Victorian Thinking

For many years now, my thoughts have been consumed by the intricate interplay between textiles, and the traditionally feminine realms of crafting that flourished during the Victorian era. Today, I find myself reflecting on how women’s work—often relegated domestic and decorative, such as, doilies, embroidery, and beading—has been both a form of art and also a prison, celebrated for its beauty but overlooked in terms of depth and meaning.

The Threads That Bind: Reflections on My Mother’s Textile Craft

Throughout my life, in my family I have been surrounded by the peaceful rhythm of textiles—whether it was the gentle flicking sound of yarn slipping through knitting needles, or the intricate play of the embroidery needle against fabric. I can still hear the sharp crisp sound made by mothers scissors precisely, cutting through all sorts of fabrics. My mother and grandmother and some of my sisters were amazing creators, weaving beauty into the fabric of our everyday lives through their crochet and embroidered doilies and dressmaking. They crafted not just decorative items, but also designed and created unique garments that reflected their love and care for our family and others.

Today, as I observe these artistic expressions, I begin to see beyond the surface of their beauty. Having inherited many of these creations from my mother, in particular, I believe she was a warrior disguised as a home-maker, battling against life’s relentless tides. Juggling a full-time job with the endless demands of running a household and rearing 4 children alone, became her day-to-day reality, especially in an era when women were often expected to be the unsung heroes of the domestic sphere, without recognition, or support.

My father, was frequently absent, lost in the haze of alcohol, abusive and indifferent to the burdens she carried. This absence only amplified the struggles she faced, forcing her to adapt and become the sole provider. Despite her heavy responsibilities, she still found solace in her crafting. During long evenings or fleeting moments of spare time, she would create stunning pieces that adorned our home—a form of alchemy where her struggles morphed into beauty.

However, it would be naive to interpret these creations only as decorative embellishments. To me, they serve as profound symbols of her submission to a society that frequently regarded women as second-class citizens. Women even in the 1950s and through to the 1970s fought against a backdrop of systemic inequalities and limited rights. My mother, and like many women of her generation, channelled their confinement in their life into artistry, using textiles as both her canvas and her tool for self-expression.

Every doily she carefully crochet and embroidered together, every piece of clothing she designed, became a quiet rebellion—a way to reclaim her space and assert her identity within a world that often tried to define it for her. These artworks were not just about aesthetics; they were reflections of her inner world, her hopes, and the silent rage I feel, was inside her against the limitations imposed upon her. During her later years, we often discussed this and she told me this was her way of finding a space, within herself and without, that was hers and something that no one could take away from her.

This act of creating also offered her a sense of control amidst chaos going on around her. In a life marked by uncertainty and struggle, the ability to craft something beautiful became a refuge, a way to transform her environment into something she could touch and feel proud of. Each stitch was a testament to her resilience, a manifestation of her deep-seated desire for beauty and dignity in the face of adversity.

As I reflect on my mother’s journey and the textiles that adorned our home, I realize these pieces are woven with stories—stories of struggle, resilience, and creativity. In many ways, they are artifacts of a time when her voice and other women’s were often silenced, yet in crafting and making, they found whispers of their strength and a rebellious pride in what they did.

Today, I carry forward this legacy of artistry and resilience through my own textile art work. Though my pieces look very different to mums, each time I pick up a piece of antique or vintage textile, I remember the women who influenced my life and the stories they told through their creations. Their artistry speaks to a universal truth: creativity can flourish even in the strict confines of society’s expectations, transforming what may feel like a prison, into a sanctuary of beauty and self-expression.

Next time I see a handmade doily or a lovingly crafted garment, I’ll take a moment to appreciate the hands that created it and the stories that lie within those threads. They are sometimes, more than just fabric—they are the very essence of a woman’s life, dreams, and quiet revolutions.