Ode to Chris Enthoven | If it's up to you, we will conquer the world

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You are not in a studio, but sitting in small armchair opposite us embroidering. For my sister and me, you are the favorite aunt. We can say anything to you. You don't think anything is crazy. If it is up to you, we are going to conquer the world.

While you, glasses on, cigarette always nearby, are embroidering with concentration, we pour out our hearts to you. We find it perfectly normal that you are always working. We don't know any better. You yourself don't call it embroidery, but “picking. The name of the tiny stitches used to embroider scenes from the Bible, after first sketching them in pencil, is petit point. If you google that name now you come across handkerchiefs with roses, or embroidered handbags. Such ladylike things are a far cry from what you were into as a needlepoint artist. You show us how you distinguish between serious works of art, the Biblical scenes destined for museums and exhibits in galleries, and practice patches with flowers in different kinds of embroidery stitches that help you relax.  

As a child, you grow up in a distinguished building on the Weteringschans. In a loving, well-to-do family with your younger brother - our father - and sister. Your father was a judge in Amsterdam. He was known for his exceptional kindness, we were always told. For his daughter, he has a neat and secure existence in mind. First study English, then get married and have children. You think both are a bad idea. You did start that study, but the combination of getting married and having children, no. A husband is not for you: “I always fell in love with someone else as soon as I got engaged,” you explained to us several times. “I did want a child, but on my own. That seemed like a much better idea.  I had discussions with your grandmother about that.” In the end, you spared the family that “shame” and did not have children. For us, you could always be there because of that. 

When you were young, you had a great desire to go to art school. At that time, 1920s, for a woman a difficult dream to achieve. Your father disapproved. You were allowed to study English. But he dies in 1928 when you are twenty. Immediately you rigorously change course. You talk to our grandmother. Fortunately she understands you and encourages you to enter the Rijksacademie van Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. As a girl, she herself wanted to study medicine, which was not done in her circles in the 19th century, so she is the last person who wants to prohibit her daughter from using her artistic talent.

At 23, you were admitted. As far as we know, you were always taught by male artists. An old, yellowed newspaper clipping shows you surrounded by fellow male students, listening to the words of newly appointed professor Heinrich Campendonk. Lodewijk Schelfhout and Nico Eekman are also mentioned as your teachers.

Initially, you start making oil paintings. The photo in which you are standing next to one of your works in a cloth coat was probably taken at the academy. When exactly that was, we're not sure, but you can't have been much older than about 25. At the academy, you also became friends with Louis Boermeester glazier, painter and draughtsman. You always praised his stained glass works at the annual Christmas dinner at your house where my sister and I helped prepare the turkey. With Louis we talked a lot about art, about the art world and what this or that gallery was doing next. 

Years later, studying English yields another translation of Jacqueline Enthoven's English-language book on embroidery stitches: The Stitch Book for Creative Needlework.

Over time, it turns out you can't stand the composition of oil paints. Probably an allergy. Of necessity you switch to needlework, but it is precisely in this that you develop a completely individual style that arouses the interest of gallery owners. They are never very large works. In warm, earthy colors you continue tirelessly depicting Biblical verses. In addition, for larger canvases you apply a different embroidery technique using only white thread. On most works the number of the Biblical verses is indicated. They should never be framed, only stretched. As children, we can touch them and look at them up close. For St. Nicholas or for our birthdays we sometimes make a special work.

The old bookcase left over from your childhood home is filled with many versions of the Bible and collections of spiritual songs hundreds of years old. You also showed us the works of Gustave Jung and books on astrology. Always willing, if we had questions, to look for information in that sea of knowledge that had gathered in your house. 

Conversations with you were never boring. You had strong opinions about men: “They mainly want to show you off.” And about what art should be. To Albertien, the one who followed in your footsteps as an artist, while tapping your lighter with a filterless cigarette and that heavily fumed voice, you said, “So you dictate the arts.” Albertien must have been about 4 at the time.

You took for granted that we would grow up as women who could manage on their own. Not dependent on any man. You had full confidence in our talents. That it wasn't easy being a woman was a given that you shouldn't let that throw you off. To both of us you are still a great example. How on your own, surrounded by books, you did the work you loved every day and were able to make a living doing it. You didn't let the rules of patriarchy throw you off track. You were and are an example that you wish every young girl had.

It has been said that the Remonstrant background of your mother and the Jewish roots of your father, and our grandfather, explain the biblical fascination expressed in your embroidery. In any case, human suffering and our search for meaning is central to your work.

In addition to an unerring Biblical knowledge, you draw inspiration from the mystical and spiritual. As we grew older, we sometimes talked about that. Frequently you would then end with encouraging and relatable words, “The only thing I know for sure is that things always turn out differently than you think.”

Until old age, you continued to create embroideries. Your work was acquired by the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam. For years you maintained close ties with various galleries where your work was shown and sold. You would occasionally talk about that in passing, how that went and how you had to fight for certain things to get them done.

On our walls hangs your work. It's in folders in our attics. Ready to be shown again to a larger audience on a sunny day.

Wies and Albertien Enthoven