While this phrase is used to encourage prompt attention to one’s work, (thereby saving the nine stitches one would need to mend a small hole if it were allowed to grow through neglect), I am using it here in reference to collections of needlework that span the ages. Last month, I escorted my mom to the Glenbow Museum in downtown Calgary, where we took in three separate textile exhibits.

As a member of the Alberta Quilt Study Society, I received notice of a special behind-the-scenes viewing of a portion of the Glenbow’s quilt collection. With our pre-purchased tickets, we were escorted into the back rooms, past soaring shelves filled with mysterious and assorted objects. I confess the organizational system was not obvious to our untrained eyes; we passed arrays of porcelain figurines, metal light fixtures, wooden school desks, and even an ancient toilet! Eventually we stopped amid shelves fitted with bolts of fabric — actually quilts rolled in protective linen to prevent them from creasing. We then proceeded to a table laid with a stack of heirloom quilts and each was in turn exposed to our view, though not our touch. Designs and sewing skills were oohed and ahed over with respectful “oh my”s thrown in for good measure. The assortment included an exquisite crazy quilt rendered in a variety of jewel-toned velvets and strung with an array of fancy stitch-work. A delicate cigar-ribbon quilt glowed in golden tones; silk advertising ribbons that had bundled cigars were brought home by a hotel tobacco sommelier and arranged into geometric patterns by his wife. In stark contrast, a rather drab quilt hastily rendered by one of the Famous Five, showed that even women engaged in culture changing reform needed to salvage fabric to keep their loved ones warm. After being led back though the maze of wonderment and returned to the lobby, Mom and I took the opportunity to visit two current exhibits at the museum.

The Black Gold Tapestry filled one gallery with long panels of embroidered linen that total 67 metres (two city blocks) in length. Inspired by the Bayeux tapestry, artist Sandra Sawatsky, devoted nine years of daily work to the creation of her tour de force. The panels tell the story of oil, from the lives of the dinosaurs and the subsequent geological formation of petroleum, though 5000 years of human use of its products, to the present-day movement to renewable energy. The artistry and vibrant colours of the handwork was stunning. Mostly, I was flabbergasted by the dedication such a large project required.

Located across the hall, in another gallery, was my favourite exhibit: Eye of the Needle. Although I am not generally a fan of museum displays lacking chronological context, I was excited by the variety of needlework on show. Objects ran the gamut from 17th-century embroidered silk kimonos, through First Nations moose hair tuft-work and porcupine quill work, to historical samplers and garments (including mid-century Western-wear), to modern artwork rendered in silk and other textiles. Although I can appreciate the skill that went into the modern abstract artworks, I preferred the realistic renditions of rabbits and elephants. Particularly impressive were the examples of Violette Kirby’s petit point pictures, which were the size of large postage-stamps and created with more than 5000 stitches. The delicate Scandinavian samplers of Greta Johannesen were also breathtaking.

My inner fashionista, however, went crazy over the display of antique gowns. The moss-green silk taffeta dress from 1910 was a Canadian-made confection adorned with lace, tassels, beads, and embroidery. The 1912 celadon-green silk evening dress really set my heart aflutter, though. I was surprised to discover that this masterpiece of tailoring had been manufactured in Calgary to the design of couturier Paul Poiret of Paris. He was responsible for the new emphasis on a lithe body-form as the feminine ideal, rather than the full-figured corseted mode of past decades, illustrated by the dress previously discussed. To think that this breathtaking gown had walked around Calgary more than a hundred years ago, during a period we normally associate with the deprivations of the pioneer era, was mind-blowing.

The pièce de résistance for me, however, were two gowns of more sombre hue. While their quality was impeccable, it was their provenance that really set them apart. The taller of the two was a luscious royal blue afternoon dress and jacket, the rich colour interrupted by a pale embroidered cuff visible only from the back. The interpretive card announced that it had belonged to Queen Mary, grandmother of our current Queen Elizabeth! Standing beside it was a much shorter and squatter black gown encrusted with lace, beads, and sequins and sporting a giant bustle. It had caught my eye from across the room as being in some way familiar, and it was only the unlikelihood of its appearance in Calgary that prevented me from recognizing it instantly as one of Queen Victoria’s gowns from her later life.

Mom and I were lucky to attend these three textile exhibits. That we found such treasures so close to home was an absolute thrill. Not only did I gain a new appreciation for the range of art created locally, but my view of the past was altered as well; no longer confined to the sepia tones of the matte photos I am usually studying, history became a place of vivid colour and rich textures. If you would like to feast on this visual banquet of fine needlework, in all its forms, the two exhibits run until May 2018.

This article was originally printed in the BERGEN NEWS and is being reprinted with permission.