When the Work Begins to Whisper

I have spent a lot of time stitching this week.

Wimbledon has been playing in the background, the soccer matches have kept me on the edge of my seat, and somewhere between all those hours of hand stitching, I finished my All About Pink textile book. I’m also about halfway through my Japan book, and I’m loving every minute of it.

As I stitched, I found myself thinking about something I hadn’t really noticed until someone asked me a simple question.

“Are you still making quilts?”

Without hesitation, I answered, “Not really.”

The answer surprised me.

For more than forty years, quilting was such a large part of my creative life. Piecing, patchwork, quilting, teaching, designing – those things shaped who I became as a textile artist.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Not suddenly. Quietly.

These days, I find myself reaching for vintage linens instead of yardage. Antique lace instead of borders. Tiny buttons, worn fabrics, little scraps with histories of their own. I spend hours hand stitching, adding layer upon layer, slowly building textile books that feel deeply personal.

And I couldn’t be happier.

I’ve been trying to understand why.

Why books?

Why slow stitching?

Why now?

I don’t think it’s because I’ve stopped loving quilts. Quite the opposite. Everything I learned from quilting still lives in my hands. I still think about balance, colour, value, texture and composition.

Only now, instead of composing with large pieces of fabric, I’m composing with fragments.

Sometimes I think of it as writing music.

A musician chooses one note at a time, listening for what comes next. That’s how these books feel. One scrap beside another. A piece of lace that reminds me of my grandmother. A worn handkerchief. A faded piece of linen collected years ago in France or Australia. Each element has a story before it ever becomes part of mine.

I’m not simply decorating pages.

I’m composing memories.

Perhaps that’s what has changed most.

I also realized something else.

I don’t really want to work large anymore.

For years I made quilts that filled design walls and exhibition spaces. They still live carefully downstairs, waiting patiently. They’re part of my journey, and I treasure them. When we have careers, deadlines, classes to teach, quilts to enter, techniques to master, we’re often making work that belongs to a particular stage of life. Now, I am making work that belongs entirely to me.

But this season of my life feels different.

These smaller pieces ask me to slow down. To notice. To enjoy the quiet rhythm of needle and thread. They fit comfortably in my hands, and somehow they fit comfortably in my life too.

There is something wonderfully intimate about a textile book.

A quilt is usually viewed from a distance.

A book is held.

Someone turns the pages slowly, discovering little details one at a time. The conversation unfolds gently, page after page.

Perhaps that’s what keeps calling me back.

Not because I have something to prove.

Not because I need another project.

Simply because I have another story to tell.

Maybe our creative lives are meant to evolve.

Maybe we’re not meant to keep making the same work forever.

Maybe, if we’re lucky, we eventually find the place where the work feels less like effort and more like coming home.

Right now, surrounded by vintage fabrics, old lace, bits of embroidery, and the quiet rhythm of slow stitching, I think I’ve found my happy place. And it is a lovely place to be.

Thank you for reading. Until I write again, I will enjoy every page of these books. I have a feeling they’re not just books – they’re becoming a record of where I am in my life as an artist. And that’s something rather special.

Ana