A light-green parrot sits at rest in a magnolia tree, the bird’s curved, red-orange beak contrasting sharply with its layered feathers. From a distance, the framed image appears to be a painting, but it is in fact hair-fine embroidery. An artwork of hers hangs on my parents’ wall, in Tacoma, Wash. ![]() With each clumsy stitch, I thought of my maternal grandmother, whom I never got a chance to meet. Thread lends itself almost too easily to metaphor. I worked without a pattern, using cheap floss, a needle with a too-small eye and a plastic embroidery hoop to sew geometric designs on a few worn-out T-shirts. ![]() Many years ago, inspired by a book on Korean folk art and craft, I began a crude, autodidactic experiment in stitching.
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