Apparently I Have Beige Flags. Mine Have Bobbins.

The Slightly Unstitched Life of a Textile Artist

I've recently discovered another American expression that has apparently been doing the rounds on social media without anyone bothering to explain it to me.

Beige flags.

Now, I know about red flags. They're warnings that something isn't quite right. Green flags are good signs. But beige?

What on earth is a beige flag?

Apparently, it's a slightly peculiar habit that someone has. Nothing alarming, nothing particularly wonderful, just something that makes other people look at you and think, Well, that's a bit odd.

Naturally, I started wondering whether I have any.

It didn't take long.

I talk to my sewing machines.

Not just the occasional muttered word when something goes wrong. Oh no. We have full conversations.

And I should point out that these are not one-sided conversations because I'm lonely. I have perfectly nice people to talk to. I simply feel that the machines should be included in the general running of the studio.

After all, they're here all day.

Let's Discuss Your Behaviour

When a thread breaks, I don't immediately reach for the instruction manual.

I ask the machine why it did it.

“Why have you done that?”

It's a perfectly reasonable question. Everything was going beautifully, the stitching was looking lovely, and then, without warning, it decided to snap a thread.

I would like an explanation.

None has ever been forthcoming.

Then there's the bobbin.

Why is it that a bobbin never runs out at a convenient moment? It waits until I'm halfway through something complicated, usually when I've just settled down with a cup of tea or become particularly pleased with how the stitching is progressing.

“Oh, NOW you've run out, have you?”

I know perfectly well that I wound the bobbin myself. I know it's my responsibility to check how much thread is left.

But that is beside the point.

The machine could have mentioned it earlier.

The Mystery of the Missing Everything

I also talk to things that have gone missing.

Not the machines. The actual missing objects.

If I can't find my scissors, I'll stand there and ask:

“Where are you?”

As though the scissors are going to call back from underneath a pile of fabric.

“Over here! Under the blue cotton!”

It might be a particular sewing foot, a bobbin case or something I was holding approximately thirty seconds earlier.

“Come on, where have you gone?”

I ask quite seriously.

Sometimes I find the missing object exactly where I left it.

Sometimes it's under a piece of fabric.

And sometimes it's in my hand.

I prefer not to dwell on those occasions.

The truly ridiculous thing is that I keep asking, despite the fact that not one pair of scissors has ever answered me.

Who Gave You Permission?

But my absolute favourite conversation happens when a machine does something entirely unexpected.

Perhaps it suddenly makes a peculiar noise, stitches somewhere I wasn't expecting or decides to behave in a way that certainly wasn't part of my plan.

I look at it and say:

“Who told you that you could do THAT?”

As though the machine has been taking instructions from somebody else behind my back.

I genuinely want to know.

Who authorised this behaviour?

Was there a meeting I wasn't invited to?

Has somebody changed the rules?

The machine, naturally, maintains a dignified silence.

I'm Not Always Complaining

Before you start feeling sorry for my poor sewing machines, I should explain that I am also extremely generous with praise.

When a design stitches out beautifully, I tell the machine.

“Well done!”

“That's brilliant!”

And I mean it.

There are times when I sit watching the embroidery machine working away, utterly fascinated by what it can do. Even after years of machine embroidery, I still find it extraordinary that a design I've created can turn into something so beautiful in thread.

So, of course, I congratulate it.

It has worked hard.

It deserves recognition.

Admittedly, five minutes later I might be demanding to know why it's broken another thread, but that's life in a working studio.

I like to think we have a healthy professional relationship.

Is This Really a Beige Flag?

Apparently, talking to inanimate objects is exactly the sort of harmless oddity that might qualify as a beige flag.

But I'm beginning to wonder how many other people do the same thing.

Do gardeners encourage their plants?

Do bakers congratulate their ovens when a cake turns out beautifully?

Do drivers tell their cars they've done a good job after a particularly long journey?

And surely I'm not the only person who has asked a printer why it has suddenly decided it doesn't want to print.

Actually, printers are a completely different matter.

I don't think I could publish what I sometimes say to mine.

Perhaps talking to machines isn't particularly strange at all. Perhaps it's simply what happens when you spend a great deal of time working with equipment that has a remarkable ability to behave perfectly one minute and develop a personality the next.

And let's face it, a sewing machine can be every bit as temperamental as a human being.

The difference is that you can't send it home early for being difficult.

A Final Thought

I've decided I'm quite happy to have beige flags.

At least mine are productive, most of the time.

My sewing machines and I have been through a great deal together. We've made beautiful things, had disagreements, experienced unexpected disasters and celebrated some wonderful results.

I praise them when they're good, question them when they're naughty and occasionally ask my missing scissors where they've gone.

Some people talk to their plants. Some talk to their pets.

I talk to my sewing machines.

The difference is that my dogs occasionally listen.

Now, over to you.

Do you talk to your sewing machine, car, computer or kitchen appliances? And more importantly, do you expect them to answer?

I'd love to hear about your beige flags. I have a feeling I'm not nearly as peculiar as I might appear.

Until next time, happy stitching — and don't forget to tell your machine when it's done a good job!

Anita
Eau Brink Studio — Where fabric becomes art.