Because chainstitch sits outside most people’s everyday experience, a significant part of Simpson’s work is simply explanation. “People will say, oh, I was thinking about getting embroidery, but I’m going to get chainstitch,” she says, “and I’ll explain that chainstitch is actually just a type of embroidery. It’s the way the stitches look and a method for applying them to fabric.” She’s patient about it. Initial communications often include a few sentences of background — the hand-cranked nature of the machine, what the stitch looks like, or expectations in terms of cost and texture compared to computerized work. The goal is alignment before anything begins. Chainstitch has its own logic, its own strengths and limitations, and she’d rather establish that early than correct a misunderstanding later.
Organization in the studio follows a similar philosophy: set things up so the work can move without interruption. The studio itself is divided into clear zones: pieces waiting to be stitched in one place, consumable supplies in another, tools in their own designated home.
She wasn’t always this way. “I was always the kid with the messy desk at school,” she says. Organization came with adulthood, and then with running a business, and then with something more deliberate — an interest in how the arrangement of objects affects how you feel in a space. “Having a settled mind is a great place to start for organization,” she says. “And having that mindfulness ripple out into your physical space is very helpful.” The studio reflects that. It doesn’t look like a production floor. It looks like a place someone thinks in.
The craft is having a moment, and Simpson is clear-eyed about why. In an era when automated production is the default, chainstitch is the opposite — slow, human, made through direct contact between a person and a machine. “There is such a heritage,” she says. “Over a century of process has gone into developing it as a craft. By choosing to work with chainstitch artists, you’re helping to grow this craft into the future.”
She pushes back on any narrative that frames it as preservation work — keeping something alive that might otherwise disappear. The revival is real, and it’s driven by the same instinct that makes the vintage machines worth seeking out: some things work better when a person’s hands are involved.
From a grandmother’s sewing room to a South Slope studio, Emily Simpson shows how a practice built on patience and precision can find its own kind of momentum. You can learn more about her work at chainsmokenyc.com and follow along on Instagram @chainsmoke.nyc.
