs, so many years in fact, that these items often crossed the threshold from merely old into the fabled land of vintage. All held together by the mercurial art of needle and thread.
But here’s the thing. Long before we had tuned into mindfulness, the simple, meditative rhythm of sewing provided its own escape. Inevitably and eventually, we sought to do it for personal pleasure and aesthetic enhancement. Necessity was transmuted to hobby amid balls of yarn and through the finest of needles.
For many people, the gateway drug to this addiction was crossstitch. Using fairly thick strands of wool or cotton, and guided by a faint pattern printed on a taut piece of minutely perforated fabric, the push/pull rhythm was not merely relaxing, you also got a reward at the end in the form of a picture. The beginners’ kits were ideal for little hands and made for an ideal project between generations. Take that Tik-Tok (whatever on earth that happens to be).
All it took was a few hours, a decent lamp and some slight hand cramp to produce an adorable depiction of a slightly cartoonish playful spaniel, a cherubic angel or even the crest of a beloved football club. Ponies were a perennial favourite for teens, and most every holiday home you ever rented had either a landscape or a seascape made from dust-laden intertwined yarn.
Cross-stitch also lent itself to the visual portrayal of treasured sayings. Biblical verses that struck a spiritual chord were common among the houses of the reverent (or reverend for that matter), as was the ubiquitous “bless this home”. If your olds were a little bit zany and not afraid of showing it, they might even opt for a “bless this mess”. Then there was Aunty Dawn’s slightly uncomfortable for youngsters “home is where the bra comes off” or spritzer justifying “wine not”. For an entire generation, it was our “live laugh love”.
Today, of course, in the era of automation, the kids are all about two things: the instant gratification of internet purchases delivered overnight and transposing this supposedly staid and traditional format with some rather raunchy or ironic sayings. This writer’s home, for example, is adorned with a cross-stitched “that’s what she said”. Ask that person in your office who’s always banging on about The Office why that’s so funny.
The next-level players were drawn to the mesmeric attention to detail required by needlepoint and embroidery. Again, this was in the pre-computerised-automation era, where a palette of different hued superfine threads was used to render the petals of flowers with exquisite nuance. There was shadowing, there was bordering, there was shading. There was all sorts of up-close squinting so the end of the filament could successfully be passed through the seemingly diminishing eye of the needle. Speaking of eyes, the older that one got, the tougher it became to complete this task without multiple attempts, and who among us hasn’t resorted to sucking on one end to moisten the thread into a more compliant tip?
The needles themselves were also uber sharp, often resulting in more pricks than the last season of most reality TV dating shows. The frustration that arose from this combination of dodgy vision, piercing pain and too many attempts at loading the needle often gave rise to the first time a child ever saw their nanna or mum use a swear word. And didn’t that make them that little bit more human.
“LONG BEFORE WE ALL TUNED INTO mindfulness, THE simple MEDITATIVE RHYTHM OF SEWING PROVIDED ITS OWN escape”
In this DIY mix was the magic of patchwork. Akin to a fabric mosaic, it, too, most likely started as a mend that transformed into something more striking. This was upcycling years before the term got a hashtag or was most likely even invented. With some fabric scraps left over from various curtain, tablecloth or clothing projects, you could create a blanket that would somehow become an heirloom quicker than the family silverware. In their slightly mismatched and pushing-the-bounds-of-complementary-colours way, they spoke of home with a voice both nostalgic and comforting. How many of us snuck them away when we left home for university or our first share house? The common thread among all these things was, of course, common thread itself, and the joy its use could so often bring.