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I spent yesterday doing laundry and assembling a box full of clothes to rip apart to remake. (Here’s a good post on how to cut up a used men’s shirt to reuse as much fabric as possible! My technique varies from this one but it’s a good start.) I have an art quilt idea, but I also want to make a bunch of little zippered bags to give as gifts. Partly because I want to use up smallish pieces of fabric and have easily-done projects, and partly because I need to learn to set in zippers. (It’s not that hard. It literally cannot be that hard. I just haven’t done it.) And because I think people are likely to use little zippered pouches a lot more than they are likely to Genuinely Appreciate a possibly wonky-looking wall hanging or lap quilt which I may not be able to finish in time.
So.
(I’ve started doing some embroidery on reclaimed bits of fabric. Last night I made an extremely elaborate unicorn machine embroidery on some 70s polyester suiting with sparkle-pink holoshimmer machine embroidery thread my mother-not-in-law pulled out of the donations bin at her quilting charity– none of them use machine embroidery in their quilting so the machine embroidery thread winds up just sitting there, so she saved it all for me, which I appreciate enormously. I personally have no need for pink holoshimmer embroidery thread, but I do have two nieces under six, and some friends whose aesthetic is still pretty youthful.)
Some of the clothing I’m pulling apart to refashion is stuff my mother made for me. Back in high school she made me a couple of dresses, and as I’m considering them, I clearly wore them a lot. But, like. This one is a below-midcalf mandarin-collar flannel dress, that buttons all the way up the front. The buttons are animals– penguins, sheep, cows, rabbits. I mean, yes it was the 90s, but also, I was a deeply weird kid. I mean. We knew this. I just am looking at this dress and thinking about what the adults in my life must have thought of me when I showed up in this thing. (It had a white cotton petticoat with eyelet lace that would have showed. I had decided I gave zero fucks by then. I’m only just getting back to that aesthetic, really.)
Also it doesn’t fit me. But.
It’s one thing to go at a pair of Abercrombie and Fitch corduroy pants from 1998 where the thighs have worn through with a big pair of shears. It’s fun and sort of freeing, especially if you can get the seam unpicked enough to just yank and open it up.
It’s another thing to start picking out the hand-stitches holding down the facing in a dress your mother made you.
But I’m not going to wear this flannel dress again as-is. It doesn’t fit, for one. And it’s a lot of usable fabric. (The skirt alone could back an entire quilt– and it’s gathered, so the panels are square.) I wore it, I used it, it was lovely. It’s not a waste to unpick it.
And it frees up space in my closet.
I just. Still feel bad, that’s all. It feels weird. It’s actually harder to unpick handmade garments, it turns out; commercial stitching rips right out, but my mom sews with the machine stitch length turned way down, good Christ mother this is really something. (I’m also deconstructing a wool skirt she pulled out of her closet, which would fit maybe a size 6, no one in our family is that petite, and it’s definitely pure wool but the lining is cheap crinkly degraded acetate and it’s flat-lined, not bag-lined, so I gotta unpick every seam to pry the plastic out. Holy shit you can’t even find these stitches, they’re so small.)
