the cassandra pages

Packing for Painting

For the first time in nearly four years, we're planning to go on a significant trip abroad, and I hope to do quite a lot of sketching. This is going to be a carry-on-luggage-only journey, so whatever I take has to be light and compact, including my bag of art supplies. As of the end of yesterday (which included a quick trip to the art supply store to buy two tubes of watercolor paint), I think I've got it all sorted.

The big decision was to take my larger travel palette rather than the tiny one shown in the top picture. This one holds 24 half-pans of color rather than twelve, has a considerably larger mixing area, and I can also fit several travel brushes into it, but it's still quite compact at about 6 x 4 inches. Today I worked on cleaning it up, refilling the color wells, shifting the arrangement of colors, and substituting a few new ones, mainly Potter's Pink, which I haven't used before, and a pre-mixed well of cool grey. Both of those will function as neutrals, be good mixers with other colors, and save time in the painting process. As usual, I painted a lot of swatches to make sure the pigments chosen are what i really need -- for instance, the greenish-grey swatches at bottom right above are tests for the silvery grey-green of olive leaves...a hint as to where we're going.

I'll be taking a new Stillman&Birn Gamma sketchbook slightly smaller than my usual landscape-format 7" x 10" book. This one is 6" x 8", with a vertical spiral binding, but I will most likely turn the pages and work horizontally. The painting at the top of this post is the first page in the new sketchbook. It seems like the format will be fine, and the paper is what I like best and am used to for both ink drawing and watercolor sketching. Sometimes I also take a watercolor block of high-quality paper but decided to buy one there if needed. I always go with great intentions to draw or paint every day, but when traveling it's not always possible to take the time. We'll see how it goes; I'm going to be as prepared, and as relaxed, about it as possible.

For tools, I've whittled things down to the bare essentials because pens tend to weight quite a bit. I'll be taking a mechanical pencil and an HB Dixon Ticonderoga, two Grumbacher charcoal pencils (hard and medium) and a tiny, light sharpener that works for two sizes (it's actually a makeup pencil sharpener that I got at Sephora.) For pens, I'm packing my Sailor fude-nib pen filled with my favorite Noodler's ink color, "El Lawrence", (thank you, Pohangina Pete), which is an olive green-grey; I have a small bottle of extra ink in the bag. For this I used an empty bottle of eye drops; the screw top is bullet-proof and I've never had trouble with it. I will probably also take a Faber-Castell medium fude-nib marker, a white gel pen, and a water brush. The other brushes in my kit are recent acquisitions that I think will work really well: it's a set of Princeton travel brushes, sizes 10, 8, 6 and 4 of which I will only take the larger sizes, plus a very small brush for details. They're synthetic sable, with handles that double as holders when the point-end is reversed. They'll be fine for this purpose and if they get messed up, it's not a loss of hundreds of dollars as sable brushes would be.

Add to that a small white eraser, some pieces of microfiber dishtowels (Trader Joe's) that are highly absorbent, washable substitutes for paper towels for wiping brushes and regulating the water/pigment load, and a small sea sponge, and the kit is complete. 

All of this will go into the plastic, see-through zip-top bag shown above (this one's from the Container Store; you can find similar bags online), which fits easily into my "personal item" bag rather than the carry-on, so that I can sketch in the airport or during the flight.

I'm excited! And anxious to start using the new set-up.

And the fight for rights continues...

It's a beautiful fall day here, and I went downtown with J., who had a dental appointment. Just as we exited the metro, we encountered this demonstration on St-Catherine Street. It was a counter-protest, in response to today’s anti-LGBTQ2S+ demonstrations by the far-right, taking place all across Canada. Hateful, strident, well-funded and well-organized far-right protests such as this are spreading across the US border and infiltrating Canada, and this makes me extremely sad and upset. So I was glad to be able to cheer the mostly-young people in the counter-protest from the sidewalk.

As the close friend of many people who do not identify as straight, and particularly having followed the journey of the trans son of a longtime friend, I am horrified for anyone whose life is being impacted negatively by the current wave of protest, legislation, and rhetoric ranging from misunderstanding to hatefulness. No one should have to live in this kind of fear, or have their basic human rights denied.

Today is also my 71st birthday, and I can't believe that not only are we still having to protest these issues, but in many cases society and governments are going backwards. Women's rights; LGBTQ2S+ rights; protection from discrimination because of one's race, ethnicity, or religion, or the language one speaks; the right of all people to have healthcare; the right to clean air and water; protection from police brutality and profiling; the freedom to read and teach the literature you want as a university professor...all are endangered, and I could go on and on.

Here in Canada we have been complacent, thinking that we generally have shared values, and that most rights such as these are enshrined and could never be repealed -- but we can't continue to think that way. I grew up with hope for a better world in the 1960s, and I don't want to live my remaining years watching as human rights are eroded rather than expanded, and the climate destroyed. We have to be vigilant, we have to speak out, we have to hold the institutions to which we belong accountable. But perhaps most important, we need to patiently and continually educate people who are afraid of difference that human beings are human beings. It seems to me that this is best done one-on-one or on a small scale, through the stories and examples of real people who we know and love as our children, brothers and sisters, friends and colleagues-- and it can create a lasting change of heart. That process has to happen alongside the legal struggle to gain human rights and equality. We have seen the fruits of this process, for example in society's greater acceptance and equality of gay and lesbian people over the past twenty years, and the rights and dignity that women have painfully won over the past fifty -- but the struggle is not even close to over, people's lives continue to be in danger, many rights have already been taken away, and we can never, ever sit back and think the work is done, even in countries like Canada and provinces such as Quebec.

Learning from John Singer Sargent

I've done very little copying in my art career, but whenever I've taken the time to try, it's been instructive and helpful. Lately I've wanted to make some new progress with watercolor, which for me is the most challenging of all media, and where better to turn than to the great master, John Singer Sargent.

Sargent's watercolors have always been the pinnacle for me. After seeing a big show of his paintings in Brooklyn in 2013, curated jointly by the Boston MFA and the Brooklyn Museum of Art, I became even more impressed by his brilliance, and curious about his technique. Since then I've studied reproductions and, especially, enlarged details, read articles about his methods, and tried out some of his techniques, like the use of wax resists. Until this week, though, ten years later, I'd never actually tried to copy one of his paintings. I learned so much that I will probably do more of it, to try to understand the steps through which he's planning and building the layers of the painting, since this is crucial to good watercolor painting. I'm less concerned about studying his draughtsmanship, which is incredible, or his sense of composition. The biggest question for me is, "how does he get the paint down on the paper with such luminosity and brilliance?"

One answer to that is speed. Observers at the time concurred that Sargent worked amazingly fast, with complete confidence. He was such a master of drawing what he saw, and of the human body in particular, that this aspect of picture-making -- which slows most of us down cosiderably, and often causes us to fuss over details -- was not an obstacle for him in the least. Often, his watercolors include just the merest indication of pencil lines, just enough to place the elements relative to each other. At other times, such as in architectural studies, he drew considerable detail before painting. My guess is that Sargent painted this piece in half an hour or less.

Another answer is the way he used his pigments. He knew exactly which were appropriate for the subjects and type of painting he had chosen, and used the same ones repeatedly. He knew everything about how they'd behave in water and in mixtures with one another. In this way he was able to achieve brilliance, intensity, and luminosity, and to avoid the muddiness that comes from overmixing, or inappropriate choices of pigment to mix or layer. He also often used a quite limited palette, which contributed to being able to work quickly.

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To begin my copy, I drew the figure of the girl lightly and without detail, indicating her clothing and figure, placement of the head and features, and the rough placement of shadows. Then I wet the sheet with a wide brush, leaving the figure intact, and put in one layer of background in very wet yellow ochre, allowing the paint to run, and adding subseqent pigment mixed with a little ultramarine blue -- these were the pigments that Sargent probably used, and I think he painted this entire piece using just those two, plus a little warm brown and/or sienna. (Toward the end I also added a little Pyrrol orange - a modern pigment - in order to get the warm shadows such as appear in the reproduction.) I didn't fuss too much over the background and moved on to the figure as soon as the background was dry enough; the dark shadows beside the skirt were painted later. Sargent has at least three passes in his background; it was hard for me to tell when in the process he painted those except that the earlier layers were pretty dry when he did.

My version: bottom of the skirt - this is probably the best part of my painting!

There are no areas surrounding the figure where the background bleeds a lot, but in some places --like the hair -- the edges are quite soft. Controlling the wetness of the paper and knowing when to add pigment, and how wet to make it, are the great challenges of watercolor. The type of paper also makes a huge difference. I was painting on 140-pound cold-pressed paper; Sargent's piece was on white wove paper, smoother than mine, and slightly larger. In any case, all of my edges ended up being harder than his, and my background lacked the subtle control of his original. I also had some trouble with the drawing of the arm and hands, and adjusted them after taking the first photo at the top of this page; the horizontal arm is still a little too low and slightly too angled, but perfect accuracy was not my goal so I won't be too hard on myself for that! I also softened the facial shadows and lightened the entire face.

My version, with adjusted left arm and softened. lightened face.

While making this copy, it was astonishing to enter Sargent's mind a little bit as I observed his decisions: how to abbreviate the drawing of the clasped hands; which shadows on the blouse should be warm grey, and which cool; how much detail to include in the face; how to show the volume of the skirt, and finally, what finishing touches to add. There is blue gouache (opaque watercolor) on the cap and in a few places on the blouse -- he must have added this because its reflective property is different, because the gouche "sits up" on the paper surface unlike the watercolor which tends to sink in more. I was surprised how much it made the painting come alive when I did the same.

So that was my first foray into copying this master watercolorist -- I'm pleased with what I learned and think it was time well spent. This was an early work of his; time to take a close look at some of his later pieces which are brighter and lighter, and use brilliant color.

 

Summer's End, New Beginnings

We're back in Montreal after two weeks in central New York working on the lake house. It needs a new roof -- this time I went up there with J. to take a look, after we peered into the attic crawlspace and saw some water damage, which we had suspected -- so we arranged for that to happen next month. The main task was to finish sorting many of my parents' collections and other possessions. At the end of last week an antique dealer's crew and truck arrived, and we all packed and carried what had been designated to leave. At the end of that long day, I was proud of myself for not getting emotional; I was exhausted; and, as much as I had liked many of those things, I was stunned to see how good the house looked and felt in a much simpler and less crowded state.

If any of you have done this, for yourselves or for your family or friends, you will probably recognize these feelings. For us, it was the third major move/downsizing in 14 months, and we're certainly not done with the work on that house. But as we sat on the front porch that evening, we had a real sense of accomplishment, both for the sheer physical work we'd done, and because, a year ago, I couldn't imagined being able to handle the emotional demands of the task.

I don't know if it's a curse or a blessing, but I am able to remember a lot of my past in detail. Nearly every object in that house and every inch of space is weighted with specific memories of the people who once handled those things, or moved through those rooms, or used the same objects in different houses that I also remember vividly. Because I loved all of those people, and miss them now that they are gone, and because they were all collectors and storytellers who liked history, as well as being makers who restored or created many of the things in the house, there are a lot of complex layers.

Today is the first anniversary of my father's death. Although I dealt with the clothes and personal items shortly after he died, it took a full year for me to get to the point where I could say, all right, it's time for many of these things carefully collected by my parents, grandparents, great aunt and even great-grandparents to move on to new people who will also appreciate them. It finally feels ok for us to change the house and make it more our own, for the time in which we have it, and to do so without guilt. Part of getting there is the process of mourning and letting go, but I think it's also difficult and complicated to accept, and then acknowledge, the fact that we are now the elders: we have taken our parents' place.

My father had a clear conception of what he wanted the house to be when he designed and built it, with my mother's help. It's a real mid-century aesthetic, but for all these years, I don't think that could really be sensed during the several decades it took to finish the house. Later, there were so many interesting things in the house competing for visual attention that you didn't really see the space itself. When the shelves and surfaces were cleared, and some of the furniture removed, we could suddenly see and appreciate the integrity of what my parents had planned. I wondered if maybe they would have liked it too, in some sort of alternate universe. All in all, I'm grateful for the memories I have, and during these recent days I was glad to be able to talk about all them with my cousin next door, and to friends whose relationship with our family goes back three generations. 

As I wrote last winter, in a long essay that will be published this year along with my series of winter landscape drawings, the land and nature of central New York are also a consolation for me. The fields that had been covered with snow were now filled with towering rows of bright green, tasseled corn, or with freshly mown hay; the skies were't grey but bright blue with lazy summer clouds; deer grazed all over the countryside, along with turkeys and rabbits and other small mammals; hawks swept over the meadows; rising fish made circles on the water and swallows skimmed over the surface chasing insects; and a noisy flock of Canada geese arrived each evening to sleep on the lake, leaving again after the sun had chased away the wispy morning fog. The rhythm of rural life continued, both on the farms, and independently in nature, and there was comfort in that in spite of the changes in the climate.

During the past four weeks, I haven't touched my sketchbook, haven't read or written much at all, and certainly haven't written here - this may be the longest period I've gone without writing on the blog.  Today felt like a time to try to put some of this into words, and I also spent the afternoon doing an oil pastel of Chenango County hills -- the first work in color that has come out of this time.

I'd rather not see this moment as an ending, because so much of what has been remains inside of me. Let's call it a continuation that's also morphing into something new.

A Report on my Summer Sewing Binge - Part 2

   

In this post, I'll talk about the costs of the sewing projects, my satisfaction with the results and a critique of their shortcomings, and what I hope to sew in the future.

Economics

So, at the end of my current sewing spree, I ended up with six new garments -- three tops, one jumpsuit, one pair of pants, and one dress -- and one previously purchased and now altered top.

The total fabric cost was $130.98 (US$). I also spent $31.69 for the patterns used in these projects. I plan to re-use all of those, plus there are 15 patterns in the Japanese sewing book that I haven’t used at all yet. I spent about $20.00 on sewing notions: thread, buttons, fusible interfacing, and a roll of pattern-tracing paper. So the grand total for the sewing project expenses was $182.67.

If bought in stores, similar garments in equivalent fabrics (pure linen or linen-blends) might cost $65 for each of the tops, $150 for the jumpsuit, $50-100 for the pants, and $180 or more for the dress. That total comes to somewhere around $575 - $625, which I never would have spent. 

The orange linen top that I altered (below left) originally cost $49.90 and was unwearable; now it fits properly and I'll wear it a lot.

From the time I was young, sewing my own clothes was the difference between having new, unique, and more plentiful clothes, and making do with older things and buying a few new ones from time to time. This summer, prior to deciding to sew, I considered buying a linen dress ($70 online) and a pair of light-colored linen slacks from Uniqlo ($45) in addition to the skirt and top I ordered from Grae Cove ($54.90  + 49.90). That would have been a total of $219.00 for four pieces, and that would have been it. In the end I spent $182.67 on the sewing projects and 104.80 on the two pieces I ordered, so my total expenditure for eight garments, rather than four, was $287.47.

Quality and Satisfaction

For those of us who like to knit and sew, the time we spend isn't really a factor in the economic equation, because we enjoy doing it and presumably have enough skill or determination to figure we're learning more in the process, that we have the skill and/or patience to persevere until we have a decent result, and therefore our time won't be wasted. Even so, in recent years many former sewers have complained that it isn't worth it to sew for yourself anymore because fabric has gotten so expensive. I beg to disagree. You do have to spend some time online researching fabric sources if you don't live near good stores, but beautiful fabric is available and if you look, you can find it at a good price. For US sewers, sites like FabricDepot are quite an amazing resource. High-end designer fabrics can be found at places like Mood Fabrics, and I've found and purchased many unusual fabrics, including Indian and Asian textiles, from sellers on Etsy.

   

 

I'm happy with the garments I made. The purple linen dress is totally unique, feels great to wear, and not only did I learn a lot making it, it's inspiring me to learn more about Japanese design. I've been living in the white linen-cotton pants (above) - a nice, lighter change from my usual jeans. The tops have all been in regular rotation, and they've held up well when I washed them. The crinkly linen-rayon white top (below) needs a good ironing after washing, so i don't think I will take it when I travel, but the white-and-blue tie-die print will be coming along with me for sure, as will the red floral rayon top (both shown at the top of this post) which can be dressy or casual.

 

Fitting pants is always tricky. If I make another Zadie jumpsuit, which I hope to do, I will probably alter the leg width and crotch seam slightly to decrease the rise and slim the legs a bit -- but wearing the jumpsuit is so totally comfortable as it is -- it feels like pajamas. I also forgot that I am longwaisted when I cut the jumpsuit bodice, and made a note to myself on the pattern to add an inch of length next time around. For the linen pants, I already altered the rise and crotch seam after basting the seams, and would do it even a little more in another iteration; I would also use wider elastic for the back waist and secure it with more rows of horizontal stitching. Using stay tape on the pocket openings made a big difference; I didn't do this on the jumpsuit and don't like how much the pockets gape open. But none of these criticisms of the fit or sewing techniques will keep me from wearing or enjoying the garments.

Future Plans

The gaps in my wardrobe were much bigger for summer clothes than winter ones. However, I'm already thinking ahead. I have a large piece of lightweight grey-striped linen that will become a long blouse, from a pattern in the Japanese sewing book. I also have a great rayon viscose print that will become a dress, but in a simple pattern to show off the print.

If I make another jumpsuit, it will be with sleeves and in a somewhat heavier fabric for colder weather. The most exciting prospect is a vintage Issey Miyake pattern I found on Etsy. I used to own a related pattern of his for a dress, but never made it. This one contains a jacket, shirt, and skirt -- and I like these separates better. I can't wait to make that skirt (see the schematic below), perhaps in a woven Japanese ikat if I can find something suitable, or a lightweight wool.

What About You?

Obviously, I've been sewing a long time. If you haven't, what you see here probably feels daunting, but I want to encourage you. A lot of us learned to sew and did a few projects, only to give up because the fit was wrong, or we lacked the experience to create garments that didn't look handmade (in a embarrassing way!) What I want to say is that you don't have to tackle a complicated project off the bat -- and you shouldn't. But ANYONE can make a simple linen or cotton top, dress, or skirt. If you want to try, my suggestion is to take a course at a local sewing store or community center, or even online, OR find a friend who's willing to help you get started, or re-started. Ask advice on good patterns to begin with, and start with a traditional, purchased paper pattern in an envelope from a company like McCall's, Butterick, Simplicity, or Very Easy Vogue -- they will contain clear instructions, you won't have to add seam allowances or trace anything, and the pattern instructions will help you learn. if you're using a local chain store like JoAnn's or Fabricville, ask for help at the cutting counter to make sure your pattern and fabric are a good match. Buy fabric you really like, but don't begin with something super-expensive, and don't start out with stretchy knits or flimsy or slippery fabrics, no matter how alluring they look in the store. You want dimensionally-stable cloth that isn't going to stretch or slip as you cut it and sew it; learn and hone your skills on that before you move on to more challenging fabrics. Also, ironing is a very important part of sewing, so make sure you have a good iron with adjustable heat settings and steam, and a sturdy ironing board.

I'm a great believer in the satisfaction that comes from making and doing things yourself, and find this an antidote to so much of what feels wrong about our disposable, ever-faster, highly commercial, media-driven culture. It's a great feeling to create something from scratch that is uniquely yours, to use it and enjoy it, and to learn from the project so that you are inspired for the next one. The biggest key to success is to start simply, and find some helpful friends or resource people who can advise you about your choices and your process when you're having difficulties. Nobody is born knowing how to do these things! Just as in cooking, we all have to learn, we all get better at it gradually, and there is always something cool and exciting to aspire to in the future.

 

A Report on my Summer Sewing Binge - Part 1

I've always kept my threads and sewing tools in a tackle box. Don't laugh -- there are precious things in it. For instance, in the top drawer you can see my great-grandmother's silver thimble, and a sealskin thimble brought to me by my niece from Sitka, Alaska, where she did a writer's residency. In the lower drawer are several spools of silk thread that were my mother-in-law's, and a package of hand-sewing needles bought in Mexico City. If I look closely, I think I also see a bell that was on our first cat's collar.

The sewing I've been doing this summer started as an experiment. As in my food choices, I've wanted to become more conscious of where our clothing comes from, who our dollars support or hurt, its environmental impact, and how the industry operates. I am neither a purist nor a crusader: I've bought plenty of clothes at Zara, H&M, Gap, Old Navy, and many other clothing companies that use offshore manufacturing. But like my friend K., who writes the blog Passage des Perles, I do shop at thrift stores, and am becoming more and more unwilling to support the fast-fashion industry, distressed by its reduced fabric quality and construction, and underwhelmed by the styles as well as their positioning to a much younger consumer. I also didn't want to spend $200-$300 on just one or two items at local boutiques run by Quebec designers. For that amount of money, I wondered what I could actually make myself, and whether or not I'd be happy with the result. I've enjoyed sewing clothes my entire life, but haven't done much in the past ten or fifteen years ago, partly because of the decline of local fabric stores selling high-quality fabrics for apparel. (Montreal still has several quilting, upholstery, and costume-fabric stores.) What I've learned over the past month of research and sewing has been enlightening, so I wanted to share it. I'll divide the following list into two parts, spread over two blog posts, and try to make it interesting for the non-sewers as well.

1. Motivation
2. Inspiration
3. Planning
4. Acquiring patterns and materials
5. Construction
6. Economics - total cost, and comparison to ready-made
7. Quality
8. Satisfaction
9. Future Plans

OK! Let's get started!

Motivation

When we moved to this apartment a year ago, I got rid of everything in my closet that I wasn't wearing regularly. If the items were still in good shape, I donated them to local thrift shops,  and the rest I recycled or threw out, except for a few beautiful handknit sweaters that I gave to friends. I had been holding onto garments that were twenty and thirty years old, so this was a real purge, long overdue. The biggest hole it created was for summer clothes: when spring came this year, I realized I didn't have much besides jeans and tee shirts, a few tops, one pair of linen pants, and a few special-occasion dresses and long skirts. 

So, I did some shopping...and I wasn't happy with what I found. Not only did the clothes seem expensive, but even in higher-end fast-fashion stores like Zara and Mango, I was disappointed in the uneven quality of the fabrics, the lack of natural fibers, and the cheap construction. Uniqlo was better, but I wasn't really in the market for basics. I buy my jeans at Old Navy, but most of their other clothes tend to be cheap imports in synthetic fabrics. I was looking for linen, or linen-cotton blends. I also checked thrift and vintage stores, where I've found a number of treasures in the past, but didn't find anything this time around. 

Inspiration

Since I follow a lot of sewing and knitting sites on Instagram, and had been searching online, of course I began to get ads for linen clothing and fabrics. After reading a lot of reviews in early spring, I did order a pure linen asymmetrical skirt and a matching top from a direct-to-consumer fashion company called Grae Cove that sells simply-designed linen dresses, skirts, tops and pants. The headquarters are in California and Hong Kong, the factories are Chinese, and -- for what it's worth -- the company has both a sustainability statement and clearly stated policies about ethical workplace conditions and compensation, though I had no way to really check. (It is true that linen and wool both have lower environmental impact than cotton or synthetics.) Anyway, the items I ordered arrived quickly and were well made, at a good price, in high-quality fabric in a beautiful color. The skirt fit perfectly and I've worn it all summer. But the top, for which I had used their size guide, was way too large and boxy. I didn't want to return it, and figured eventually I'd cut it apart or see if I could alter it to fit. But the main message I got from that order was that I should try making simple clothes like these myself, spending my own time doing something that - for me anyway - is fun and constructive. Since I hadn't sewn in a while, I was a little unsure how it would go, but when I found excellent quality linen online, I got inspired, and took the plunge. I also did a lot of pattern-shopping online among independent designers and small companies that I'm happy to support, as well as acquiring the two Japanese sewing books I mentioned in an earlier post.

Planning and Acquisition

The linen, linen blends, and rayon fabrics I ordered were with specific projects and patterns in mind, and I had a few pieces in my stash as well. I wanted to make one or two dresses, a jumpsuit, a couple of new tops, and at least one pair of pants. First, I studied the pattern specifications carefully, since patterns almost always suggest the most suitable types and weights of fabric, and tried to match my fabric choices with those. Buying fabric online is tricky because you can't feel it, or hold a length in your hand to test the drape, or hold it up to the light to see how opaque or transparent it is -- and all of these things are important. It's even hard to judge the scale of printed or woven designs, which is why online stores often include a ruler in one of the photos of the fabrics they're offering. I'm an experienced sewer, but it still makes me nervous to buy fabric this way: cut lengths of fabric are not returnable! Fortunately, my choices worked out pretty well.

I also live within a five-minute walk from the local Fabricville (a Canadian equivalent for JoAnn Fabrics in the US), where I rarely find fabric I love, but can get every conceivable notion from elastic and interfacing to extra sewing machine bobbins.

There was a learning curve for a Brother sewing machine I was given by K.; I wanted to use it for these projects but only after sewing test swatches and becoming quite familiar with it. There were definitely things to learn, both by reading the manual and by trial and error, so that took a fair amount of time. Sewing has also evolved in recent years: I'm still finding out about the newest fabric markers, next-generation fusible interfacings and seam stabilizers, as well as getting used to printing out .pdf patterns bought online or tracing the ones in the backs of sewing books, adding seam allowances, making alterations, and setting up a system for storing them.

Construction

Then it was time to cut! I'm in a new space, without the big tables of my former studio, but to my surprise it's turned out that this small workroom is the most efficient sewing space I've ever had. The table for the sewing machine and the work table form an L, and across from the machine I have the ironing board, so everything is within a few steps. I did most of the cutting on the floor, which reminded me of being in high school, when Mom and I always cut our patterns on the carpeted dining room floor. The difference is that my body is many decades older, and this was a bit hard on my back and knees after a while -- but I figured it was good for me ;-)

The actual sewing went pretty well. I had self-drafted a top in two hemline variations copied from an existing favorite, originally from H&M. For the rest of the projects, I had chosen pretty simple patterns without fussy tailoring details. The only difficulties were in the somewhat minimal Japanese instructions, which definitely required some prior knowledge of sewing, and figuring out their unfamiliar fitting methods of folding and draping fabric, but I was both intrigued and impressed with the clarity of the pictures and instructions for all of these patterns. For Paper Theory's "Zadie" jumpsuit and "Block Tee" I also found numerous helpful notes online that other sewers had written as they made their garments, along with YouTube instructions that helped with things like making neat bias bindings for the v-necks of my self-drafted tops. The internet is a godsend for do-it-yourselfers, and I was grateful for the help there, which has now replaced the voluminous instructions on the Vogue patterns I grew up with, and my late grandmother's expertise when I would get stuck.

In the next post, I'll assess what I ended up with after this sewing blitz: the quantity and quality of the garments, and whether or not it was worth it to spend my money and time in this way.

 

Sewing a Japanese Dress

Life has felt kind of fragmented lately, between  Montreal and central New York, and it's been hard to sustain the necessary concentration for writing and artwork -- but I've felt like I needed a break anyway. Sewing and cooking have both felt like good things to do. For the past three days, I've been working on a new project from the "Nani Iro Sewing Studio" book. Nani Iro is a Japanese clothing and textile designer, and in this book she presents 18 patterns for tops, dresses, pants and coats. All have simple shapes, but in some cases the construction is both clever and tricky. That was the case with the first project I chose, the "Elbow Sleeve Pocket Dress" shown here. I got completely fascinated with it from the minute I unfolded the pattern sheets from their envelope in the back of the book.

There are just five pieces: the dress front and back, the sleeve extensions, and the back and front neck facings. Simple, right? Well, not exactly, because the shape of the dress is made by making precisely-placed folds, which are partially or fully sttiched, and end up forming two pockets in the front, softly extended shoulders, and two folds in the back of the garment which attach with buttons to draw in the sides at the waist. It's so clever, simple, and timelessly elegant -- I also love that there are no zippers, no set-in sleeves, and that almost every step could be done on the machine, without additional fussy hand-sewing. 

The hemline is asymmetrical, with the front shorter than the back. I had bought 2 yards of this purple linen with a tiny woven stripe, but the pattern (which I got after I ordered the fabric...) called for 2.5 yards. It occured to me while laying out the pattern that by folding the cloth differently, I could use the leftover width along the selvage edge to make a horizontal band to add to the hem. This resulted in the called-for length and also added some visual interest -- and I'm really happy with how that came out.

I've been toying for years with the idea of making clothes from these Japanese dress books, but I never took the plunge. I think that a novice sewer would have trouble following the directions, but if you have some dressmaking experience, you can definitely do it. You just have to study the diagrams and instructions carefully BEFORE cutting and before sewing anything, because they are quite different from the traditional patterns most of us are used to in the west.

I was also helped by the fact that my friend K. gave me a machine she wasn't using a little while ago, and during the last trip to the U.S. I bought a foot pedal for it. My old Singer is a great machine, heavier-duty than this one,  with a much longer throat so I can use it for quilting and heavy fabrics. But this newer machine has several features that helped a lot. One was a very good overcasting foot that allowed me to overcast all the edges of this easily-fraying linen, without needing a serger (which I don't have.) Another was the excellent buttonhole attachment. The machine fed the fabric very well and the tension was perfect -- I just needed to get used to using it.

The linen, from The Linen Lab in South Korea, was a joy to work with; sometimes I wonder why I sew anything else (I guess it's because we have winter here.) I'm happy thinking of the other pieces I bought that are waiting to be turned into garments, and looking forward to wearing this new dress, which will be perfect for the hot humid summer weather we're still waiting for here in Montreal.

A page from the instructions.

 

The front folds are stitched to form pockets and bring in the waistline.

Closeup of the hem.

The back folds in, and closes with buttons, or can be left loose.

 

 

The Brightness of Flowers, the Darkness of the Sky

I've been sewing for myself this week, for the first time since we moved here a year ago, and it felt like such a pleasure. The fabric is a rayon viscose twill -- a remnant I bought in Lisbon 3 1/2 years ago. And I self-drafted the pattern from a favorite v-neck top, which meant looking up some techniques online for adding and eliminating darts, and for drafting sleeves based on the circumference of the armhole. I had to adjust as I went, a little bit, but it was fine.

The fabric turned out to be quite slippery so it was necessary to stay-stitch all the edges, use twice as many pins as usual, baste some seams first, and then finish all the seams on the inside of the garment. I did a lot of hand-stitching too, on the neck binding and the hems, which I do enjoy, but it's fussy. The result pleased me, though, and I'm sure I'll wear it a lot.

Meanwhile, we're at the height of actual spring blooms. J. and I have been dieting but we treated ourselves to tiny gelato/hot chocolate sundaes at Leonidas the other day, and ate them in the Pierre Elliot Trudeau rose garden in the Town of Mont-Royal, which is an easy bike ride from our apartment. The roses are just starting but the irises and peonies were in full, magnificent bloom, and it did my heart good, after these days of wildfires to the north of us, to see such beauty and color.

Montreal was spared the worst of the smoke and smog, but it was dangerously awful to the south and west of us. We've had a lot of rain the past two days, so I hope that will help the fires to abate.

This was my view on the worst day we had -- bad, but nothing like it was for many of you.

I was horrified by the photographs and air quality readings from Toronto, Ottawa, Syracuse, NYC, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C. And before anyone blames Quebec, let's please remember that this can and will happen anywhere there are forests, as our climate comes under greater and greater pressure, with the fires contributing to the vicious cycle. Only the force of collective human determination will change the trend, and it is up to all of us, but particularly industry and government. Please do what you can as an individual, and let's apply as much pressure as we can to our elected officials, and support all of the progressive initiatives aimed at combating the greed, waste, and lack of will that have gotten us to this point.

Willow and Stream

Willow and Stream near Otselic, New York. Watercolor, gouache, with touches of charcoal pencil. 6" x 6". May 30, 2023.

Last week we were in central New York for a visit to the lake, and, because Memorial Day was near, we also visited the graves of my parents, maternal grandparents, and great aunt -- I'll write another post about that soon. One afternoon we drove over the hills to the cemetery in South Otselic, NY where many of my ancestors are buried. Unlike the winter landscapes that had preoccupied me since January, the whole world had become green, lush, and leafy. It wasn't a particularly pretty day, there were no interesting clouds, the sun was right overhead, and the green felt relentless. But I stopped and took a few pictures anyway, and a few days ago, back in Montreal, started working with one of them.

Here it is, and it's pretty boring! I stared at the photograph for a long time, wondering what I could possibly do with it, and trying to remember what had felt compelling enough about the scene to ask J. to stop the car. The answer is in the title of this post -- the willows and the stream - but I didn't know how to make a picture from this: how to make it interesting, when there was so little color or even obvious, strong compositional shapes. So I decided to begin with drawing, and a few hours later, this was the result:

As you can see, the drawing is cropped in from both sides to focus more on the willows and downplay the field. It was fun to draw a verdant landscape instead of the snow-covered ones and I was surprised that it worked this well in charcoal, but I wasn't entirely satisfied with the composition. When preparing a set of details to post on Instagram, I had cropped into the image and saw that a much closer view was better. In the original, the stream forms a strong diagonal but it also divides the picture into two more-or-less equal triangles, giving the grassy foreground too much prominence compared to what had first attracted me: the shapes and growth pattern of the willows overhanging the stream, with the brightness leafiness above, and the dark, mysterious area where the willow overhangs the bank of the stream.

When cropped, that's much more what we see.

Then the question was how to translate this into color. The next day, I took out my watercolors to make a sketch, and ended up struggling with it for quite a long while, trying to keep it loose and interpret the scene with vigorous brushstrokes and beautiful color that wasn't necessarily in either the original landscape or photograph. 

The tree branches here are dark blue and brighter blue, not black or brown, and the blue is echoed in the grassy areas and the stream, contrasting with the bright yellow-greens of the sunstruck leaves. But it wasn't until I made the stream itself brown, and added the few strokes of orange, that the picture began to sing at all.

By then I had overworked the dark area of low branches at the left front, so I went in with just a little bit of opaque watercolor to add some leaves, and a few strokes of white charcoal pencil to highlight the tops of some branches and bring them forward. Then, fortunately, I forced myself to quit before messing around with it any further!

I'll probably do another version of this scene in a different medium, maybe pastel, maybe oil or acrylic, before letting it go. I'd be happy to hear your thoughts!

 

I Couldn't Keep from Singing

Sketching on the bulletin up in the choir loft, during the sermon last Sunday...

Over the past few weeks, I’ve gone back to singing in the cathedral choir. As the warmer weather appeared, the risk/benefit ratio between continuing to be super-careful and starting to live more normally seemed to change. My husband had started encouraging me to go back to the choir, but I was unsure. One day not long ago I went for a walk, feeling a bit morose and sorry for myself, but by the time I came back home, I had made a decision to write to the music director and ask if it would be all right for me to return. He said yes, and on the next Sunday, I sang in person with the group for the first time in three years.

It’s been a long history. I started singing in a church choir when I was about six years old, and have continued (which seems incredible, even to me) nearly all of my life.

I graduated to the adult choir in that Episcopal parish once I entered junior high school. After I graduated from university and was working in my home town, I conducted that small choir for two years. In 1976, I moved to New England, and joined a very good choir at St. Thomas Episcopal Church in Hanover, New Hampshire. I stopped for a few years when J. and I got together, because his father was the Unitarian Universalist minister in Woodstock, Vermont, and we started going to hear him preach on Sundays, and then often had lunch with his parents at their home afterwards. After my father-in-law left that position, I realized how much I had missed singing, and began again with the choir in Hanover. I sang there during all the years we lived in Vermont, until we moved to Montreal in 2006, and took private voice lessons for some of that time as well. When we moved, we joined the congregation of Christ Church Anglican Cathedral in Montreal but I was unsure if I could manage the commitment or the stress of being in the cathedral choir, which was on another whole level of rigor than anything I had experienced. Thank God I had the courage to try, and to sing with Patrick Wedd — the cathedral’s music director, extraordinary organist, and soon a fast friend — for twelve years, and then with Nick Capozzoli and Rob Hamilton, Jonathan White, and then Nick after he became the Director of Music following Jonathan’s resignation in the second year of the pandemic. But with my own age and my husband's immune issues, I didn't feel comfortable going back to singing when the choir regrouped in person, and especially not when the masks came off. It was only this spring, as the pandemic waned somewhat and we began to feel more comfortable after some medical advice, when I began to think about possibly re-joining.

I had almost resigned myself to the idea that my singing career was over; after all, I was not young anymore, and I absolutely did not want to be one of those people who is talked about behind their back: “Why doesn’t she quit?” I wasn’t sure how it would feel this time around, but so far, my voice has felt good, and not too fatigued even after a full day of rehearsals and two services. However, I’ve pledged to myself that I will stop when I can no longer contribute positively — and hope it will be clear to me when that time has come.

Making music hasn’t been the problem: I’ve been playing the piano a lot since moving it to our new apartment. This winter, working on some Schubert Impromptus, new to me, was a great consolation during the darkest months of weather as I dealt with change and grief. But if you have had a history of making music with other people, that experience is pretty irreplaceable. Singing in a choir is a particular kind of musical experience, too, and in one like ours, where we churn through a huge amount of repertoire in a short time, you have to like sight-reading and be good at it, have experience in a wide range of periods and styles, and be able to absorb and learn the music very quickly so that you can perform it confidently after only a couple of times through -- if that. It’s not the same at all as a choir that practices a few pieces of music intensively for, say, a whole semester, and then gives a concert. A choir like ours cannot work on each piece with the same level of attention to detail, but if the singers and director are very good, and they have a strong affinity and sense of singing together as a group, they can actually perform very well, week in and week out. Although we don’t repeat pieces very often — it may be a matter of many years — when we come back to something that we know, then of course we can work on the details with even greater finesse. It’s a particular kind of challenge, and it’s exactly what I like most as a musician.

The camaraderie of a choir is also a particular sort of bond, and I think some of that comes from the fact that our only instruments are our bodies. There's a physicality about singing with others that creates a greater awareness of all the other group members than I ever found when I was playing in a band or orchestra. The personnel of this choir has changed a lot in the years I was away. Most of the professionals who sang with us have left and been replaced by new and younger singers (all of whom are excellent); most of the volunteer singers are also younger — many are McGill students or recent graduates — and in addition to the eight paid professionals we now have three choral scholars. These are gifted college-age singers who are given a stipend in exchange for the experience of singing in this kind of a group, and doing some solo and ensemble work on their own. But there are several people who, like me, were in the choir for years and are still there, and some new, but older volunteers I’ve been happy to meet. One of them is a man in his late 80s who I talked to for the first time last Sunday. He had sung in the cathedral choir thirty years ago, and then stopped because of some vocal problems — and now he is back. After we had told each other brief versions of our choir histories, he smiled at me and said, “Yes, it just gets into your blood.”

Like him, I don’t know how long I will be singing, but I know how much I missed it, and that it means a great deal to me to be able to do it again. Of all the things I've done, singing is one that keeps me firmly attentive to the present moment, and is perhaps one of the best ways of finding the joy that being fully in that moment can provide. And it still seems miraculous to me that, with only our bodies, we can take a collective breath in silence, and, the next moment, bring forth the extraordinary music that only a choir of human voices can create.

For a quiet moment that illustrates this, listen to the introit (opening choral work) by going to 6:20 in the video below, of last Sunday's Evensong for the Feast of the Ascension. It's "My Peace I Leave with You" by the 20th century American composer Amy Beach. (All the works except one that we sang that afternoon were by female composers.)