The Reading of Textiles

Logically, after I finished rendering the design, I applied my interface and stretched my fabric over the hoop. Strangely enough, this is the first time I have ever made use of an interface in my embroidery (standard practice for the modern embroiderer working in thread instead of floss) to reduce void fabric wrinkling. There are few indications that 16th and 17th century embroiderers employed an interface for such works, but that is precisely is why it's such a tremendous shame that few discussions and depictions of historical textiles make close examination of the back side -- and this is why it is imperative to do so.

 By the way, this is what I mean by void fabric wrinkling.

Sure, the making of a broidery is a record of its manufacture -- a skilled needleworker can read the stitches etched onto the surface of the fabric like a message. Here, the haptic sense is virtually as important as the visual faculties.  For example, take the box panel (dated between 1650 and 1675) I mentioned in the last post. (My apologies for the resolution and formatting, although we need to blow this bad boy up in order to get into the nitty gritty!)

We can see in the fabrics of the woman's dress and scarf a preference for surface couching along a colour gradient for shading -- note the vertical alignment of stitches in the skirt folds, and the undulating shades of the scarf following the curvature of the object. This creates a very pleasant flow to these garments, so the directionality of the stitches is clearly an important aspect for creating this effect.

But we see another choice for gradient and shadow -- short and long stitch. This can be seen in the contours of the grassy knoll the figures are set upon, and the limbs and faces of the ewe and her lamb. Note the staggered lines marking each shade, so stitches no longer lay parallel to one another, but instead have the appearance of biting into another colour.

We see outlining is done in a couple of ways, as well. It appears as though the contours of the hat and the bottom edge of the church are rendered in stem stitch -- it's difficult to see precisely, but it seems likely, given the unbroken lines used here to define the borders of these features.

But when we examine the contours of the clouds, we do see an interrupted line. I would venture a guess that this was achieved using a back stitch instead of a running stitch, but since I am deprived a closer look of the back side, it can't be said for certain.

Added texture is also seen here in the french knots worked to create the woollen coat of the little lamb. How cute!

The physical description of the object provided by the Victoria and Albert Museum suggests that this item was worked on satin with silk threads. With regards to the aforementioned stitches, I am in complete agreement. But this description does not seem to account for the added texture of the thicker cordage used to work the floral embellishments of this piece.

I mean, come on -- it's raised, it's thick, it's plush; it's definitely not silk. So what is it? My best guess, given the box panel's location of origin (Great Britain, possibly England) is that it's probably wool. Swain describes in her book Historical Needlework the changing fashions of embroidery in late 17th century England, explaining that "Silks were expensive, and in the war-torn years of that period were often difficult to import. Instead, a material of linen and cotton with a twill weave was [commonly] used, decorated in a variety of stitches with bold leafy designs in coloured worsteds" (1970: 32). She goes on to describe how:

Wool embroidery on linen was not, of course, an innovation. The embroidery on that long strip that we call the Bayeux tapestry is embroidered in wools on a linen background. Silks for needlework were always expensive, since they had to be imported from Mediterranean countries (Swain 1970: 33).

Brief aside: if you study historical embroidery at all, you will hear a lot of reference to the infamous Bayeux tapestry. Like, endless discussion of it. Pictured below, some humorous memes regarding the Bayeux tapestry, just for funsies:

But back to locally produced goods. Of the fibres that can be produced with relative ease in the clime of Western Europe, the choices are few: largely limited to wool and flax. But why embroider a linen (made of the woven fibres derived from flax) field with woollen fibres, why not produce a denser matrix to be worked over with a finer thread (which would almost certainly limit or reduce the void fabric wrinkling in the piece)? Because, according to Swain, "wool accepts dyestuffs more readily than flax, and will dye to more brilliant shades" (1970:33).

Regardless of whether or not we're talking about a work completed in the 11th century or the 17th century, we still get very little discussion of the back side of works, and the issue of whether or not an interface material was used remains a mystery (I suspect not, if no one has mentioned it, but I suppose a good scholar doesn't bank on a maybe like that). It really goes to show how important it is to really handle the piece in question, since texts and images are clearly coloured by the focus of the researcher who documented the object.

Sources Cited

Swain, Mary
1970 Historical Needlework: A Study of Influences in Scotland and Northern England. London, England: Baryy and Jenkins Ltd.