How I Started, How I Proceed

An array of my needlepoint pillows. Many more pieces have never been made into pillows.

The other day, a Facebook friend so nicely asked: “How long have you been doing needlepoint? How did you get started?”

I’d already been thinking about doing a NEEDLEPOINT MUSINGS post along those lines, since others have asked variations of her questions. So I’ll take my Facebook reply as a starting point for just such a post.

Dear Friend, How nice of you to ask.

I’ve been doing needlepointing for 60+ years, though with some big gaps over the decades, distracted by life, and sabotaged by carpal tunnel pain.

I started at the suggestion of my sister-in-law, Joyce, who was an accomplished needleworker herself, though not so much needlepoint, as I recall.

Joyce and one of her cross stitch cushions.

Stitching was already in my genes, however, on both sides: Father was a furrier, Mother the fur finisher doing the linings and such, and also stitching clothes and embroidery.

Mother and one of her embroidered quilts.

Father being a furrier in Lubbock in the 1950s, and me wearing a coat that he and Mother made for me in the 1980s. That coat and other pieces are now part of the TEXAS FUR section of the Houston Community College Fashion Archive, thanks to the foresight of my husband, Rick.

That first piece was partially “pre-worked,” meaning that the central motif - a violin, which seemed appropriate since I played the violin then - was already done (by stitchers in Madeira, I think; wonder if such still exist), so I only had to do the background. Not much to the task, but that was enough to hook me on the mechanics of it. This was the early 1960s.

I don’t have that piece anymore. I gave it away a few years ago. One of the few times I’ve ever gotten rid of anything, and I now realize, a big mistake. But it looked something like this:

I soon graduated to kits, pre-printed canvases, usually color coded, with appropriate colors of yarn included. That was a bit more satisfying, since I got to stitch the whole thing, including the pretty parts. This was the 1970s. Some of those I did as gifts, though I do still have a few.

After a while, kits got a little boring too. About then, I found the fabulous books by an American stitcher who has long lived in England, Kaffe Fassett. The profusion of color in his lush designs blew me away. That’s what I wanted to do. Obligingly, not only did he include glorious photos of his pieces, he also included color coded patterns so that those of us stitching in the provinces could do them ourselves.

This piece – the largest I’ve ever done – is one of his, originally intended as a cushion for a window seat in our new house. Not too useful, as it turned out, since we seldom sat in the window, but still knocking around in various rooms, for various uses. This was the 1980s.

I loved Fassett’s pieces, but one was enough. I do have him to thank, however, for planting the idea that I might be able to strike out on my own, to some extent anyway, and find images to adapt that interested me even more than his, or any of the kits I saw for sale.

It didn’t take long for me to find those images. To my surprise, since I’m not much of a dog lover, the first of them depicted dogs – one on a Victorian carpet bag I saw pictured in an issue of Smithsonian Magazine; the second on a Victorian-era book titled Dogs and Their Doings. This was the late 1980s, and I sit on them both still today.

Then came my Tibetan Tiger Bag, which I’ve written about in another piece in this series. This was a real breakthrough for me, since I did it all – front, back, sides, strap, lining. After that, I felt as though I could do ANYTHING.

Except, that is, work from my own art. I did attempt my own designs once or twice, but somehow it didn’t feel quite right. I claim the designation “craftsperson” for myself, not “artist.”

Stitched from my own design, with input from husband, Rick..

I almost always adapt from artists whose work I admire. Sometimes I’m borrowing from drawings, but usually from paintings. I enjoy the challenge of approximating with wool yarn, the effects that can be accomplished with paint. I’ve found that it’s even possible to mix colors with yarn, as painters do paint on their palettes – though in a much more limited way, of course. I’m particularly pleased by some of the effects I’ve been able to achieve that way.

Gene Charlton Eggplant 1942, Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. The original painting is pictured on the right; my adaptation is on the left. And the little strip in the center is a detail to show my yarn color mixing to approximate the original.

In recent years, I’ve begun to add an “agenda” to the adaptations, which brings in another interesting layer, I think. This is part of my purpose in adapting from early Houston artists. I qlways want to promote our hometown talent. Many of these pieces were exhibited in a show at Houston Public Library in the summer of 2023. My pieces drawn from Gene Charlton are good examples of this, as is this one.

Beulah Schiller Ayars Magnolias 1932. The original painting is pictured on the right; my adaptation is on the left.

Paintings Into Pillows: A Tribute to Houston Art and Artists, In Needlepoint Houston Public Library 2023.

This agenda aspect is especially part of my NAUGHTY BOYS NEEDLEPOINTS series, in which I am, as one author has said, Queering the Subversive Stitch, and queering the straight image in many cases.

A NAUGHTY BOY NEEDLEPOINT, adapted from two paintings by the Austrian artist, Anton Kolig (below).

Anton Kolgs Self-portrait and Nude Youth both early 20th Century.

So that’s how I started, and how I proceed. Who knows, I may even try laying claim to the artist label before I’m done, and get bold enough to work from my own designs – if I live long enough, and my fingers don’t give out!