Weaver, Wearer
In this short story, Anneliek Heuvel explores what happens when a person becomes part of a work of art. Set in a museum exhibition, the story reflects on craftsmanship, performance and the complex relationship between identity and the gaze of others.
Thick black wool draped around me like a cocoon and pooled around my feet. The twenty-kilo dress hung from the headpiece, bearing down on my crown. The wool that framed my face smelled faintly of lanolin. Curly fibres teased at my eyelashes. I stood in the main hall of the museum as part of the latest exhibition opening. My body a host to someone else’s art.
An early visitor, an elderly woman, wandered into the exhibition hall. Lost, I thought. She was dressed in beige linen that draped over her limbs like a loose second skin. She let out a gasp when I moved, raising her hand to her mouth in a gesture that looked almost theatrical. I smiled to reassure her. Hesitantly, she stepped closer.
‘Oh dear, you are real,’ she said.
I nodded, a small movement, restrained by the cut of the dress. I had been told I could speak with visitors, but I found I did not want to.
'Is it comfortable?' she asked.
'Absolutely,' I answered, as much to convince her as myself.
She turned slowly as she admired the craftsmanship, the thick yarn knitted in round patterns, then moved on without saying goodbye. I was left alone to wait. The wool around my head muffled the sound of the world around me.
Thousands of hours of knitting, Lucie had told me proudly during the fitting the week before. Lucie was the artist, the craftswoman, the visionary. The knitting needles had started small for the top of the dress near the head where the stitches were fine, and progressed to knitting needles the size of staircase banisters to knit the thick rope-like yarn at the bottom. She had indicated the thickness by gesturing with the empty space between the curved palms of her hands.
'This is just stunning,' the curator said as she walked in, red heels clicking on the tiled floor, 'it makes me emotional seeing this.' She lifted a hand to her chest and wrapped her other arm tightly around Lucie’s shoulder. I smiled warmly, as if my wearing of the dress was a significant contribution. I wanted to believe that it was.
“While I stood exposed in the hall, a museum employee had paused in the entrance and watched. I had felt intruded on, but said nothing.”
I had taken an immediate liking to Lucie: her long grey hair and the big gap between her teeth when she smiled. Earlier that afternoon Lucie had helped to dress me herself. While I stood exposed in the hall, a museum employee had paused in the entrance and watched. I had felt intruded on, but said nothing. Lucie had been too busy to notice. Besides, for her any admiration of her art was welcome.
The sound of clapping hands rang from the entrance hall. The opening speech by the museum director had ended. A string of visitors holding wine glasses wove into the hall through the double doors. Their muted voices filled the air.
Two women paused in front of me, nudging each other affectionately as their eyes traced my outline. Their seamless clothes looked understated in the sea of flamboyant art admirers. Normally I would’ve felt intimated under the accumulation of eyes resting on me, but I rolled my shoulders back and planted my feet a little wider. I met their gaze. The woman on the left turned to whisper something to the other. I followed the swivel of her neck. I could almost feel her warm breath tickling the other's ear, I imagined she was admitting that she was envious of me. A young boy, who must have been her son, tugged at her sleeve impatiently. A thread came loose at the cuff. I wanted him to tug me out of there. He didn’t look at me at all.
The crowd made it difficult to move freely through the space – Lucie had said I could feel into any movement that the dress awoke in me – so I was resigned to standing still with my back against the wall.
I measured time by visitors. Even dedicated admirers usually don’t examine one piece for more than twenty minutes. I watched the crowd proceed,, a changing tapestry.
An elderly man, wearing small darkly-framed glasses, squinted in utmost concentration at the screen of his iPhone to take a photo. I looked ahead blankly. He peered closely at my face.
'Is it itchy?' he asked.
'Not at all,' I answered, leaving out that this was because I was wearing a layer of my own clothes underneath it.
'And heavy?'
'Yes. Very.' I admitted, stifling a sigh.
'Well, beautiful,' he said, seemingly satisfied. I wasn’t sure if he meant me or the dress. I let myself think he had stayed longer to admire me.
The dress became warmer. Heavier. Fuelled by passing gazes and bodies. I tried lifting the dress slightly, hitching it up from the inside with my hands but it did little to relieve the dull ache. My eyesight blurred. I couldn’t tell if it was the wool fibres which branched into my peripheral vision or a headache from the weight pulling down on the crown of my head.
“I created a pattern of half circles, painting an invisible infinity symbol on the floor. Wool wound around a needle.”
The crowd thinned out. I watched people leave with envy. To entertain myself I made a game of moving across the tiles. I created a pattern of half circles, painting an invisible infinity symbol on the floor. Wool wound around a needle. I paused each time I stood at the centre. The repetitive movement soothed me. On the black and white checkered floor, I felt like the last queen standing on a chess board.
Purposefully I paraded a final circle around the space, the bottom of the dress dragging along the floor. Once the hall was clear I returned to the spot where a fibreglass mannequin would be assembled in my place.
One pull at the central thread undid the knot at my chest. Lucie hurried to my side to lift the dress off of my head. I dove forward, weightless. Lucie let the load of her work fall to the floor, where the wool pooled, leaving an empty space in the centre. She embraced me in a squeeze of gratitude, but the curator was already ushering her towards bouquets of flowers and champagne. She called a thank you over her shoulder.
Rising, I left the dress there. My own shape returned to me.
Anneliek grew up in Indonesia and Australia before returning to the Netherlands. She writes literary fiction in which she explores moments of uncomfortable confrontation, and how personal expression is shaped by environment and relationships. When not writing, she can be found going for long walks in nature.