Finding the Thread
How intuition, textiles and travel continue to shape my practice
I am a stitch artist working from my home studio in Sydney, Australia, where I create artworks, teach workshops and regularly exhibit my work.
Originally, I worked primarily with paint, introducing small stitched elements into works on paper and canvas to add texture and dimension. Gradually, those stitched embellishments became the medium itself, and stitch evolved into my visual language. Today, I think of my practice as painting with thread rather than a brush.
My process is highly intuitive and rarely begins with a fixed plan or preliminary sketch. Sometimes I start directly with stitch; other times I begin with a loosely painted abstract background on linen or canvas, guided only by a general sense of colour. From there, the work becomes a process of responding.
In the early stages, everything feels quite free. Each stitch informs the next, gradually revealing the direction of the piece. I choose colours, threads, stitches and other textile embellishments instinctively, selecting what feels right in the moment rather than following a predetermined idea. As the work evolves, there comes a point where it begins to feel as though the piece is speaking back, quietly guiding its own development. That is the stage I love most. I become more intentional, considering composition, balance, colour and the relationship between dense and open areas, while still allowing the work to lead.
Stitch offers me a slower, more contemplative way of making. It encourages me to pause, observe and respond, allowing each piece to evolve at its own pace. It has taught me that the richest outcomes often come not from control, but from curiosity.
Much of my inspiration comes from the natural world, not in a literal sense, but through its patterns, shapes and quiet details that often go unnoticed. I'm drawn to the way forms emerge and evolve in nature: the irregularity, the rhythm, the balance between order and spontaneity, and the subtle layering that occurs over time. I also find inspiration in interiors and the places I travel, but everything is filtered through a lens of shape, colour and pattern rather than representation.
My sketchbook travels with me. Rather than recording finished compositions, it becomes a collection of colours, textures, patterns and observations that often find their way into my work months later. It is a place to gather ideas rather than resolve them.
This philosophy resonated even more deeply during a recent family holiday to Peru, where I encountered a culture in which making is inseparable from everyday life. There, textiles are far more than beautiful objects; they are woven into community, identity and tradition.
Outside the main cities, I watched women go about their daily lives wearing practical yet richly decorative clothing; beautifully embroidered skirts, colourful woven shawls and traditional hats as they carried children, tended animals, cooked and worked. I was struck by how practicality and beauty coexisted.
The markets of Arequipa, Cusco, Ollantaytambo and Aguas Calientes became studies in colour, texture and pattern, every stall overflowing with woven blankets, embroidered bags, knitted hats, jumpers and vibrant textiles. Even the landscape itself felt woven. The layered geology of the Sacred Valley, the dramatic ochres and iron reds of Red Valley, and the extraordinary mineral bands of Rainbow Mountain echoed the colours, geometry and rhythm of the textiles surrounding them. I found myself photographing details rather than souvenirs, translating my observations into pages of notes, colour studies and sketches.
Alongside the extraordinary experience of exploring Inca sites high in the Andes, one of the highlights of the journey was visiting the weaving community of Chinchero in Peru's Sacred Valley, where traditional textile practices continue to be preserved and shared across generations.
The women demonstrated the remarkable warp-faced weaving technique, producing textiles with no front or reverse, both sides complete and equally beautiful. We learned how sheep, llama and alpaca wool each serve different purposes, from coarse ropes and sacks to exquisitely soft garments. Before spinning, the fleece is washed using the grated root of the saqta plant before being hand spun on a traditional pushka, or drop spindle. What fascinated me most was watching the women spin while walking, talking, singing and caring for their families. Making wasn't separated from life; it was woven seamlessly into it.
Colour carried meaning too. Natural dyes were created from leaves, flowers, bark, insects and even purple corn. Greens represented nature, blues the sky, reds life itself, yellows fire and purples nobility. Every thread held a tangible connection to the landscape from which it came.
Although I have only recently returned home, I already know that Peru will continue to shape my work in ways I cannot yet fully predict. My intention is not to recreate Peruvian textiles or borrow their motifs, but to carry forward a deeper understanding that textiles can hold memory, culture and connection. Future works will undoubtedly be influenced by the places I visited, the people I met and the traditions I was privileged to witness.
In the end, intuitive stitching is more than a technique; it is a way of paying attention. Each stitch, thread, bead and mark becomes part of a larger story, connecting memory, place and experience. Perhaps that is what I am really searching for each time I begin a new piece, not the finished artwork, but the thread that quietly ties it all together.
All photos provided by Elizabeth Sullivan.
