a tatreez story

There are a lot of parts to this story: the textile, how I found it, what it’s own (partially known) story is, what I decided to do with it, and the work and result of that. This may be a long post, but I think that’s better than dividing it up into episodes. I also hope the story continues, and will happily add updates when there’s more.

Tatreez piece, rolled up and prominent in my studio. For more information on tatreez: Tatreez and Tea, Tatreez Traditions, Tiraz Home for Arab Dress are all excellent resources.

Having found this piece in January, 2023, I will have lived with it for almost exactly one year. The uniqueness of a handmade piece makes it like a person’s face, something you learn to recognize beyond doubt. So the presence of it becomes familiar. I kept this piece visible in my studio for many months before I knew what I would do with it, and its face is precious to me. Even now, I sit and stare at the photos, enthralled, and have to urge myself to work with words… in some ways, the textile says everything on its own.

At the time of finding it, the attack on Gaza had been under way for (only) 3 months, and the sight of Palestinian embroidery pierced my heart. Somehow I felt that it was older, made as part of an original garment, but I didn’t really know anything for sure except “Palestinian cross stitch.” It was in a consignment shop in Port Townsend, Washington, where many of us buy and sell each other’s goods. It had been sewn by machine into a sturdy linen border & backing, which I left on while I contemplated what to do with this piece, apart from posting photos online over and over again.

When I finally removed the border linen and held the tatreez piece by itself for the first time, the voice of it came to life. Handling an old textile, there is a liveliness, a warmth to it, like holding someone’s hand. Being able to touch both sides and to see the back was like a direct communication with the maker, the woman who held it before - a more intimate listening to the language she wrote with her stitched marks.

Then I learned more about this piece. I noted that the three uniform-sized panels are not the style of design used for a Palestinian dress. Reading further into Shelagh Weir’s Palestinian Costume book, I saw that the Hebron area head shawls, or ghudfeh, have three panels, and bands of embroidery along one end. Using ghudfeh as a search term, I found other examples, also identified as Hebron works. Clicking through links, I suddenly found myself looking at exactly the same embroidery patterns, in a portion of a shawl in the collection of the Textile Research Centre of Leiden, Netherlands.

Doing a watercolor painting of a textile is a great way to study the designs, complexity, scale, and color choices, to learn more about the language.

The same! I knew the designs well, having looked closely enough to try to paint them. I still don’t know what this similarity means, exactly - what is the microcosm of shared embroidery vocabulary that would result in such an identical design… same family, or village, or time frame within an area? I haven’t successfully communicated with any textile scholars about this yet, but it’s certainly striking - I’ve looked at a lot of tatreez, and this is the only time I’m aware of seeing identical patterning. The benefit is that I can more confidently place the segment I have in time and place. And the conclusion of the TRC folks, in consultation with Wafa Gnaim, is that their piece is c.1900.

When we talk about old textiles, I know there’s a tendency to glorify age for its own sake - older pieces are more valuable, considered more authentic. Sometimes this is unfair to anyone still making textiles now, and in terms of the marketplace, I believe in supporting active craftspeople and not inflating value based on scarcity or exclusivity of access. (I’m also opposed to the way the textile collecting world mirrors the rest of the fine art luxury market in this way, with artificial fashion trends and status competition affecting the way things are valued. The inherent value of textiles and why they matter has nothing to do with all of that.) When I revere something older, it’s because of the life that is in it, the context that was woven or stitched into the piece itself, through materials and technique and the lived experience of the maker.

In this case, finding out how old this piece is likely to be was emotionally moving, because it places the original maker before so much of the suffering and disruption that her people are experiencing now. These stitches were made before Israel was established as a country, before anyone in this woman’s home environment was being forced to fight for their ability to live there, or flee. Her voice is grounded in place, and the language of her composition flows like confident music. Knowing that this piece was made in the pride and faith of belonging, of fully living her culture, makes it a powerful message from an ancestor, something to pass on strength and integrity of being.

Magnified view of the cross stitch embroidery - the white lines on the side are millimeters.

Which leads me to the obvious need to put it into Palestinian hands. I’d been contemplating this, how to give this on to someone for whom it would have personal, identifying meaning. And after meeting and beginning a correspondence with the musician Abdul-Wahab Kayyali, (whom I have mentioned before) the thought occurred to me: could it be made into a gift for either display in the home, or to wear? I had not yet come up with anything when he happened to mention in an email that he was interested in wearing tatreez while performing. This gave me a concrete goal, and I started thinking about a wearable base that could serve as support for this textile.

Abdul-Wahab Kayyali plays with guitarist Tariq Harb as the duo 17 Strings.

I envisioned a boxy jacket that could go over a dress shirt, with the tatreez wrapping around the jacket body, above the hem. I think I was influenced by Southeast Asian tribal clothing shapes in going for a black, square jacket - but I also found these Turkish fellows looking very sharp, which I was sure the recipient would appreciate, given his musical and personal Turkish connections. The Turkish image gave me the idea to use piping along the neck and front opening. I got some black linen twill from my local fabric shop, and found a suitable silk for piping in my stash of fabrics I’ve dyed in the past. After a few practice runs with making and sewing piping, I took the plunge and cut the linen, creating a piped edge along the round neck and center front, between two layers of linen.

Piping is basted onto one side in the first step

Linen is shifty stuff, so there was much basting. The two layers of the jacket body were basted before cutting the neck, and here I’m basting them again after sewing the piping in the neck edge, before adding sleeves.

I decided on a T pattern with square gussets for the sleeves.

(I’m narrating it slightly out of order. I was already well into the project when I found out the age of the piece. This caused me to [hyperventilate and buzz around going omg and then] be more thorough in my documentation of the textile, especially the back which would no longer be accessible once it was mounted on the jacket. I will make the images and information available to others who work with preserving Palestinian textiles, if they are interested.)

Magnified view of stitches including joining stitch. Millimeters marked at the side.

Given that the sleeves would be visible, I wanted to add something decorative on the cuffs. In dresses from the 1930’s or earlier, Palestinian women used imported silk taffeta to appliqué onto the skirt panels. A typical design is a rectangular strip with diagonal lines made by reverse appliqué. A slit is cut into the silk, and the edges are turned under and stitched. I knew this technique from other textile cultures, and had done it myself in the past. I auditioned a few different silks and practiced the reverse appliqué several times over, before working it onto the jacket sleeves. The cuffs have a small vent, and are hemmed with lines of running stitch in handspun yak/silk yarn. Running stitch is another embellishment that is seen in Palestinian garments and cloth.

Some of my reverse appliqué samples, with the preferred choice in the foreground.

Image from Shelagh Weir’s Palestinian Costume book showing a dress with taffeta appliqué in the center front of the skirt.

Spindle-spun yak/silk singles, sewn in rows of running stitch along the cuff hem.

The idea was to provide a supportive, wearable base for the tatreez, consistent with some aspects of Palestinian textile culture, while not drawing attention away from the embroidery. It is different enough from any traditional garment that, I hope, it takes the tatreez sufficiently out of context to be essentially honored as an element of traditional culture, and not co-opted in a way that conflicts with its original use.

Primarily, it is a way to connect the voice and art of an ancestor with the living continuation of her culture, to make it possible for others to continue listening to and learning from the beauty and message and strength of this textile. I hope that it will provide deep-rooted support for this musician as he expands his creative and expressive potential through composition and performance. Like the tatreez piece, his music is powerful, compelling, and tapped into strong cultural roots.

Abdul-Wahab Kayyali during a performance of Mafaza, in a screenshot from the Instagram of Majd Sukar, co-composer of the Henna Platform production. Photo by Joshua Best.

The image above was concurrent with my beginning work on this jacket, and I hope I can convey how much it broke my heart. Mafaza is a powerful stage production, involving two Syrian poets, Waeel Saad al-Din and Mosab Alnomire, and two musicians, Abdul-Wahab Kayyali and Syrian clarinet player Majd Sukar. The debut performances were in early November, 2024 in Toronto. I was compelled by the trailers and interviews that Henna Platform was sharing as the performance date approached, and I knew from Abdul-Wahab that creating this work was a strong experience for all of them. What I didn’t know until I saw this image was that the musicians, who were on stage the whole time along with the poets, were dressed and made up as survivors of an explosion, with torn and dirty jackets and dirt-smeared faces. The fact that they performed the whole time in the garb of the bombed, embodying the dehumanizing, targeted status that many would give them, was almost too much to fathom. And the contrast between this and the type of jacket I’m trying to make, the message I’m conveying with it, that this musician is esteemed and worthy of the best, most meticulous efforts - it still squeezes my heart when I think about it.

When I describe the details of the textile and the garment making, I’m trying to be thorough with the information, so I get into report-writing mode. But the feelings are there in the work and care, and the truth is I often had difficulty working on this project and not crying. It feels like the most important thing I’ve done in recent months, and one of the most significant textile projects I’ve ever had the honor to work on.

Beginning to stitch the sleeve detail, while listening to Les Arrivants.

Sewing the hem on Dec 7, 2024, the night that Syria was being liberated.

After the sleeves, and after sewing the hem, the only thing that remained was to attach the textile. I had one of those sudden bright ideas that come while lying in bed, regarding the stitching for securing the textile. Given that the jacket has two layers, if I quilted them together with colorful sashiko-type stitching, I could conceivably stitch the tatreez onto the top layer only, and then the stitches wouldn’t show on the inside of the garment. I basted guidelines for the top and bottom edge of the tatreez placement, and did some decorative stitching in between with (cotton) embroidery floss. (see finished photos)

The tatreez textile is tacked to the jacket body, which is wrapped around a large pillow.

Securing the textile along the top. The tricky part was sewing through the top layer only. The curved needles helped.

For mounting the textile, I needed a support that would hold the body of the jacket in a rounded way. I used a large throw pillow, covered with cotton cloth, and laid the jacket onto the textile, then wrapped it around to the front. After securing in several places with stitching rather than pins, I began to sew along the top edge, with white linen that was darkened with natural dye to match the old linen cloth. This was a chance to bring out the textile conservation needles - tiny little curved needles that are nearly impossible to thread and hold, but that make minimal holes in the textile. After a few minutes, I got back into the habit of holding the wee needle, and this part of the work was calm, reverent, and rewarding. Every moment of looking closely at this piece has been a gift.

Finishing the stitching on winter solstice, with the setting sun lighting up the tatreez textures.

Detail of finished jacket: bound side seam in foreground, interior decorative quilting stitches, and the outside of the jacket in the background, showing piping and textile.

When I finally hung and stepped back from the finished jacket, I was overwhelmed by a mix of emotions and anticipation, barely able to wait for my visit to Montreal and the giving of it.

As it happened, I was visiting Abdul-Wahab Kayyali on the 19th of January, 2025 - the day the ceasefire went into effect in Gaza, so the wild mix of emotions continued, and how could it not? The heaviness of all the surrounding story, of historical and present-day suffering, are bound up in this textile, this garment, and the friendship that has caused me to make it. Even where there is joy, and beauty, and love, deep pain is an inherent texture of it all. It brings Rilke’s phrase from a letter to mind: “Wie sollen wir es nicht schwer haben?” How can it not be heavy for us?

Nevertheless, it makes me very happy to report that the fit is just right, it works well with playing the oud, and when he first put it on he said, “Perfect.”

I’m quite sure there will be more photos of this project, here and there, and I look forward to sharing its public debut when Abdul-Wahab Kayyali chooses to wear it for a performance with Les Arrivants.

moss energy

What I love about the picture above is that I really can’t tell you what is going on there. I still don’t know yet. But the alchemical invitation of combined elements feels activated, there is potential for an emergence of some kind, however small and searching. That’s the nature of my studio space these days. It holds and pools and mixes together images, textures, acts of mark making and folding and tying - possibly generating amulets, or maybe the assemblage itself is the amulet, a protected and protective space to hold thoughts that wish to heal and halt destruction.

This rock also felt strongly of healing and wholeness. Such a wise and soothing design, so smooth and comfortable in the hand. I carried it along the beach, my first time back since an incident of local violence, and I left it there to mark the site with its calm assurance, another hope for healing and reparation.

I only feel capable of temporary offerings these days, momentary indications of care and tentative hope. I gain reassurance from these ancient forms that don’t need us humans, really.

A cedar showing me the beauty of a difficult life.

In preparation for a moss walk with the land trust study group, I was thinking about two aspects of mosses’ being. First, their extreme delicacy and sensitivity: with leaves only one cell thick, mosses have no protective layer filtering the outside world. The environment permeates their cells, making them highly susceptible to toxicity and air pollution. At the same time, many mosses are drought tolerant, can essentially go dormant until conditions are suitable to flourish, and when land has been depleted through mining or deforestation, they are often the first to come in and begin to find ways to grow. As some of the oldest plants on the planet, mosses have an ability to make soil habitable for other organisms. So they are simultaneously more sensitive, and more likely to create the conditions for communal thriving. These sound like the kind of characteristics the world needs, and it’s encouraging for those of us who have the experience of being too sensitive, feeling too much and too easily, to recognize that we also may have the capacity for encouraging better conditions for everyone, for starting over with small-scale care and attentiveness.

I roll it around in my mind as I visit the mosses and watch the birds and handle fiber: slow, gentle delicacy as teaching and strength.

Cotton from Traditions in Cloth, leather-whorl spindle by Allen Berry

Recycled paper stitched together and dyed with onion skins.

Maybe that’s where hope resides - with those of us who are unable to tolerate bombing of children, hospitals, libraries. Maybe our very intolerance, our inability to harden against this unacceptable reality, is what will create conditions where more of us can grow together.

A Bigleaf Maple offering shelter & embrace.

Small, persistent offerings feel small, but also crucial, as so much is being wantonly destroyed. Like the stitches in this Palestinian embroidery, creating meaning and preserving an attentiveness to life, to identity and place.

Palestinian cross stitch, found by chance in a local consignment shop. Someone tells me it has West Bank motifs from the Bethlehem area (thank you, Dot Ranch!) Along the right side are cedar/cypress trees of life.

affirmation of faith

Embroidered skirt border, Gujarat, from Seattle Art Museum IKAT exhibit

Quilt made by Florence Mallory of Prescott, Kansas, circa 1960

It occurred to me as I sat wrapped in my great grandma’s hand-stitched Double Wedding Ring quilt, and again as I contemplated an intricate tribal embroidery from Gujarat - these hand crafted things are expressions of faith.

Sleeve fragment of an embroidered blouse, purchased in Kutch, Gujarat, India, in 1994

Not necessarily a particular religion’s faith, although handcraft is often aligned with prayer and a sense of service to the divine. What I feel from these textiles is faith in the craft itself - the belief that it matters that we do this, that something is made with a person’s full attention of skill and years of practice.

Lakota tent lining, hide and beads, Plains Indians Museum in Cody, Wyoming

The way people carry on making beautiful things in difficult circumstances shows me this faith, and also hope. It was almost an overwhelming feeling, seeing multiple collections of Plains Indians textiles in recent days. The care, attention, skill, and faith in oneself and one’s community traditions held in these objects, large and small, is breathtaking.

Beaded band, Indian Museum of North America, Crazy Horse Memorial

Horsehair bridle, Indian Museum of North America, Crazy Horse Memorial

Sewing/beading kit, with work in progress, strands of beads, and sinew thread, Plains Indians Museum in Cody, Wyoming

Even when exiled onto a reservation and given ration cards to receive food from the US government, people made beautifully decorated bags to carry the little piece of paper.

Beaded bag and ration card, Plains Indians Museum in Cody, Wyoming

This devotion to craft tells me it doesn’t matter who gets it (since so many people nowadays don’t), —that there is value in the doing, in the joining of heart and hands and materials, even if you’re all by yourself. That in making a thing, something is given and received, offered with love, in contrast to the hurry and press and hard bargaining that surrounds us.

Embroidery of nomadic Banjara people, purchased in India in 1994

The faith spoken by these exquisite offerings sustains me, and encourages me to keep offering my own stitched and woven and handspun affirmations.

Jordan textile conference

There were many beautiful and impressive things about the Traditional Textile Craft: An Intangible Heritage conference in Amman in April, 2014. But the most beautiful and impressive were the various women who are dedicating themselves to textiles through research, preservation, support of craftspeople, and the pure enthusiasm and love that goes along with such work.

We were very fortunate to be able to visit Widad Kawar's costume and textile collection at the new home she has created, called Tiraz: a home for Arab dress. Even more fortunate was her participation in the conference, her invaluable presence in this group of textile scholars and enthusiasts. She gave one of the opening talks, in which she explained that she didn't start out intending to collect, but things started happening, and "the more things happened around me, the more I collected." Poignant words from a woman who grew up in Palestine.

Widad also emphasized the importance of documentation, that the collection must be accompanied by as much information as possible. In her case, she conducted extensive interviews with people who created and wore the types of garments in her collection, gathering stories and historical facts. The wealth of knowledge represented by her textiles is awe-inspiring, and international groups and students work with her to help register and retain this priceless store of culture.

Widad is a joy to be around, constantly discussing textile traditions and practices, and eagerly examining any new textile that comes her way, whether in the slide presentations of the conference or worn by the participants (all of whom were usually wearing something interesting and handmade.)

Widad Kamar explains the use of the hanging basket for storing embroidery in progress, showing a wooden bobbin with unspun silk threads from inside the basket. — Widad Kawar explains the use of the hanging basket for storing embroidery in progress, showing a wooden bobbin with unspun silk threads from inside the basket.

Traditional gift from a woman to her betrothed: an embroidered pouch to keep his tobacco and rolling papers.

During our visit to Tiraz, we were also treated to the collection of Layla Pio, an Iraqi woman with deep knowledge of the textiles of her country. She gave us a tour through the examples she had on display, including the Samawah kilim she is showing here, a woolen twill weave with dense chain stitch embroidery. I see these in the souq in Doha often.

Another woman by the name of Laila Tyabji, resplendent each day in different hand-crafted saris, runs a wonderful organization known as Dastkar. She gave an inspiring talk about her work, illustrated with so many beautiful images from India that I wanted her to just keep talking and show them all slowly. Craftspeople in the most difficult of circumstances, but given strength by their skills and traditional knowledge. Laila noted that it was craftspeople who recovered more quickly, after the massive earthquake in Bhuj, than other livelihoods. She said that when the skills exist, it takes very little to revitalize a craft tradition, and she gave delightful examples of the ingenuity and creative involvement of the craftspeople, when they are given the chance to participate in the design. Her work carries so much insight into the process of supporting traditional craft, insight that she has developed through myriad ongoing interactions and observations of what is successful and what is not. Overall, her conclusions were quite encouraging and affirmed that the living tradition simply needs to be allowed to function, in the way the people have learned and taught for centuries, and that this can be a very resilient system that need not be threatened by modern consumerism.

Laila Tyabji blends in with the textile glory in a completely hand-embroidered sari.

Until I have time to write more, I include some more details of this over-saturated week.

Bedouin belt from Tiraz collection, card woven with twining, braided fringe.

More garden decor at Al Alaydi Jordan Craft Center.

Rich detail of a Palestinian dress, with Syrian silk fabric appliqué.

Metal thread embroidery detail on a Syrian silk abaya from the 19th century, at Tiraz.

sewing bhisht

Sometimes I forget that I live in an exotic place, to the sensibilities of people back home. A trip to the souq usually corrects that lapse. Even on a normal day, Souq Waqif smells of spices and incense, and teems with shopping Qataris, groups of small schoolchildren, the odd tourists, and of course the mounted traditional patrol, above. They are, ostensibly, some kind of security force, but really it's for show.

I was determined to find the 'handicraft section' of the souq, since I'd heard about it from people who moved here recently. The reason I hadn't known of it before was probably because it didn't exist. Anyway, entering the alley helpfully labeled "Handicraft Market", I found some guys working with their hands. This is a bhisht shop.

A bhisht is a traditional robe Gulf Arab men wear over their white thobe. They used to be made from handspun camel hair, and some of them probably still are. This one appears to be wool, and is a dense, warp-faced weave, as opposed to the more open, sheer plainweave often seen in diplomats' and political leaders' bhisht.

Gulf Arab leaders in typical dress (former Emir of Qatar, second from left, in the most sheer bhisht - a sign of status?)

While I've taken an interest in the wool of the robe, the metallic thread embroidery is so dense and shiny, I always kind of assumed it was made by machine. But these guys in the souq showed me how wrong I was. There they sat, earbuds in, fingers flying across the fabric stretched between their knees.

Some of them were couching the gold threads with another thread, as above, and others were actually making stitches with the gold. The bobbin of choice for metal threads is a cassette tape cover. I imagine them salvaging the tape boxes long after they have discarded the tapes in favor of their MP3 or iPod.

Given that this was an entirely male, Muslim space, I was timid with the photographs, and didn't get right up in their work to see the details of the stitching. But an examination of the finished pieces shows an impressive array of stitches and patterns, and I gained a new appreciation for this traditional garment.

The little spots of silver look almost random.