Having just spent a fairly frustrating period of time making a new jacket, I feel inspired to comment on a few aspects of wearable art garment making that have been concerning me, lately.
Have you ever realized that when you make a pieced or appliquéd garment, you spend most of your garment construction time actually making fabric? Think about it - you have spent three weeks piecing leaves or stars or whatnot for the neckband and cuffs and waistband, front and back and side gussets - and you are finally at the place you used to be when you brought fabric home from the store and got the pattern out of the packet, ready to start...and it only took you three weeks. Now, granted, this is unique fabric, nobody else will have anything remotely like it - but the question is - would they want to? At this stage, it’s really hard to tell whether it’s really great fabric, or just plain tacky. It’s kind of hard to tell, with all of those loose threads, and just a vague idea in your head of how it’s all going to work out.
Okay, so you get the pattern out of the package, but it is already evident that this pattern just won’t do - at least, not the way it is. The first thing you do is to throw away the directions. Since quilters usually buy “a quarter yard of each,” you don’t have enough of any of the fabrics to cut any of the pieces out in one piece, so the whole thing has to be pieced and lined, anyway, which the directions don’t address. Besides, the pattern shows the bottom jacket band down at the hips, but the last thing you need is for emphasis on your hips, so you move the band up to the waistline, then have to change the sleeve and side seams and pleat the front, for the whole thing to work. Looks like this is going to be another “process” jacket - one of those jackets when you learn a whole lot more about piecing and fitting than you ever wanted to know.
The problem is that the process doesn’t always flow smoothly. You reach for the scissors only to find that all six pairs have disappeared under heaps of fabric or into the wastebasket. You blindly feel for the seam ripper only to find you’re pulling out several lengths of thread twined it around it, as well. You sew with no thread in the bobbin with amazing regularity; step on pins with distressing frequency, and invent really interesting swearwords whenever the needle breaks. Besides that, you know well the frustration of finally sewing a difficult place perfectly, only to realize that you’ve sewn another part of the garment into the same seam so you have to rip it out. And this is the rule, not the exception. IT’S NOT EASY. I am absolutely amazed every time I finish a garment and wear it, because I never actually believe that anyone can truly conquer such adversity and prosper. But, let’s face it - EVERYBODY has just as hard a time as you do. And still keeps sewing.
There are logical solutions to all of the problems you incur when sewing wearable art, but they are boring at best and time-consuming at worst. For instance, you COULD stop sewing and clean up and find the scissors and untangle the threads from the seam ripper and pre-wind bobbins, etc., etc. I don’t bother with this, though, until the end of the project, when I have FINISHED, I have TRIUMPHED against impossible odds, and can actually ENJOY putting those fabrics away and picking up the pins and finding the scissors. I find that, when I am done, this putting away process gives me an intense feeling of completion, and sort of cleanses the palate for the next sewing adventure.
I have found that the best way to deal with all the frustrations, and there are many, is to give yourself other rewards, intangible though they may be, and make it a point to actually enjoy the process.
First of all, if you don’t have your own space to do your work in, you AT LEAST get to make the rules. I share my sewing space with the computer and whoever happens to be working or playing on it at the time, which includes my husband, my daughter, my teenage sons and their friends. The rules are that if I am in the sewing room, actively sewing, I get to choose the music. That means I can play James Taylor over and over again, if I want to, or the Phantom of the Opera or Barbra Streisand - and if they don’t like it, well, too bad - earphones and tape players are available.
Next, I am allowed to throw anything I want to on the floor. I work with a lot of cardboard and paper in small pieces, and have a way of tossing them in wild abandon, letting the pieces fall where they may. I don’t consciously throw pins on the floor - I toss them in the general direction of my magnetic pincushion - but once they leave my fingers, they are forgotten. When I am all done with my project, I arm myself with my magnetic pin cushion and sweep the area like an army landmine patrol, and magnetize the pins up before I vacuum (but the only reason I do this is that I finally realized that if I vacuum up all the pins on the floor, pretty soon I won’t have any pins, and I’m too cheap to buy more).
Another rule is that I don’t have to cut off threads as I go. When I’m all done, if the threads show on the top, I get my cute little stork scissors, a glass of wine, a good video, and indulge in a leisurely cutting-off-the-threads-that-show session. Surely there is a benefit in allowing the threads to be long and get tangled up, so they knot themselves, after a fashion? Besides, a meteor might hit tomorrow and there might be a polar shift the day after, so why waste time on that petty kind of stuff today - especially if it doesn’t even show?
Another rule is that if I am foundation piecing, it is okay to pay a small child to pull the paper off the back. My daughter and her friend pulled all the paper off the back of my “Imagine Peace on our Planet” quilt, which is 82” x 86”, for the price of one video rental ($3.00). Not too bad, in my opinion.
If annoying things start to happen - and there is no doubt that they will - there are tangible rewards to alleviate the frustration that might otherwise ensue. If you step on a pin and it sticks in your foot, you get an M&M. If you reach for your seam ripper and pull off a couple of yards of thread, you get to make a phone call to your best friend. If you reach for your scissors and can’t see ANY of them in plain sight, you get a cup of herbal tea and a cookie. If you sew that seam perfectly after numerous tries and ripping out and then realize you’ve sewn the rest of the sleeve into the seam by mistake - you get a glass of wine. If you finally get the garment all done - lined, topstitched and everything, and then notice that the sleeves are 2” too short, you get a soak in the spa.
Bye, now. The spa is hot. Ahhhhh.....
As usual, I've written a really bad poem about wearable art, just for fun!
Have you ever realized that when you make a pieced or appliquéd garment, you spend most of your garment construction time actually making fabric? Think about it - you have spent three weeks piecing leaves or stars or whatnot for the neckband and cuffs and waistband, front and back and side gussets - and you are finally at the place you used to be when you brought fabric home from the store and got the pattern out of the packet, ready to start...and it only took you three weeks. Now, granted, this is unique fabric, nobody else will have anything remotely like it - but the question is - would they want to? At this stage, it’s really hard to tell whether it’s really great fabric, or just plain tacky. It’s kind of hard to tell, with all of those loose threads, and just a vague idea in your head of how it’s all going to work out.
Okay, so you get the pattern out of the package, but it is already evident that this pattern just won’t do - at least, not the way it is. The first thing you do is to throw away the directions. Since quilters usually buy “a quarter yard of each,” you don’t have enough of any of the fabrics to cut any of the pieces out in one piece, so the whole thing has to be pieced and lined, anyway, which the directions don’t address. Besides, the pattern shows the bottom jacket band down at the hips, but the last thing you need is for emphasis on your hips, so you move the band up to the waistline, then have to change the sleeve and side seams and pleat the front, for the whole thing to work. Looks like this is going to be another “process” jacket - one of those jackets when you learn a whole lot more about piecing and fitting than you ever wanted to know.
The problem is that the process doesn’t always flow smoothly. You reach for the scissors only to find that all six pairs have disappeared under heaps of fabric or into the wastebasket. You blindly feel for the seam ripper only to find you’re pulling out several lengths of thread twined it around it, as well. You sew with no thread in the bobbin with amazing regularity; step on pins with distressing frequency, and invent really interesting swearwords whenever the needle breaks. Besides that, you know well the frustration of finally sewing a difficult place perfectly, only to realize that you’ve sewn another part of the garment into the same seam so you have to rip it out. And this is the rule, not the exception. IT’S NOT EASY. I am absolutely amazed every time I finish a garment and wear it, because I never actually believe that anyone can truly conquer such adversity and prosper. But, let’s face it - EVERYBODY has just as hard a time as you do. And still keeps sewing.
There are logical solutions to all of the problems you incur when sewing wearable art, but they are boring at best and time-consuming at worst. For instance, you COULD stop sewing and clean up and find the scissors and untangle the threads from the seam ripper and pre-wind bobbins, etc., etc. I don’t bother with this, though, until the end of the project, when I have FINISHED, I have TRIUMPHED against impossible odds, and can actually ENJOY putting those fabrics away and picking up the pins and finding the scissors. I find that, when I am done, this putting away process gives me an intense feeling of completion, and sort of cleanses the palate for the next sewing adventure.
I have found that the best way to deal with all the frustrations, and there are many, is to give yourself other rewards, intangible though they may be, and make it a point to actually enjoy the process.
First of all, if you don’t have your own space to do your work in, you AT LEAST get to make the rules. I share my sewing space with the computer and whoever happens to be working or playing on it at the time, which includes my husband, my daughter, my teenage sons and their friends. The rules are that if I am in the sewing room, actively sewing, I get to choose the music. That means I can play James Taylor over and over again, if I want to, or the Phantom of the Opera or Barbra Streisand - and if they don’t like it, well, too bad - earphones and tape players are available.
Next, I am allowed to throw anything I want to on the floor. I work with a lot of cardboard and paper in small pieces, and have a way of tossing them in wild abandon, letting the pieces fall where they may. I don’t consciously throw pins on the floor - I toss them in the general direction of my magnetic pincushion - but once they leave my fingers, they are forgotten. When I am all done with my project, I arm myself with my magnetic pin cushion and sweep the area like an army landmine patrol, and magnetize the pins up before I vacuum (but the only reason I do this is that I finally realized that if I vacuum up all the pins on the floor, pretty soon I won’t have any pins, and I’m too cheap to buy more).
Another rule is that I don’t have to cut off threads as I go. When I’m all done, if the threads show on the top, I get my cute little stork scissors, a glass of wine, a good video, and indulge in a leisurely cutting-off-the-threads-that-show session. Surely there is a benefit in allowing the threads to be long and get tangled up, so they knot themselves, after a fashion? Besides, a meteor might hit tomorrow and there might be a polar shift the day after, so why waste time on that petty kind of stuff today - especially if it doesn’t even show?
Another rule is that if I am foundation piecing, it is okay to pay a small child to pull the paper off the back. My daughter and her friend pulled all the paper off the back of my “Imagine Peace on our Planet” quilt, which is 82” x 86”, for the price of one video rental ($3.00). Not too bad, in my opinion.
If annoying things start to happen - and there is no doubt that they will - there are tangible rewards to alleviate the frustration that might otherwise ensue. If you step on a pin and it sticks in your foot, you get an M&M. If you reach for your seam ripper and pull off a couple of yards of thread, you get to make a phone call to your best friend. If you reach for your scissors and can’t see ANY of them in plain sight, you get a cup of herbal tea and a cookie. If you sew that seam perfectly after numerous tries and ripping out and then realize you’ve sewn the rest of the sleeve into the seam by mistake - you get a glass of wine. If you finally get the garment all done - lined, topstitched and everything, and then notice that the sleeves are 2” too short, you get a soak in the spa.
Bye, now. The spa is hot. Ahhhhh.....
As usual, I've written a really bad poem about wearable art, just for fun!
WHY DO I MAKE THESE QUILTS TO WEAR?
by Linda S. Schmidt
Probably the reason why
I make these quilts to wear
Is ‘cause my beds and walls are full
Of quilts already there.
Besides, I do not like to shop,
Or rather, much prefer
To shop for yarn and glitz and beads
Than garments made for “her.”
It takes more time, I grant you that,
To make something from scratch.
It takes more fabric, too, I know,
So I buy another batch.
I must have just a little pink,
A bit more green and blue
To make my ribbons twist and float
And turn a gentler hue.
And when I make a full-size quilt
To go upon the bed,
I get to see it in the night,
Or on the wall, instead;
But I rarely get to feel it,
To see its colors gay
The way I get to see a coat
I’ve made and worn all day.
Besides, to show my real quilts off
To folk both far and near
I’d either have to mail them out, or
Clean my house, I fear.
Why do I make these quilts to wear?
I think that it could be
That when I make a quilt to wear,
I’m wearing some of me.
by Linda S. Schmidt
Probably the reason why
I make these quilts to wear
Is ‘cause my beds and walls are full
Of quilts already there.
Besides, I do not like to shop,
Or rather, much prefer
To shop for yarn and glitz and beads
Than garments made for “her.”
It takes more time, I grant you that,
To make something from scratch.
It takes more fabric, too, I know,
So I buy another batch.
I must have just a little pink,
A bit more green and blue
To make my ribbons twist and float
And turn a gentler hue.
And when I make a full-size quilt
To go upon the bed,
I get to see it in the night,
Or on the wall, instead;
But I rarely get to feel it,
To see its colors gay
The way I get to see a coat
I’ve made and worn all day.
Besides, to show my real quilts off
To folk both far and near
I’d either have to mail them out, or
Clean my house, I fear.
Why do I make these quilts to wear?
I think that it could be
That when I make a quilt to wear,
I’m wearing some of me.
