Palestinian textile artist Sabri embroiders his DNA

Based in New York, Sabri inherited Tatreez from other Palestinians living in the city. By keeping the tradition alive, in these threads, home becomes fabric, wrinkled, layered, and even wearable. For Sabri, making art is meditative – trance-like. There are generations in this medium. The needle rises, falls. One stitch at a time, closing the gap between oceans, heritage, and family. Sabri repeats the pushing and pulling motion his ancestors began thousands of years ago, in another country.

Who is Sabri, and what is your craft?

A dad, a committed partner, an artist, a Palestinian begrudgingly American. I’m a painter and textile artist with a focus on embroidery.

Tatreez is typically a craft done by women and passed down in the family. What made you start, and did someone teach you?

Wanting to connect with my Palestinian roots and being an artist, Tatreez was the thing that spoke to me most. I became a dad at the end of 2019, and the pandemic hit shortly after, creating a real awareness when it came to my time and space. I wanted to be sure I could work on my practice even if I couldn’t make it to a studio to paint. Bringing oil paints home with a baby didn’t make too much sense. The thread and needle seemed clean and relatively safe, and an interesting way to communicate my thoughts, so I taught myself how to embroider using backstitch and other common stitch methods with a starter kit I bought off the internet. Understanding the tradition of Tatreez, I was too intimidated to ever do it myself. As a Palestinian in diaspora, I hold Palestinian tradition on a pedestal, and it just never felt right picking up the craft without some kind of invitation. A couple of years into my practice, I was picking up work assisting a few artists around the city, and one of them ended up being a Palestinian American Tatreez artist looking to hire assistants for an upcoming show. I was able to learn the craft and sit with these large pieces that had also been in the hands of Palestinian women living in the occupied West Bank. Embroidery and especially Tatreez is an art that carries a lot of its maker’s DNA and process in its fibers, so I immediately felt a connection, and I’m really grateful to have been able to learn in that way.

I’ve also noticed that your paintings have subjects with striking features. Is this inspired by anything in particular?

I usually alternate between stretches of focus between my embroidery work and my painting. The days I paint, I feel like a boxer stepping into a ring. I’m nervous — I put on my painting pants and my painting apron and my painting shoes, and I make sure all my brushes are prepped and I sweep the studio floor and take out the trash and everything else short of just walking out of the studio. Eventually, I start painting, and it just feels like sparring — using my paint against the canvas until something works out. It isn’t violent. We both (the canvas and I) want the best for each other, but just don’t know how to communicate it. I take most of the blame. I’ll continue to paint over the canvas until there is something I recognise and is worth saving. As for what that is, it’s usually something that makes me feel safe. I hope my work gives the viewer some sense of familiarity and lets them know they aren’t alone because, yeah, it’s sad a lot, but there is a lot of love to be shared.

I’m fascinated by slow processes of art. I think Tatreez falls into that category because of the concentration and patience it requires and the perfection it demands. Does this reflect in your everyday life? Does it help you slow down?

I’m sensitive, and I’m easily overwhelmed, and living in New York doesn’t relieve any of that. But I feel lucky I have this practice. I’m able to lean into the structure and “slowness” of it as a way to regulate and not allow myself to get carried away while in the act. I’ve said this a lot, but I have a lot of guilt surrounding my art practice and how fortunate I feel to be surrounded by people who help protect and nourish it. I’m very lucky to get to do this, given the conditions in which so many are expected to live. Working on Tatreez is the only time I don’t question my art. Tatreez is so big to me, and I’m so humbled by its history and tradition, the more I learn and the more I do — it makes me feel small, and it is a reminder to me that our short time here isn’t forever. That slowness is very calming to me. I’m very honored to be able to have something like that be a part of my life.

I know Palestine influences your work, but how does NYC play into your practice?

Just as Palestine does, New York helps shape my philosophy on life, and without that, my art practice wouldn’t mean anything. It’s one of the last places I believe can really spark change. There is love and camaraderie amongst the people who truly call New York their home. I care so much about this place — it’s given me a place to grow, to fall in love, to build a family, and to speak my truth with no fear. It’s given me the space to be myself. All the noise aside, it’s a place of real community. You have to engage whether you like it or not. I’m forever indebted to it.

Any advice for budding artists?

I mean this in the most anti-capitalistic way — it needs to be all about the work. The practice should be here to serve you and no one else. Hopefully, if you’re doing it for the right reasons and by staying true, it’ll help you make sense of what it means to be here because it can all be pretty hard, and at some point, you just realise nothing stays except for the love you leave.