​​Table cover by Amy Susanna Staniforth

At first, they stand back.

It’s a kaleidoscope of colours that they can’t fathom – yet. Not until they inch closer, heads bent in anticipation of the detail that slowly comes into focus. Like they can’t believe that the closer you get, the more there is to see.

They stay for a while, eyes wandering across the quilted fabric with an impatience that quickly doubles back; they’re eager to see it all and even more so to see it again.

There isn’t much of a pattern to which direction their gazes begin to move, but they all ​mostly begin at the same spot. The centre. The hexagonal star from which the rest of the quilt ​​radiates​​.​

From there, their eyes spiral outwards. Blocks of colour tumble towards the edge, meticulously hand​ ​​​stitched and perfectly proportioned. It’s a pattern of controlled chaos that captivates its audience into a contemplative stillness.

And then, they step back again.

It’s meditative, almost, to watch them move closer and then further away; to pulse in and out of the quilt’s orbit, drawn in by the gravity of its intricate detail and then pulled back by the need to see it in its entirety.​ ​

A process that I found myself falling into on my first viewing.

The delicate patchwork of silks and satins grew more impressive the more I allowed myself to observe it; what was at first a beautiful array of colour and precision, became a story. An ode to a woman’s dedication and labour, as told through every thread stitched into it.​

Though a member of the colony that I (and so many First Nations peoples) have adverse feeling towards, Amy Susanna Staniforth was also a woman; a mother and an educator who was dedicated to supporting her family and the young minds she was teaching¹.

Table cover c 1860, a textile showcase of ​​Staniforth’s character, is an ode to the efforts of many women existing in that time period.​ ​

I doubt they would have displayed her work with such esteem back then.

I had never put much thought or value into the quilts given to me growing up. They were merely blankets, often with colours I had chosen but otherwise stitched according to the unique preference of its maker: my grandmother.

​​​I’ve grown out of the colours by now, no longer a fan of the childish motifs found throughout the various fabrics used, but I still own them. They sit neatly folded in my linen closet, waiting for a day that’s cold enough to need the extra weight. The extra weight that momentarily brings me into her arms.

If my grandmother’s quilts had been hung up next to Staniforth’s ​Table ​cover​, I wouldn’t expect people to hover quite as long. But maybe they would feel a sliver of the attachment I do; perhaps their admiration would be more emotional than critical.

I wonder if that’s how Staniforth would want her own quilt to be viewed.

This story is part of the 2024 Young Writers Digital Residency.

Mackenzie Lee’s essay To become, to consume, to destroy: Lindy Lee’s Ouroboros appears in Hyphen, Artlink’s Warltati / Summer issue 44:3, 2024. To find out more visit Artlink.