November 1, 2001
I walk the seven or so blocks to drop G.’s little blue quilted jacket off that she had left behind at the weekend. She is being charmingly naughty, an act which makes me realize I would be a lousy mother. I just want to laugh. Her grandmother from Kentucky has sent her a baby lion costume for Halloween, one that she has lovingly sewn. It has three constituent parts: a zip up body suit, a cap with ears and a cape/mane made with many shades of thick wool. The suit has a stuffed tail with a tuft matching the mane. Sewing is so rife with love. Coincidentally D. and I had discussed maternal love and sewing over the weekend. Her mother had lovingly recreated Burda patterns while her daughter impatiently fidgeted through fittings. My own mother could never quite submit to the discipline of patterns but she sewed and adjusted items for me with endless patience and few questions. I think the punk aesthetic left her somewhat confused, nevertheless she attempted to follow my directions and several outfits emerged as envied concoctions of that era’s slipshod brilliance: the tartan beaver-grazing mini skirt, shortened from something that must once have belonged to a diligent office goer and retrieved from a Mansion House thrift sale; an old shirt of hers that she had sewn in her youth which we converted from an interesting blouse to a colorful straight jacket; and endless projects involving string vests (string vests may be an Irish/British Isles only phenomenon) and gold lamé. I only know one contemporary who has this ability to throw bits of fabric together into wearable items. The last time I visited her home she was running up an evening dress for the millennium. She was pinning her svelte-self into it in front of a full length mirror while juggling two children under the age of three. Merely witnessing this energy, which was unfolding inside her huge Georgian house in Dublin, made me wilt and flee. Knitting is different from sewing. It accommodates more anarchy if you can give up the notion of following a pattern. Utilizing very fundamental technique you can actually create yourself a quite wearable item if you have even a modicum of tenacity. Why do I find myself thinking of these Victorian and traditionally female pastimes? Something in me, perhaps induced by sojourning out of the city on a regular basis, craves to be more self-sufficient. I have always found these activities deeply rewarding: baking, pickling, knitting. Can gardening be far behind? I even gave myself a hair cut and dye job this week. That’s several less hours performing tasks that are dull but not remedial in order to earn money. My exterior may start to look more peculiar but my interior will be less so. At least this is the hope.
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I walk the seven or so blocks to drop G.’s little blue quilted jacket off that she had left behind at the weekend. She is being charmingly naughty, an act which makes me realize I would be a lousy mother. I just want to laugh. Her grandmother from Kentucky has sent her a baby lion costume for Halloween, one that she has lovingly sewn. It has three constituent parts: a zip up body suit, a cap with ears and a cape/mane made with many shades of thick wool. The suit has a stuffed tail with a tuft matching the mane. Sewing is so rife with love. Coincidentally D. and I had discussed maternal love and sewing over the weekend. Her mother had lovingly recreated Burda patterns while her daughter impatiently fidgeted through fittings. My own mother could never quite submit to the discipline of patterns but she sewed and adjusted items for me with endless patience and few questions. I think the punk aesthetic left her somewhat confused, nevertheless she attempted to follow my directions and several outfits emerged as envied concoctions of that era’s slipshod brilliance: the tartan beaver-grazing mini skirt, shortened from something that must once have belonged to a diligent office goer and retrieved from a Mansion House thrift sale; an old shirt of hers that she had sewn in her youth which we converted from an interesting blouse to a colorful straight jacket; and endless projects involving string vests (string vests may be an Irish/British Isles only phenomenon) and gold lamé. I only know one contemporary who has this ability to throw bits of fabric together into wearable items. The last time I visited her home she was running up an evening dress for the millennium. She was pinning her svelte-self into it in front of a full length mirror while juggling two children under the age of three. Merely witnessing this energy, which was unfolding inside her huge Georgian house in Dublin, made me wilt and flee. Knitting is different from sewing. It accommodates more anarchy if you can give up the notion of following a pattern. Utilizing very fundamental technique you can actually create yourself a quite wearable item if you have even a modicum of tenacity. Why do I find myself thinking of these Victorian and traditionally female pastimes? Something in me, perhaps induced by sojourning out of the city on a regular basis, craves to be more self-sufficient. I have always found these activities deeply rewarding: baking, pickling, knitting. Can gardening be far behind? I even gave myself a hair cut and dye job this week. That’s several less hours performing tasks that are dull but not remedial in order to earn money. My exterior may start to look more peculiar but my interior will be less so. At least this is the hope.
- rachael 11-02-2001 3:45 am