I’m an 80’s baby, which was all about color and exuberance and some seriously poor fashion choices. There is something about stone washed jeans and puff paint that makes me both nostalgic and horrified at the same time. And I must admit I was definitely one who gleefully joined the splatter paint phase, unapologetically adorning my clothes, my version of “art”, and even my bedroom walls with color.
There are certain kinds of fabric that just call to you. As someone who is all about the clash of geometrics and florals, with a particular penchant for border prints, it should come as no surprise that Gertie’s latest Hopscotch Gingham in cotton sateen would steal my heart. The tricky part: which color to choose??
I find inspiration for my skirts from all kinds of places. As many of you know, this often comes from the vintage stylings of Juli Lynne Charlot and Marjorie Montgomery. Or from dresses I never quite got my hands on. Dresses that in their original form would fit my pinkie toe (if we were lucky). But, every so often, I get a crazy, whimsical idea. And I just run with it. Or oink with it, as the case may be…
There is something truly captivating about a city skyline at night. Looking out across the sea of buildings, feeling so far away from the world, but somehow still seeming connected to everyone and everything. I always loved how the lights blinked on slowly as the sun set, hinting of the lives within those windows. Both mundane and magical.
Isn’t it funny the way nursery rhymes stick in your head? I mean, I know they’re designed that way…and never mind the fact that when you’re a kid, your synapses are strengthening rapid fire, so we remember all kinds of crazy things with alarming specificity from our childhood. But, it is still kind of remarkable to me that I remember every word from the Farmer in the Dell, even though upon further reflection, I realize it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.
I’ve never had much of a green thumb. Without ever meaning to, I am an enemy to all plant life, a horticultural assassin. Your ferns and rosebushes aren’t safe around me. I even killed a cactus in my pitiful gardening history (a feat I’m told you actually have to work at). And while basil plants wilt and grass shrivels in my presence, a flourishing wardrobe: Now, that I can cultivate…
I know for most of us, 2021 was a bit of a dumpster fire. It can be a relief when that calendar flips to the next year, feeling as if we are shaking off all that’s happened and moving forward, refreshed into a new year’s renaissance. But, even as I took that step forward, I did so with some trepidation for what 2022 might bring. After all, they say you should stay with the devil you know…
There’s always that moment in the dead of winter where you start to see forward to Spring. Yet, there’s no actual benchmark for it. No physical moment you can point to. Slippers are very much a part of the daily routine, you still wake up to frost lining the windows, and coffee is as much a warming device as it is a caffeination mechanism. And yet it happens every year. You can feel the stirrings of a new season making its way up through frozen ground, pushing her arms upward, whispering that Spring will be here soon.
Every year, I often have grand sewing plans to coincide with various holidays. Always starting with good intentions, I keep a notebook to record my idea of the perfect skirt for Easter, to launch into Spring, or to commemorate Halloween. But, because of the craziness of life, it rarely ever happens that way. True to form, my annual Christmas skirt is about a month behind schedule. Well, you know what they say about making plans…
Some days (or years, really) can feel a bit like a house of cards. You know what I mean – where you are managing to keep everything together, stacking each day precariously on top of the next. But you know that one wrong move – one exhale in the wrong direction – and it will bring everything a tumbling down.