Arty Crafty
Instead of a spare room, I have a sewing room in my house. Instead of a computer room, I have a writing room in my house.
I learned to craft from a next door neighbour that I seriously wanted to move in with. With her I found the companionship of an older woman, the chatting, sitting, laughing, making, sharing and creating I needed to do to thrive.
When I’m not writing, gardening or bird watching, I dabble in making things.
On a trip to Vietnam, I returned with kilos of silk fabrics. I almost cry when I realise I haven’t made anything with them yet. Occasionally, I get the silks and velvets out of their moth proof container. I play make believe, touching them, stripping down to my underwear and wrapping myself up in the material as if it was a sari. Feeling the material next to my skin, I daydream of long after-five gowns fashioned from them. An adult still playing dress ups, I lose track of time in a room swathed with a rainbow of potential.
By accident, I bought 12 yards of powder blue silk; the true kind spun from thousands of silk worm threads. When the lady at the Vietnamese market asked the length I wanted, my answer got lost in translation. Either that, or she fleeced me. I’m not sorry though.
In Australia fabric is sold by metres instead of yards. I could dress three bridesmaids and still have delicious blue material left over. It stays rolled up inside a camphor wood box, waiting to be born into something beautiful, with endless finger pricking, sighs and stitches.
I also have bags of half-finished patchwork quilts, patches and squares that need machining together, or quilting stitches to bind the layers. Maybe I’ll pull them out again after an operation or when recovering from a health scare. Or when I’m old and want to sit in an arm chair and feel fabrics, playing with cotton threads and tiny needles again.
There’s something renewing and reviving about crafting.
My mum wasn’t crafty. Before I was born she was a concert pianist interpreting the works of classical composers. I guess she focussed all her creativity into music, music, and playing more music; having nothing left to offer any other hobby.
Something more than sewing on a loose button frustrated her. The only piece she ever made was a long, colourful knitted Dr Who scarf for my older brother. For a woman who never swore from one year to the next, the knitting process got more expletives than I heard at any other time out of her.
My next door neighbour, Aunty Laurel, was a whiz with any art or craft. From making old tyres into white swan pot plant holders, to expertly decorating wedding cakes as a profession.
Aunty taught me how to hand sew, embroider and make soft paper flowers from nothing more than a couple of Kleenex and a pipe cleaner. When she practised modelling flowers for wedding cakes, I got to eat the hard candy of her first tries.
When my parents bought me a sewing machine for my 9th birthday, Aunty Laurel was the one I ran to tell. Squeezing through a hole in the back fence into her yard, knocking on her door, so over-excited words spewed from my mouth too fast for her to understand.
I quickly learned to run up a book bag, an apron or pillow case on the machine. By the time I was 15, I bought material and would run up a dress to wear to the next party or school disco. It was always some shiny-shiny fabric. I wanted to make the sort of dress I couldn’t afford or ever have bought for me.
It was the 80’s after all. Big hair, massive shoulder pads and OTT taffeta gowns in lurid colours were the thing.
Into satins, I dressed too formally for any occasion. My favourite movie was Pretty in Pink. I took the creative premise I found on screen and flew with it. Puffed sleeves that looked like floatation devices for kids, also frills, flounces, pleats, lace edges and petticoats beneath stand out circular skirts.
I must have looked a horror, like an amateur without the expertise to put fabric together properly. It didn’t matter, because…
I. Felt. Fabulous.
My sewing skills weren’t great, being largely self taught, but I’d find an easy Simplicity Pattern and make it my own. Short and large breasted, I had to alter everything. I changed things and embellished the basics, day dreaming of going into dress designing.
As my end of high school formal loomed, I checked out expensive after-five gowns in department stores, then tried to copy them at home. My mum stepped in and said I could pick the colour, style and pattern, but a professional dressmaker would need to sew my dress properly.
It was after Prince Charles married Diana. The day after that Royal Wedding department store windows dummied up a pattern of the gown. I chose Lady Di’s bridal pattern in turquoise green taffeta, with rich cream lace for the ruffled neckline. I figured I may as well get what I wanted because a professional dressmaker would be paid to sew it for me. Stacks of net petticoats underneath, I did feel like a princess wearing it.
Then again, I sewed my own wedding dress.
Made the veil as well, whipping it up without a clue.
Adapting a pattern before I was engaged, before my boyfriend had considered popping the question was impetuous, but that’s who I was. Lustrous ivory satin, French lace again, pearl beading and silk embroidery. I sewed by hand and machine late into the night. It was fun.
I always knew I would marry, it was just a question of when. Conceited, I never doubted the possibility. Making my own dress seemed like a no-brainer at 21; lucky it still fitted 3 years later.
Eventually, I took professional sewing classes, quilting classes and learned silk ribbon embroidery when pregnant with my children. I made them patchwork quilts and embroidered wool blankets with a hundred dear little grub roses.
I designed crochet rugs, lacy doilies and even knitted scarves. I made endless play clothes for my kids. (I’d wanted to since seeing The Sound of Music for the first time.) I quilted winter jackets, bright fully-lined, padded things that never wore out. I refused to give them away because I want to pass them on to grandchildren I may not ever have.
I designed and machine sewed a rough Christmas quilt to decorate the bare walled house we moved into on December 24th. It’s not quite symmetrical, designed on a whim from scraps I had on hand. It’s shoddy really, sewn too quickly. It has no real value, but I put it up for sentimental reasons again yesterday, December 1st.
Another Christmas I sewed a fabric cubby house with four walls, a roof and a door flap. Appliquéd flowers, grass, and windows were machined onto the thing whenever my toddlers were asleep. My husband had made a large metal frame to put beneath it. I felt tired but supremely happy watching my little ones scamper in and out of it, wrapping paper everywhere next morning.
I made bunnies and teddies and mobiles and later name embroidered book bags for birthday parties, plus so many cushions the house is full of them.
Later, I sewed my daughter stacks of graduation gowns she never asked for.
I put love in the seams of all those things.
I’ve changed a lot since I made my own wedding dress.
I wish I had that same confidence now. Be so self-assured that I can use my creative skills to become a popular writer, a mainstream published writer, a proper writer.
But, aren’t I really publishing on Medium already?
Aren’t I achieving what I aimed for?
The scale is as tiny as a stitch, but I’m still living the dream.
Creatively, I’m doing what I love to do.
I’m making things.
We make art when we craft in a writer’s group, a book club, sewing group, quilting circle or knitting club.
We’re living creatively; we’re living fully.
Words into a post.
Not magnificent, but writing that’s individual.
For me and for fun.
That’s what is so good about arts and hobbies.
We make what we want our way, our own take, our own standards.
We use our senses, fingers and hands, our creative urges, our imaginations and our best selves. We are most alive when we do, whether it’s good or not.
When we craft our soul is nurtured.
Our mind is pampered.
We treat ourselves especially well.
We roll around in momentary joy.
We revel in making stuff.
And that’s all good, isn’t it?
