I am now in my last part time year of a Fine Arts degree. Last year I wrote the dissertation, for which I got a First! which was such a reward for sweating blood, but also made a mark for my nineteenth century women who used stitched words, so many words, to express themselves, in a medium which the rest of the “world of patriarchy” would not notice, as it was women’s’ work, domestic, craft!.
Thankyou Lorina Bulwer, Elizabeth Parker and Agnes Richter for all you achieved, for your stubborn need to be seen/heard and to Tracey Emin for insisting on the same, via her stitched text blankets.
To gain control.
I feel the same need to make my mark, not to sell for money, not to perfect my craft, just to make a mark. Gather together the molecules of space and time and connect them, stitch them down.
The pieces fill my mind, gather together all the frantic panic and direct me to make piece that speaks for itself, but also for me.
The painting of Mrs Darth Raider has come off the wall and been stitched into 3D. She is still unsteady on her feet but she has solidity, she exists.
She is soft but defies being dismissed.
With help from another Student I have been bashing metal to use a fabric [zinc roofing! beggars can’t be choosers] that has more resilience, but can still be bashed into shape like the corset I hope it will refer to. The unyielding shaper, the pressure for women to maintain the required shape, in body, mind and acquiescence.
