The Necklace I Couldn’t Sell

  

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.