Day 136: I was only four years old when my grandmother first started instructing me in needlearts and, oddly for a child who quickly became bored with any other endeavour, stitchery held my attention. Admittedly, my patience was (-cough!) somewhat less than it is now, but seeing an image develop from nothing more than thread and cloth entranced me. My first pieces were kit work, cross-stitch on printed pillowcases and table runners, but when my hands had become familiar with the action of inserting a needle accurately, Gma advanced my lessons into stem stitch and French knots worked on handkerchief linen. "Over four threads and back two," she'd insist, not allowing me to be sloppy in my execution. By the time I was six or seven, I'd become sufficiently proficient at buttonhole and satin stitch to be introduced to cutwork, but my fascination with it was somewhat short-lived. I much preferred working with bright colours, creating pictures rather than patterns. It was a logical step from floss embroidery to crewel which, for many of my adult years, was my preferred medium. I don't do a lot of crewel these days. These two pieces were done not long after I moved here, and have hung in the living room above the vanity ever since.
