When I was fourteen years old, I was in the first year of secondary school. We had an art teacher who taught us the traditional curriculum: drawing from nature, creative drawing such as designing advertising and promotional materials, and art history.
She
also added two jewelry-making projects to our lessons. The first was a necklace
made from tiny plastic pearl beads, which did not particularly appeal to me.
The second was a beaded necklace based on a unit of five beads. It strongly
resembled Nubian folk art. I made it as an experiment, and it was
square-shaped, with two rows of elongated beads along each side.
My
mother then suggested that I make a classic necklace that would sit around the
neck, using the same stitch we had learned from our teacher.
So
I created a new design of my own.
My
teacher was fascinated by it. The necklace was red, and she took it from me to
display at the school exhibition held for Mother's Day.
Later,
she told me that my necklace had attracted everyone's attention. One of the
students' mothers liked it so much that she decided to buy it for five Egyptian
pounds—a respectable amount of money at the time.
But
my eyes filled with tears.
It
felt as though I was about to sell one of my children.
Then
I saw the girl holding the necklace close to her heart. There was so much hope
in her eyes. She wanted it so badly because she wanted to make her mother
happy.
I
couldn't sell it.
The
pain of parting with my necklace was simply stronger.
Years
passed, and I completely forgot about making accessories for almost twenty
years.
Then,
suddenly, I returned to it. I don't even remember exactly why.
But
this time, I began creating new designs using that same old stitch I had
learned as a fourteen-year-old girl—the stitch based on five beads.
I
discovered something fascinating: every small change in the arrangement of the
beads, or even a change in their colors, could create an entirely different
design.
And
somehow, my creations began traveling around the world as gifts.
Today,
with all my heart, I hope to sell my artwork for prices that truly satisfy me
and reflect the love and work I put into creating it.
But
something else has changed inside me.
Whenever
I see one of my handmade pieces being worn by a woman or a girl—whether it was
sold or given as a gift—I feel an overwhelming sense of pride.
Even
when I discover that someone who received one of my pieces as a gift has passed
it on to someone else, I feel the same.
I
don't feel the pain of separation anymore.
I
feel proud.
It
reminds me of a feeling I saw in the film The Dressmaker, starring Kate
Winslet. The film made me think about the way a creator can look at something
she has made and feel that it has the power to transform the appearance and
mood of the woman wearing it.
She
looks at the piece, and then at the woman wearing it, with admiration—as if
saying:
“I
made this.”
And
that is exactly how I feel.
The
photograph accompanying this story is very similar to the first necklace I ever
made. The main difference is that, in my original necklace, the two ends were
made with two rows of beads, just as our teacher had taught us.
Everything
that came after that was my own experimentation.
My
own changes.
My
own journey.
And
perhaps, without realizing it at the time, that little red necklace was the
beginning of Mrs. Mango.
