Southwest London is experiencing a balmy afternoon with a deafening sound overhead. My companion, Sebastian, leaps to his feet with glee and runs out into the sunlit courtyard. With one hand covering his eyes, he points the other in the direction of a luxury Pullman train whizzing past us at a high rate of speed, before breaking into a broad grin.
“The first time I visited this workshop, I heard the large wheels and the ground shook!” he exclaims with a trembling voice, and for good reason. A few years ago, Sebastian (not his real name) was confined to his prison cell for 23 and a half hours per day, with meals delivered to his door and no freedom of movement.
Sebastian tells me that Fine Cell Work was a godsend during the early months of the Covid-19 outbreak, as he recalls. “They went above and beyond to place people in employment. We felt that someone was truly looking out for us.
When Lady Anne Tree founded Fine Cell Work (FCW) in 1997, her notion of patronage through embroidery may have appeared to some as quaint or even superficial. What could needlework possibly offer incarcerated individuals in their darkest hours? How could stitching and sewing pave the way for their recovery and rehabilitation upon release?
Over the past quarter-century, this charity has demonstrated the strength of a French knot. Since its first needlework groups were established in HMPs Cookham Wood, Maidstone, and Wandsworth, FCW has taught more than 8,000 prisoners intricate needlework, sending volunteers into 32 prisons across the United Kingdom to help their apprentices lead independent, crime-free lives.
“The first thing I ever created was a turkey Christmas decoration; they’re delightful,” says Sebastian. His interest was immediately piqued when he saw FCW advertised on a poster at the long-term prison to which he had been transferred (one of three institutions Sebastian was assigned to before his release last year).
Other occupations included kitchen work and recycling, neither of which appeared as exciting as threading colorful wool through a thin eye and creating something beautiful.
Sebastian says this while sipping tea at FCW’s London community hub – a safe space beneath railway arches that provide work experience and employment training to formerly incarcerated individuals to get them back to work.
“Everyone believes it will be terrible and terrifying, but in reality, it’s mostly quite dull. Nobody warns you about how monotonous prison will be. Having that kind of structure, something to do with my hands, something to work on, and something to be proud of transformed my life.”
When discussing FCW, the word “pride” frequently comes up. FCW’s executive director, Victoria Gillies, explains the connection between sewing and self-respect as follows: “Essentially, what we’re doing is providing prisoners with a purposeful activity for which they are paid to build their self-respect.”
Gillies mentions “the transformative power of stitch” at one point, a reshaping that can be observed on Sebastian’s face whenever he discusses the sewing he adores.
He says, “I am most proud of the penguins.” Sebastian and his coworkers worked tirelessly for six weeks to complete the 500-piece order, which was commissioned by the UK Antarctic Heritage Trust in 2016 for their remote gift shop at Port Lockroy in Antarctica.
Even though they were difficult to create, nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of accomplishment he experienced once they were complete. “The thought of something you’ve created traversing the globe fills you with such pride,” he says.
The radical initiative of FCW revolves around the symbiosis between what can be imagined and what can be created. It also partially explains the profound effect it can have on a prisoner’s sense of well-being and disposition. Sebastian muses that you can escape into your stitching because it transports you elsewhere. It provides focus, keeps you occupied, and prevents you from dwelling on things.
When Covid-19 struck in 2020, additional prison restrictions exacerbated feelings of disconnection and isolation at a time when scientists and physicians struggled to comprehend the virus’s spread. Prisons required time to adapt to the new global reality.
As a result, prisoners were confined to their cells for a minimum of 23 hours per day without access to the meaningful activities that had previously provided them with so much purpose and hope. It was a terrifying place to be confined, and it was very isolated. After a while, they devised ways to let half a landing out for half an hour, but you still had to maintain a 2-meter distance between one another.”
FCW sent more than 2,000 products to prisons over the course of two weeks before the implementation of the first lockdown. Approximately 800 kits were assembled to allow stitchers to work in their cells. Sebastian had spent five days per week in the prison workshop for the past two years. Friendships were established. Complex products were manufactured.
Since its inception, FCW’s output has ranged from high-profile artistic collaborations with the likes of Cornelia Parker and Ai Weiwei to specialist museum commissions (in 2010, the HMP Wandsworth Quilt was exhibited at a major V&A exhibition), to bespoke ecclesiastical creations, such as St Mary’s Welwyn’s vibrant altar frontal. According to Gillies, these legacy projects are their most valuable pieces because they remind each stitcher that they are a part of something greater.
In addition, there are pillows, tablecloths, and quilts. Lady Anne Tree campaigned and lobbied in the late 1980s for FCW to pay every prisoner a small wage for their work, which can now be accomplished through the charity’s online store.
Currently, 92 percent of stitchers are men, in part because FCW has primarily operated in male prisons. However, the charity intends to address this issue in the future.
Throughout history, embroidery has frequently been dismissed and marginalized as “women’s work.” Sebastian reflects, “I’m not entirely convinced that is accurate.”
“Men have always sewn, beginning with fishermen who sewed their smocks and nets. Occasionally, a prisoner who came to sew in the workshop would engage in some light-hearted ribbing. However, they never lasted long. They quickly realized it was a tremendous amount of work!”
The conversation turns to reintegration as we pass Sebastian’s post-prison workshop, which is brimming with container boxes filled with multicolored threads and zippers. Reintegration is a complex term with a variety of possible outcomes.
“Being here, you need not worry about being an “ex-con”,” he says, gesturing quotation marks, “because everyone is in the same boat.” In groups of approximately five, apprentices continue the work they began in their cells. There is also a craft club and a “making up” service where, for £55, anyone can send in their needlework to be transformed into a cushion.
Since its inception in 2017, FCW’s Open the Gate program has worked with 70 formerly incarcerated individuals, and the recidivism rate among trainees has been just 2%, compared to the national average of 46%. Gillies explains that you can see the transformation in people.
“There is often a sense of defeat upon their release from prison; they are overburdened by life. The benefit of this environment is that they feel safe, which allows them to begin building confidence.”
For individuals like Sebastian, sewing provides a social outlet and a sense of community.
“Stitching can be frustrating at times,” he says. “When you realize you’ve completed an entire needlepoint block in the incorrect color. I stitched a beautiful cross stitch for my mother’s 70th birthday, and she adores it, but there is one spot where the stitches are reversed.
I can always identify it!” However, the errors frequently become a part of the work. They make it unique. Regardless of how intent you are on achieving perfection, perhaps sewing is also about accepting what you cannot control. “Absolutely,” agrees Sebastian. Almost every aspect of existence contains an error.
