Old Stuff. I Tend to Like it.

I stopped by a shop on Sherbrooke in NDG today called Kavanagh Vintage and man, do they have some cool things. An embroidered teal, touristy-style jacket from Mexico, ca. 1940s, a genuine Tweed gentleman's hat - too small for my noggin, unfortunately - brooches of all variety, and well, just a ton of stuff. I thought this chair below was pretty darn fine - someone not only managed to reuse those belts, but did so in a way that actually looks really, really nice. And like me it's functional, not just looks! Two thumbs up for this chair.

Further below is a bowl of buttons and buttons, particularly displayed in such a way that invites investigation, are right up my alley. Note the pretty gold one just right of center, which came home with me along with a set of very sweet pearly-white ones. A gift from the shopkeeper, no less! I think the gold one might be Bakelite, which is a resin (or plastic, I suppose), but tends to be a bit more valuable than your usual plastic. There exists some fantastic Bakelite jewellery from the '30s, '40s and '50s which goes for big bucks at auction (I know this from my working the auction floor student days in NYC - those Bakelite fans are crazy, too, let me tell you). If I create something fab with my new buttons, I shall let you know forthwith.

I'm a Tart! (But only when it comes to tartan - heh, heh, heh).

I saw this beautiful plaid fabric on sale about a week ago and couldn't stop thinking about it. (Alas, the pattern I thought I'd use with it was not on sale, so it'll have to wait). Still, I am having fun thinking about what I can make from this - it will probably be a skirt, but I'm thinking a jaunty capelet would be kind of cool (think Nanny of Nanny and the Professor, but not prissy - say more vintage Bonnie Cashin with leather trim and toggles). 

There is so much to like about this fabric. Not just the colours, all of which I love - soft mossy green and slate grey squares bordered by a warm chocolate brown, but the good feelings it brings, too. I can't see tartan without thinking of grade school and high school, at which time I pretty much always had a plaid skirt of some sort. Typically in shades of red with green, I'd wear it with woollen tights in the winter, tights which would usually pill, come to think of it. In high school it felt very 'Seventeen magazine'  September back-to-school issue to wear a plaid skirt, good for those days when I wasn't wearing my Lee corduroy overalls. 

My memories of grade school cannot be separated from colour or smell - the colour of my crinkly faux-leather, square-toed ruby red shoes, the diamond pattern in my nylon Tam o' Shanter vest, the one inherited from my cousin; the brown, rust and gold striped body suit with the snaps at the crotch I had to wear on gym days and rubber yellow slicker that fit loose over most everything. The smell of wet woollen mitts drying on the radiator, sometimes with a string and sometimes without, or of the cable-knit scarf still laden with clumps of snow. 

I will wear this tartan with a sweater - grey or brown, green or maybe a nice cream - and my comfy brown boots. I will wear tights that do not sag in the seat. And I'll really like that whatever I make, no one else is going to have the exact same thing, ever.

As it looked, still on the bolt.

Looks a bit too Fred MacMurray meets Julius Caesar.

Way too Rob Roy MacGregor - Mel Gibson with a mullet - all it needs is a sporran. No.

We're getting warmer! I love the way it's off-center (I'm dying to say 'off-kilter!') and the fabric gathers and tumbles down the side. It can't trail on the ground, though, not unless I'm having dinner at Balmoral. 

Cat just plain likes it any old way.

The Stash

A short essay I worked on today.... 

Chocolate brown baby-whale corduroy hosts a flock of chirping canaries, crisp cottons discombobulate with heady mixtures of celery, rose and aqua, while the gentlest yellow beguiles with the palest of blue buds. These are a sampling of the fabrics that make up my ever-burgeoning stash, one which had been growing in direct proportion to my fear of using it. Mad for colour and fashion since I was small, and inspired by four older sisters who let me tag along to the fabric shop, I have oft believed that my passion for textiles was unavoidable, if not genetic. 

My Quebecois grandmother was a seamstress not just for her own family, but for many of her neighbours as well. My mother tells me how how she sat at my grandmother's feet as she sewed, the fabric spread, then cut, on a freshly washed kitchen floor. I have come to appreciate Grandma Kelahear's skills through the white-cornered, mono-chromatic photos that document my family's progress before I joined it. One of the earliest images depicts my grinning, newlywed parents posing at the door of a perfectly polished automobile, she in a pencil-skirted, smartly-tailored going-away suit.  A photo taken the following year shows Mum wrapped in a flared, camelhair maternity coat, trimmed with oversized buttons that I have determined reveal a dynastic flair for the whimsical. Dog-eared snapshots of giggling moppets sporting short bangs and impossibly sweet, billowing party frocks proliferate from the mid-1950s onward.

My penchant for surrounding myself with beautiful fabric began in my twenties, gathered speed in my thirties - a hazard of working mere blocks from the fabled fabric shops of New York City - and settled to a constant craving in my present forties. None of this would be particularly notable were it not for the fact that while I accumulated it, I was too intimidated to use it. My high school home economics class sewing module was decades past and even then, the blouse that resulted could best be described as a nice try. This crippling fear of enacting a fabric cutting faux-pas was aided and abetted by an inherited sewing machine that seemed to resist all my attempts at securing the proper tension. Patiently, doggedly I would review the section of the manual that detailed the process, over and over, pulling the thread down, tugging it up and through the eye of the needle. As for the bobbin case, time and again I pinched latch Q and pushed the bobbin case onto stud R, making sure cutout S pointed upwards. And each and every time the thread clenched in angry fists where straight stitches had been promised, the cock-eyed tension in the air cut only by the pitiable and increasingly unintelligible moaning that seemed to emanate from the deepest recesses of my soul. Away went the machine, only to reappear on my table whenever the memories of my last attempt had sufficiently dimmed.

But last spring, I had my machine tuned, the first step in vanquishing my fear of cutting and sewing. I soon understood that while my machine worked, I still lacked confidence. The antidote? Lessons! Now, I have just completed several smashing cushion covers, and just this summer a woman who passed me on the street complimented me on my ‘60s-inspired halter dress. Without thinking, I swung around and shouted back, “I made 

it!” I like to think my grandmother knows the small girl she hardly knew is now a sewer, I only hope she doesn’t know that she may have created a monster.

Sewing Tired - Avoid It!

I sewed two cushions today and the second one took me twice as long to make as the first. What went wrong?

• I pinned the wrong sides together. Twice.
• I sewed an edge so crooked, it looked like I'd had a very strong gin & tonic beforehand. (Once) I had not had a gin & tonic. Though it sounds nice, come to think...
• I  sewed the wrong edges together. (Once).
• I tried to fix a mistake through some creative rejigerring. The rejigerring did not make the problem go away, it made it worse.
• I trimmed the problem edge, thereby cutting into the fabric. 
• I sewed another seam, burying the pinked slash job deep within. No one need know.
• This made the resulting cushion cover too small.
• This means you can never look at the back side of the cushion!

Still, I've been looking at four cushion fillers still in their package for about two months now. And few weeks ago, I had never made a cushion cover, so I'm happy. Very happy! One more to go, but only once I'm rested.

P.S. I think I just made up the word rejigerring.

Popular Music for EVERYBODY!

I love vintage album covers. Love 'em! This one, called 'Popular Music That Will Live Forever' caught my eye in a bin outside a used bookstore yesterday. In fact I liked it so much I took photos of each and every section on this cover and snorted (not really) again with joy this morning when I looked at the photos again. 

But why, Pam, why do you like it so much? I have been thinking about that, and well, first of all I just love the art. I love the sugary-sweet pastel tones that remind me of the tri-colour tag team of fairy godmothers in Disney's Cinderella. I love the crisp primary colours used in the marching band section! And I also love the swoony moon-tones of the couple dancing vignette - look at the way he's looking at her - as well as the Eiffel Tower scene. Upon further reflection, I also realized I like the optimism of it, the happy lack of irony. Even the title is optimistic. I mean maybe this music will last forever; I didn't check the song list so I can't speculate. That said, everlasting popularity is a tall order. 

Lastly, I like the suggestion that everything you need here in terms of a well-rounded survey of 'good' music is right here under one cover. If you have a cocktail party, a BBQ or even a dinner party, there's sure to be something in this boxed set that will be just right. Need something elevated? Lively? Romantic? Something that hints of exotic shores? Just push the little lever to 33 rpms and drop that needle!

I'm just going to let these images speak for themselves. I will say this, however - I love them all, but the one directly above of the musicians makes me squeal with delight. And that's true, too - I won't cop to making that snorting sound, but when I'm very happy, as I was when I saw this, I kind of let out an "EEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee!" sound.

      A little John Phillips Souza on the Fourth, perhaps?

Or Andre Kostelanetz?

                       

               And it's Cyclophonic!

Readers, I HEAR you!

Photo courtesy of Cookie.

This garden shed in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin was made entirely from yellow popsicle sticks! Nuts!



I HEAR you, and I RAISE you!!!

Since my last post, I have received thousands of emails from readers around the world, many sharing their own stories about the soothing effects of crafty pursuits. Colin from Toronto, Canada writes:

"Dear Pam,


Your post of finding comfort in creativity REALLY resonated with me. I had no idea I was even interested in that kind of shite, until one night my wife left her knitting project on the coffee table. Out of sheer listlessness, I picked it up and added a few rows. (This really surprised me, because I didn't even know I knew how to knit!) Anyway, four days and one albeit itchy rainbow toque later, I was done. The time flew by! Where did it go? I don't know where it went! People at work were trying to reach me and I didn't even hear my phone, which is just how I like it!


All to say, I seriously get where you're coming from."

Gin in Vancouver, British Columbia wrote to tell me that making her own undergarments gives her a real sense of accomplishment:

"With each pair of cotton pants I sew, I see my tailoring technique improve. I experiment with different thicknesses of elastic, too, to see what works best for me. I love knowing my underwear is as unique as I am!"

Cookie in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin sent me photos of her new backyard gardening shed, constructed entirely from popsicle sticks!

"My husband Martin and I put out a call to the entire community to save their popsicle sticks. The grade five class at Eisenhower Elementary School alone contributed 7, 536 sticks! They also sent along a few dozen egg carton trays of radish plants to get our garden started. Now when I'm doing the dishes, I look out and see the shed that the town of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin built, but only we can use! I can't recommend this kind of scheme community project enough!"

Andrea in Montreal, Canada called to tell me she left rice cakes in my kitchen cupboard while I was out!!!

I wish I could share all the unsolicited emails and letters I've received in the last few days, but we all know that's just asinine not possible. Suffice to say I am so grateful to all of you for sharing your stories, not just with me, but with the world! It's people like you that make me seriously contemplate getting up in the morning!

With love,

Pam

A few quiet minutes...

spent doing something creative is for me, really soothing. On a day when I feel scattered or discombobulated, spending a few minutes doing something as simple as contemplating different patterns and colours helps me sit still, at least in my head. On Sunday I pulled out these embroidery frames and a few fat quarters - leftover fabric that measures about 18" by 22" -  I bought last spring. I didn't figure out what print I wanted to go where until yesterday, but just spending a few minutes handling these things felt really good on a day when sadness was kind of hard to shake. I lived in NYC on 9/11 and though I always want to take pains to clarify that I didn't lose anyone, nor was I close with anyone who did, it was a profoundly sad, life-altering experience. It's not something I think of every day, but I didn't expect how much the memories of that day, the subsequent weeks and months and the chain of events it set off would come thundering back. It does make me remember how lucky I am and how much I have, just by the very fact that I'm here. That life is short and I can't assume I have forever to live the life I want to live. (And ya, I forget that too often!) The point is, just some quiet time spent contemplating creating something felt very, very nice.