Tuesday, October 13, 2009

It's a Kind of Art

I've been sewing like a madwoman the last couple of days.

Everywhere I go I see stitches. I see designs. I walk the streets and windowshop in the windows of boutiques. Daegu is an erstwhile fashion mecca with so many designers you can throw a stone and hit three in the street, especially if the stone bounces. Since my art is coming back slowly but surely I have found myself damn near chained to my sewing machine at all sorts of odd hours.

I went to dinner the other night with a friend and found myself staring the entire time at the stitches on his hoodie. Mentally counting the lines for the zipper extension, comparing, wondering if I was setting my zippers just so. I've spent hours in the local market with ajjumas buying lace trim, accessories for my machine, buttons, leather, buckles, threads, needles, and other odds and ends.

I've filled my place with interfacing.

I've heated my iron and used it on several occasions.

I've attached silk pieces to knits, and knits to knits of a different color. All in search of the perfect addition to my fall wardrobe. And with each piece I make, a dozen others seem to spring up in the wake.


Online I see a blouse with a ribbon tie front. I want it. I start plotting which fabric will be best to make it. I see a halter with a loose front and a zipper side, and I take notes and plot in my head. I see a skirt and wonder if I will ever be in the mood to wear a skirt again, but in the meantime fantasize about the type of fabric that would make a good one. I shop for fabrics, silks, cotton blends, velvet frocked, crushed, and just plain straight. I have printed silks in pink with white polka dots. I want more. I want to drown in a sea of fabric and designs.

For the last two days I've been working on a punk jacket out of a newsprint-type fabric I found several months ago and just now got around to working up. I FEEL it. I feel the energy of that fabric, the print (for some reason) just grabs me, makes me angry, wanton. It feels sexy to finish the seams, to adjust the stitches here and there. Take in a dart to show off my breasts, add buttons for a low-cut finish, line up the hem and not screw it up. All work, all trying, tricky. I set a color, overlay the front facing, inset the back seams, and wonder if I will bias the seams tonight or tomorrow.

The total working time is three hours, the finishing touch a triplet of denim stud closures as the buttons. I leave the sleeve ends unfinished so they can fray out. The jacket wants to be rocked, to be bitchy, to be motherfucking fierce and I have very intention of letting it.
In the last seven days I've made two pullover shirts, one fitted with ribbon trim, a black hoodie, a shirt with raglan sleeves, a purple cross over, a false button red silk blouse, a wine cami, a black collared pull over, a red sweater, a bath robe and finished a very punk chic jacket. It's the art I'm interested in right now, and it feels oh so good.

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