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By Sarah Witt
I didn’t think I’d have such a romance with the embroidery machine. Unable to shake the kitsch, great-aunt image throbbing in my head, it seemed the only solution was to employ just the opposite attitude. Sass, if you will.
Click on the first image to continue…
As one might expect from a visual artist, my primary output consists of visual images. However, writing is one of my favorite, but most neglected, ways to occupy time. And since the embroidery machine can render text perfectly, the projects I produced are all platforms for linguistic devices.
Initially I was hoping to create a video that featured a series of dinner napkins, their colorless surface supporting and emphasizing the immaculately pressed seams, exuding perfection.
Of course, dinner napkins dont stay in this state if properly used, fulfilling their role in making visible every error the diner makes in relationship to his plate.
For reasons I wont expound upon now, I have a serious affliction with perfection, but am forever captive to its impossible parameters as far as the computer-age is concerned. (Perhaps I really am a great-aunt swooning over stitched pictures... computer-age?)
So in an awkward dinner exchange of spills and smears, the napkins would slowly reveal pride in human flaw. The napkins text is stitched in clear, plastic thread, laid against a white background. If lit properly, the video camera wouldnt detect the subtle words on each diners neck wear.
As the evening progresses, things get messy. Splashes of saturated foodstuffs will soak the napkin, but resist the clear text, revealing confessions of inevitable error. (Which will hopefully remain white, guarding the patches of fabric behind the dense embroidery stitch.) But, as the napkin says....and had to abandon this project due to a lack of sufficient supplies. (Check back later for a live splash test.)
So I proceeded with another project, inspired by my obsession with fake grass and a group of students I teach.
In order to facilitate the experience of public intervention to correlate with our visual arts curriculum, I escorted the class to Lobby 7 for their chosen disruptive action: a nap.
I got to thinking about doormats really quickly.
And thought Id like to be one.
Hypothetically, if people were so rude and dirty as to bypass the opportunity to wipe their feet on the presented welcome mat, they would be alerted of their filth. Rather than rigging some sort of obnoxious alarm system, I decided to keep the punctuation simple with the text and amp it up through fancy script. A pedestal placed inside the doorway reading please, take one would display a stack of neatly folded satin handkerchiefs with one small word embroidered in the corner: filthy.
The hankies have two oppositional identities, depending on the audience. 1. To help people feel cleaner and ashamed that they didnt wipe their feet. 2. To help noses in the air gain some elevation, clearing their memory of the filthy woman laying on the ground asking people to wipe their filthy feet on her filthiness.
I feel bad for any audience member in this situation, really. I could go on about the concept behind this one...
