Before the Painting Begins

17 March 2026. Tuesday, cloudy day.

I have this idea of sewing my own canvases. The idea began while I was doing two unrelated things: buying ready-made canvases to paint on, and sewing small crafts for fun. Somewhere between those activities, a new image formed in my mind. Instead of stretching canvas onto wood, what if I cut the fabric into shapes, stitched the edges neatly, added loops for hanging, and prepared the surface with gesso and paint?

It was not the easiest approach.

A wooden frame would have solved many problems. Frames provide structure and support. Fabric alone does not. Without backing, the surface can warp over time. Sewing also requires patience, while painting often invites speed.

Still, sewing felt right.

Thread and fabric carry a different kind of relationship with the hand. Each stitch records time. The edges are drawn slowly, line by line, with thread instead of pencil.

Over the years I learned to work with the material rather than forcing it into perfection. The slight warping of fabric sometimes gives the form a quiet sense of life. The stitches remain visible—small traces of the person who made it.

I am also drawn to shapes beyond the traditional rectangle. Forms that feel closer to memory and imagination.

In a way, sewing the canvas becomes part of the artwork itself.
The surface is not only something to paint on, but something that has already been shaped and touched by hand.

It has been three or four years since my first sewing experiments. There were moments of doubt when I wondered if these handmade canvases could stand confidently as artworks.

Art is a lifelong practice and in that perspective, a few years of experimenting with thread and fabric feels like the beginning of a longer conversation.

And for now, sewing remains the way I want to begin that conversation.