maternal kittel
“She is not worried for her household because of the snow, for her whole household is dressed in scarlet. ” (from ‘Aiyshet Chayil’ - Proverbs 31:21)
This kittel explores the mother as dressmaker. In clothing her children she is providing not just physical protection, but the garment becomes a manifestation of her nurturing and care. Even when she is absent.
In the Tanach, Hannah says goodbye to Shmuel and leaves him at the Mishkan with an ‘ephod’ a white linen garment. According to the midrash this garment grew as the boy grew older, keeping him constantly connected to the mother who prayed so desperately for a child. Rivka dresses her favourite son Ya’acov to prepare him to take the first-born blessing, an act that results in his leaving, and her never seeing him again. And when Adam and Chava leave Gan Eden, God, acting as a mother, clothes them to face the world, protecting them from the elements.
I was reminded of these stories at a recent exhibition ‘Threads of Feeling,’: The London Foundling Hospital’s Textile Tokens 1740-1770. When mothers left babies at London’s Foundling Hospital in the mid-eighteenth century the Hospital often retained a small token as a means of identification, usually a piece of fabric taken from the mother’s clothing. Each scrap of material reflects the life and of a single child and their bond to its absent mother. Some of these textile pieces have been fashioned into rosettes, or babies’ clothing, others are ribbons, some embroidered with names and tokens of love and wishes for a good life.
In every culture mothers, and grandmothers, express their basic wish for their precious child’s life to be protected by using amulets, often attached to the child’s clothing or bedding. My great-grandmother would sew a red ribbon into clothing to keep away the evil eye. When my daughters were born, my grandmother gave me a long piece of ribbon so that I could do the same.
This kittel has embroidered in red the outline of a child’s dress pattern. Showing how the mother’s garment can be transformed into the child’s. This merging of the mother into the child also is shown by the soft styling of the child-like peter-pan collar.
Hanging around the collar is a tape-measure embroidered with the phrase “how much does mummy love you...” Mothers say this out of wonder and awe at the amount of love they have to give. But children can hear it differently, and begin to question - “how much exactly does mummy love me? what are the limits to this love?” and test the boundaries.
Dressmaking has been part of my family’s story. My great-grandmother was a professional dressmaker. She died before I was born but I heard many stories and evocative descriptions of what she used to make, her abilities and talent. My grandmother never formally taught me to sew or knit, but she would cast an inspecting eye over my work, raise an eyebrow and describe the type of finish that I should aspire to. She gave me all her old sewing materials, half-finished embroidery pieces, and for years I used her 1940‘s Singer sewing machine. She died a few years ago but I still have her voice in my head as I work, especially when paying meticulous attention to detail, mindful that I have these women’s standards to live up to.
This kittel explores the mother as dressmaker. In clothing her children she is providing not just physical protection, but the garment becomes a manifestation of her nurturing and care. Even when she is absent.
In the Tanach, Hannah says goodbye to Shmuel and leaves him at the Mishkan with an ‘ephod’ a white linen garment. According to the midrash this garment grew as the boy grew older, keeping him constantly connected to the mother who prayed so desperately for a child. Rivka dresses her favourite son Ya’acov to prepare him to take the first-born blessing, an act that results in his leaving, and her never seeing him again. And when Adam and Chava leave Gan Eden, God, acting as a mother, clothes them to face the world, protecting them from the elements.
I was reminded of these stories at a recent exhibition ‘Threads of Feeling,’: The London Foundling Hospital’s Textile Tokens 1740-1770. When mothers left babies at London’s Foundling Hospital in the mid-eighteenth century the Hospital often retained a small token as a means of identification, usually a piece of fabric taken from the mother’s clothing. Each scrap of material reflects the life and of a single child and their bond to its absent mother. Some of these textile pieces have been fashioned into rosettes, or babies’ clothing, others are ribbons, some embroidered with names and tokens of love and wishes for a good life.
In every culture mothers, and grandmothers, express their basic wish for their precious child’s life to be protected by using amulets, often attached to the child’s clothing or bedding. My great-grandmother would sew a red ribbon into clothing to keep away the evil eye. When my daughters were born, my grandmother gave me a long piece of ribbon so that I could do the same.
This kittel has embroidered in red the outline of a child’s dress pattern. Showing how the mother’s garment can be transformed into the child’s. This merging of the mother into the child also is shown by the soft styling of the child-like peter-pan collar.
Hanging around the collar is a tape-measure embroidered with the phrase “how much does mummy love you...” Mothers say this out of wonder and awe at the amount of love they have to give. But children can hear it differently, and begin to question - “how much exactly does mummy love me? what are the limits to this love?” and test the boundaries.
Dressmaking has been part of my family’s story. My great-grandmother was a professional dressmaker. She died before I was born but I heard many stories and evocative descriptions of what she used to make, her abilities and talent. My grandmother never formally taught me to sew or knit, but she would cast an inspecting eye over my work, raise an eyebrow and describe the type of finish that I should aspire to. She gave me all her old sewing materials, half-finished embroidery pieces, and for years I used her 1940‘s Singer sewing machine. She died a few years ago but I still have her voice in my head as I work, especially when paying meticulous attention to detail, mindful that I have these women’s standards to live up to.
