Deirdre Nelson: The Dangers of Sewing and Knitting
Until March 6; Crawford Arts Centre, St Andrews

Knitting will never be cool, however hard its fans try. I spent most of my teens click-clicking away, not caring much for my poor, neglected street-cred. Recently, guerilla knitters have gathered in public places to flaunt their habit shamelessly. Whether they’ll actually manage to haul the craft’s reputation out of the tea-cosy is questionable; how can soft, fluffy knitting compete with the edgy dangers of the latest public plaza craze, free running?

But knitting has its edge, too. In a new exhibition at St Andrews, you’ll see a whole new side to knitting and sewing. Glasgow-based artist Deirdre Nelson has unearthed a wealth of fascinating facts which illustrate the grim history of this most feminine of pursuits.

As if to lure in the unsuspecting visitor, the exhibition is a pristine world of perspex vitrines and matching see-through labels. The delicate white embroidered objects present no threat, from afar. When you get close up, they tell another story.

There are the dangers you can imagine (the inevitable needle left lying on the sofa), and then there are those you can’t possibly guess: asbestos-poisoning, alcohol, prostitution and opium.

“To preserve needles from rust, put a little asbestos powder in the packets”, says an encyclopaedia of needlework from 1910. It goes on to suggest that you should regularly dip your fingers in the stuff. Nelson has taken a modern, white asbestos mask (not the prettiest thing in the world) and embroidered little flowers on it. The object is a poignant memorial to those who inadvertently killed themselves in pursuit of elegant needlework.

Across the room, a single red thread dangles from a bobbin. Threaded along its length are 13 sewing machine needles, each piercing a false fingernail. The label explains that the clothing company, William Baird, recently counted over 500 such injuries in the course of a year. It’s impossible to look at the brightly coloured mobile without wincing.

Nelson carried out much of her research in Shetland, which has a strong tradition of knitting. A 1923 newspaper article tells of a Shetland butcher in London “who sells both steaks and silk costumes. With the same hand, he cleaves a meat bone and delicately builds up shimmering fabrics. When asked how many orders he had on hand he said ‘in meat or jumpers?’”

As with the rest of the show, Nelson translates this juicy bit of archive material into something made out of actual material. A chunky metal butcher’s cleaver is given a fine handle of hand-dyed and knitted silk. The refinement of the blood-red handle contrasts with crudeness of the thick blade, offering comfort and danger, flesh and finery in one equation.

Nelson’s research has revealed a memorable array of facts and stories about women and men who have risked life and limb in their struggle to survive by knitting and sewing. It’s well-chosen material, but her approach to the artworks themselves is formulaic. To illustrate, for example, the old home-workers’ custom of tranquilising babies with opiates, Nelson has printed poppies on a baby’s sleep suit. To show how Shetlanders used to barter tea for wool, she’s knitted some teabags.

The resultant objects are of interest, but rather too literal. Instead of asserting their place in the world, these artworks act more as translation. It is the mirror-image of a traditional museum set-up, where interpretative labels would explain the old-fashioned objects. Here, the objects are created to explain the labels.

The show ends with a sting in its tail, reminding us that knitting needles were briefly banned from international flights after 9/11. Knitters, it appears, are finally mad, bad and dangerous to know.

Catrìona Black, Sunday Herald 30.01.05