Mitering inner corners and being obtuse…

Recently, I was asked to make a sewing machine cover. Simples I thought, it's essentially five rectangles, one of which needs an opening for the handle. So simple in fact that I decided to add a zipped pocket, and some binding to the handle opening. Well, the zip went without a hitch, but crikey, my brain hurt after over an hour spent fruitlessly trying to work out how to miter inner corners!

My ego was fairly bruised too because I love making binding and consider it to be one of the few sewing tasks I actually do properly (is it perverse that this is almost my favourite thing to do–a bit like preferring the icing to the cake itself?). Still I wasn't going to let a bit of fabric get the better of me, so after a lot of experimentation–and unsuccessful web searches–I finally worked out how to bind and miter inner corners.

Of course, you're probably all thinking, what's the big deal, any fool knows how to do that! But just in case you don't, here's how it's done…

Starting at the outer corner, draw a diagonal line in towards the central fold of your binding, it is important that the angle of the line is exactly 45 degrees. Snip to where the line meets the fold.

Flip the binding over and fold in the loose ends as shown above–the arrow shape should form a perfect right angle. Pin and press in place.

Flip the binding tape back over and press shut. What you should now have is an obtuse angle that starts on the fold and extends out to the binding's edge. Repeat this on each end of your bindings. Remember to allow for the amount that is taken up by the angle when calculating the overall length of your bindings.

Pin bindings in place (look at that lovely join) and sew in place. Unfortunately, I can't show you the sewn version as my machine is still kaput–but trust me this works!  

The key is to remember that the angle is obtuse–which is pretty much how I felt when I just couldn't fathom how to miter inner corners!

Elizabeth,

x.

PS: The 45 degree angle only applies to square, or rectangular openings, triangles, hexagons etc would be different.

Sewing Patterns

I'm not an avid dressmaker, but I do, occasionally make the odd item to wear, and this year, I've made more than usual. In the past, I've always opted for Vogue, Mc Calls, or Simplicity patterns as they were most familiar to me. But the blogosphere has introduced me to a number of exciting independent pattern designers that I'd never heard of before (Colette, Serendipity & Hot Patterns, to name just a few), which perhaps explains why my dressmaking mojo has accelerated of late. I will never be an expert seamstress, who thinks nothing of making full bust adjustments, shifting zips, or swinging darts this way and that, to a pattern that isn't quite right, but would be perfect with a few courturish tweaks. All I want from a pattern is that what I end up with will look like the image on the packet, that the instructions are clear and consistent, and hopefully fuss free. Basically, when dressmaking, I want to be spoon fed – I'll leave getting clever to other stitching pursuits.

Some of the independent pattern designers really do make their patterns idiot proof for lazy numpties like me, others expect more from their customers. So far, my absolute favourite pattern has to be the Bebe dress by Serendipity studio. Everything about it was perfect: a standard size packet, good illustrations, brilliant instructions, and a tissue paper pattern. Okay, I may not want to make dresses from quilting cottons, but no-one is forcing me to, it was merely a suggestion. (I did read a comment from one customer though, who said that quilting cottons are great to wear in the dry Arizona heat).

I've been less thrilled with other patterns, so here's a run down of some pros and cons of the (admittedly) limited range I've tried so far.

Marcy Tilton trousers–one of my
favourite Vogue patterns!

Vogue patterns: well you can't go wrong with these, and, like McCalls, Butterick or Simplicity, the range is vast, they are widely available and easy to use. This one is my favourite, but I definitely prefer the trousers to the skirt!

I love this simple Summer dress–
which I downloaded
from the Burda website

Burda Style patterns: on the plus side, they are cheap as chips, with great instructions, there is also a huge selection to choose from, plus the gallery/forum/blog really makes you feel as if you're part of a sewing community. The downside is that the pattern is supplied as a pdf, which you need to print out, then assemble, while not forgetting to add seam allowances. That's fine if you have a printer, and preferably lightbox too, plenty of time and sellotape. Above is my favourite pattern, although I added a plain band of fabric, rather than lace, to the hem.

Merchant & Mills: I love their understated designs (and everything else they sell) but I'm not sold on the patterns coming as 'tailor's blocks', it just feels like a gimmick. The patterns are expensive, my fisherman's smock, was £20, but I guess the reasoning behind the cardboard block is that it will last longer than a tissue pattern. However, if you're using a slubby fabric (all of their garments are shown on flat fabrics such as linen) it is hard to draw round the blocks, which can lead to inaccuracies, and the best way to get round them, is to make a tissue paper pattern using the blocks as a template! You can just about get away with not doing that on a basic pattern, but on one of their more tailored pieces, you'd want to be exact. I've made the above smock a couple of times now, and each time, there's been way too much neck interfacing, and I've ended up lopping off the excess. It's a small quibble–but at £20 a pattern, it niggles!

Serendipity Studio: I've only made the Bebe dress, but I lurve it, and will definitely make another. The patterns are so user friendly, and they direct you to online tutorials, just in case you need extra hand holding.

Hot Patterns: these are what prompted this post. I want at least a dozen of them, they look oh so very Annie Hall, and I love this slouchy skirt, which is going to be my next make. Sadly, I was disappointed when I received the pattern. For a start, the packet is too big for some letterboxes–who thought that was a good idea? It is printed on enormous sheets of printer weight paper and the instructions are not on a separate sheet – although they do look easy to follow. Most annoyingly, is the inconsistent placement of sizes (it's a multi-size pattern), sometimes they are above a cutting line, sometimes they are beneath it. In one instance, I found my size under the cutting line (closer to where the size below sits) at one end of the line, and above the line (in its correct position) at the other end of the cutting line. Luckily I double checked before cutting, or I could have ended up with pattern pieces of varying sizes!

I realise companies such as Vogue et al can afford to pay more for professional pattern checkers and testers, and that independent pattern designers want to set themselves apart by offering something different – a fresh take on an old formula. But there is a danger in trying to be too clever by half, and, overlooking the basics.

Making my own clothes feels good: I'm not just mindlessly buying stuff I don't really need, and cheap labour (well, if you exclude mine) isn't been exploited. I'd like to make more, but it's easy to be put off when a pattern doesn't live up to expectations, or is misleading. So I'd love to know if you've encountered similar problems when dressmaking (and I'm talking intermediate sewers here, not borderline professionals), especially if you've made any of the Sewaholic or Collette patterns, as there are a couple I'd quite like to try my hand at.

Have a great weekend!

Elizabeth,
x.

Liberty Lawn and a new Summer Dress

Typical: I decide to make a Summer dress, and almost immediately, the sun hides behind a big fat grey cloud! Well, the forecast may be for wind, rain, and a drop in temperature, but I'm damn well going to make that dress–although I'll probably end up wearing it with tights and boots.

I'll be making the Bebe dress by Serendipity, which has (to my mind) a beautiful shape: flattering, and modest but not too stuffy either. As much as I love Colette patterns (and the trend for retro styling in general), I sometimes feel they are a little too cute and girly, best suited to those with racing snake hips and no more than a B cup bust. I also think there comes a point in a woman's wardrobe (round about the age of 35, depending on shape and size) when you have to ask yourself 'will I look like Bette Davis in Who Killed Baby Jane, if I wear polka dots/Peter Pan collars/Mary Jane shoes/hairbands? In my case, the answer is a resounding "YES", although I have to admit to owning two Peter Pan collar tops, but they are very grown up, very sombre, very navy blue.

Does it suit me?

Back to the dress: I'll be making the longer version with puffy sleeves. My colour palette will be predictably restrained–all those clashing prints are a bit too 'court jester' for me, and I really don't understand the appeal of making a dress from quilting cottons. For the skirt and bodice I'm using a chambray, while for the sleeves and under bust trim, I'll use this Liberty Lawn, which I've completely fallen in love with. Liberty Lawn is something of a revelation to me, I've read plenty of blogs where others extoll its virtues–softness, lightness, a luxurious touch and fabulous drape–but I simply wasn't attracted to it. But this fabric is a total winner: it doesn't scream 'Liberty' print, it just suggests a subtle, almost batik pattern to me.

I haven't put scissors to cloth yet, so would love to know what you think. Will I run the risk of looking as if I've raided an overgrown child's wardrobe, or is this, as I hope, a dress for a grown woman?

Elizabeth,
x.

Hooks, eyes, and preserving my modesty

During my enforced purdha from the internet I've been making stuff, most of which I can't show you because it is destined for publication elsewhere. But I promise, I have been busy and not just lying on a chaise lounge eating bonbons.

For a start, I made a skirt but I'm not quite sure whether I like it or not. Below is a picture of the skirt (and trousers) as seen on the pattern envelope, and here it looks fine. Besides, I'd made the trousers before and absolutely loved the results, so I naturally assumed I'd fall in love with the skirt too. But there are two things about the skirt that really annoy me. Firstly the pockets are so deep that if you put anything heavier than a hanky in them, they swish and bash against your shins causing severe bruising if you do anything other than stand still. The second thing is the pocket zips: the instructions clearly state that one half of the zip tape should be sewn to the top of the skirt, meaning that it isn't concealed and looks like a big fat mistake!

On the model it looks great… 

I even liked the trousers…

Nevertheless, I've worn the skirt, and bit by bit it is growing on me, but not before I almost lost it on Wapping High Street. You see, I'm an impatient dressmaker, who often can't be bothered with pesky finishing touches, such as adding hooks and eyes or press studs. So the first time I wore the skirt I had to walk with my hand placed firmly on my hip to stop the back zip coming undone, and the skirt falling to the pavement.

It's all in the details!

It isn't the first time this has happened to me either–oh no! As a teenager, I used to make quick skirts by chopping the sleeves and necklines off old T-shirts, adding a hem then threading some elastic through it for support. Except I didn't always have elastic to hand. That didn't stop me though (I was as impatient then, as I am now) I would simply tuck the ragged end of the tube into my tights, and head out in complete youthful confidence that I looked brilliant.

One day, a friend commented on the length of my skirt, which reached nearly all the way to my ankles. Confused, I looked down to find that the tube had worked its way loose from my tights and turned into a giant snood for my lower legs. My bum and thighs were on show to the world and I was a mortified teenager!

So, you would think I might have learnt something from my youthful indiscretion, or could it be that I'm really a closet exhibitionist?

Elizabeth,
x.

Who broke my internet?

There I was, happily emailing away, when poof, just like the series finale of The Sopranos, I was cut off in mid sentence! And that's the way it's remained for over two weeks. At first I was desperate to get back online: I had digital files to send and collect, emails and blog posts to write, and other really important stuff to do like reading celebrity gossip websites. So I begged and pleaded with Indian call centres and technical help desks, who could tell me little more than a local exchange was damaged and engineers were working to fix it.

I was stymied and my regular routine went out of the window, until a wonderful thing happened and I realised there was life, real life, beyond the internet. Instead of regularly checking the Mac for emails and internet activity, I'd do my work, switch off the computer then spend the rest of my time sewing. It really has been quite liberating. I've even sent letters - the old fashioned way - via Royal Mail, and because I haven't been able to email, I've picked up the phone and spoken to human beings, which really is a most pleasant experience.

Too much television is bad for you!

Of course, being out of the technological loop, has its downsides but who wants to be like Mike Teevee, the boy in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who prefers virtual life to real life and ends up trapped inside a monitor? So, while I'm delighted to be back online, from now on I really am going to try to spend less time trawling the internet, and do something more productive instead.

I wonder how long it will last!

Elizabeth,
x.

My Comforter

Making quilts can be a long process, and that's what I like about them. If I want instant craft gratification (should that be craftification?), I'll make a small sample or quilt block, a toy or something to hold knitting and sewing equipment. These 'little' projects, far from being meaningless fripperies, often provide the perfect opportunity to play around with techniques, that can be stored in the 'must do more of' part of the brain, and later used in larger pieces.

Some things in life shouldn't be rushed though, and so far, my Chinese Coins quilt has taken over 8 months to make, and yet, I'm still a few weeks away from the finished article. All of which is fine by me, but I wouldn't want to bore anyone with weekly stitch by stitch updates-especially as my quilt might not to be everybody's liking, because it's a bit 'artisan' and wonky. In fact, I wonder if calling it a quilt might be stretching the word's meaning since it involves very little complicated piecing together of fabrics, and absolutely no machine quilting wizardry.

However, I have reached a significant milestone in the making of my quilt, and have, at last finished all of the hand quilting and embroidery. I should feel happy about this, but instead feel rather sad, almost as if I'm saying goodbye to an old friend who's kept me company over recent months. It won't be long now before the quilt is on our bed and I'll have to share my 'friend' with my husband! I suppose I could, like Penelope, unpick all my stitching each night, but that seems like such a waste of effort. Besides, I don't have a band of suitors to fend off as I wait for an itinerant husband to return from the Trojan war.

Another reason for my reluctance to say goodbye to cosy evenings spent embroidering the linen strips is procrastination. Now they are finished, I have to get on with the less pleasant task of putting the strips together. First, I have to roll back the rugs and clean the floor so I can lay out my strips to see how much trimming and jiggery-pokery needs to be done. Then there's the fiddly matter of machine sewing the top of the strips together before I can tidy up the back with some more hand-sewing (you can see I've made a start in the above picture). And it's the hand-sewing I like most of all–and can't wait to resume. You can't beat having a quilt on your lap (no matter how unfinished) for keeping you warm and chasing the Winter blues away.

Elizabeth,
x.

A Bodice of Work

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: the cover, close-ups of
some pages and the laced spine, a Kantha sample sewn to
one of the pages.

I know, it's a terrible pun, but I was asked to come up with a theme and this was the best I could conjure off the cuff. I've recently spent a blissful six days on a course dedicated to making handmade sketchbooks. It was actually a general textiles course but the tutor needed her own theme to hang the course onto in order to get it accepted by the college.

I enrolled with the single intention of making some kind of portfolio, in which to keep all the samples I make. Currently, they are stored in a box, which you might think is as good a place as any to keep samples that I've lovingly created. But to me a box is merely a resting place before the inevitable happens and one of my decluttering moods strikes. On these occasions, no box is exempt from my tidying frenzy, and its contents are almost, always destined for the bin. I've lost count of the amount of beautiful clothes that have been rashly sent to charity shops–only to be later regretted, and old portfolios full of drawings and paintings thrown onto bonfires or skips for no better reason than they were gathering a fleck or two of dust!

But I digress…which is pretty much what I did on the course. I started to work on my portfolio but got sidetracked and made a paper sketchbook first. Again, we were asked to give it a theme. I chose a loose interpretation of the game, paper, scissors stone–weaving in tenuously linked elements ranging from Eric Gill's stone carvings and typography to stone circles, concrete poetry, and rock gods The Rolling Stones (it seems I really can't resist a bad pun). You can see the cover in the top left of the above composite image. Other views include, a fossil in a bag I knitted from wire and sewed to a page, some painting with ink and bleach, embossing, quilling, OTT hole punching, and a specially designed introduction page for the book.

For my main sketchbook, the idea was to make a portfolio that resembled a corset, with a drawstring tie at the spine that could be let out as the book's content grew–like a real corset might need to be let out if the inhabitant had eaten too many pies. Instead of real boning, I machine-stitched channels that curved–to suggest a waist–the further they got from the spine. Extendable brass posts hold the inner pages in place. I chose Indian Khadi papers for the inner pages because I adore their texture, and because they are sturdy enough to withstand stitching and other embellishments.

So far, I've only included a few of my samples in the book but it is quite amazing to me how different they look when presented properly. All of a sudden, my samples have become real things rather than scraps of fabric destined for the bin. I've also discovered samples I didn't realise I had (they must have organised a daring escape party during a previous decluttering blitz). Consequently, I'm discovering themes within themes, and a pattern in my swatches: for instance, I seem to like drawn thread work and lots of stitching–even if it isn't exquisitely neat.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I used to keep lots of scrapbooks to store ideas and printed ephemera, but somehow, got out of the habit. However, this may well change, and perhaps my New Year's resolution should be to make sure I regularly update my fabric scrapbook?

Talking of New Year, what am I doing sitting at my computer, when there are just a few days left until Christmas? I should be doing my Christmas shopping and wrapping mountains of presents. Or better still, eating mince pies and drinking mulled wine!

Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!

Elizabeth,
x.

A little mudlarking

A few weeks ago we went mudlarking along the north bank of the Thames, and for once, this Summer, it wasn't raining! In fact it was a beautifully sunny morning–not too hot and not too cold–just perfect for picking up any treasure the tide may have washed up onto the beach. Alas, I didn't find any priceless gems, or Roman artefacts (and such are the laws concerning mudlarking, that I wouldn't have been able to keep them if I had) but I did find plenty of tumbled pottery, which is almost as good.

Not only does mudlarking give you a chance to see the city from another perspective, but you're allowed to keep your haul, as long as it's not of archaeological interest, and you don't disturb a single stone when you pick up any items that catch your eye. If you know what you're looking for, you might be lucky enough to find Victorian buttons and even bits of Elizabethan pottery, or perhaps, a perfectly intact clay pipe. I prefer to collect fragments of Willow Pattern though, and I don't care how old they are as long as the edges are all lovely and smooth.

Back home, I gave my tumbled pottery a good wash, tipped it into a Willow Pattern bowl and left it on a window sill. But my haul refused to be ignored, and, every time I looked at them, and played with them, I kept thinking 'I really should do something with these lovely bits of history'. So, I cut the leg of an old pair of Patrick's jeans that were destined for the charity shop, and decided to make a little sample by couching a few pieces of pottery onto the fabric and adding some stitches, some French knots, and a border. The resulting 'fabric sketch' might be quite rough, but it has given me some food for thought about how I might display found items in future, such as sea glass, or old keys. Or maybe, it could be the start of a bigger project?

How do you display your finds and treasures?

Elizabeth,

x.

Dorset Buttons

I've recently rediscovered how to make Dorset buttons. It seems strange now that I'd forgotten all about them, as I used to sit quite contentedly for hours producing button after button, although in those days, I didn't know they were called Dorset Buttons, and I used a few loops of yarn, or old key rings, rather than a curtain ring as my base. Making them certainly kept my hands busy although I never managed to produce the several dozen a day that a skilled Dorset button maker could produce. And I don't expect I ever will now that I've caught the button making bug again.

The rise and fall of Buttony

During the eighteenth, and up until the mid nineteenth century, the production of Dorset buttons was a thriving cottage industry. As the name suggests, this industry was based in Dorset, but the area soon became affectionately known as Buttony. Buttony flourished due to the entrepreneurship of the Case family who set up an import/export business for the buttons. Peter Case (grandson of Abraham, the company's founder) also developed a special rust-free metal alloy ring to use as the base for the buttons, which originally might have been formed around irregular bits of leather, or animal bone. Sadly, all good things come to an end, and after the launch of John Ashton's button making machine at the 1851 Great exhibition the cottage industry of Dorset buttons was virtually wiped out, leaving many starving and peniless.

Beautiful, any way you look at them

I think Dorset buttons can look just as lovely from the back as they do from the front. A Dorset button can have as many spokes as you like but it is when you turn them over you see their geometry, and whether they are based on pentagons, hexagons, heptagons and so on. They are also deceptively easy to make; I had intended to include a little tutorial for how to do so here, that is, until I found this far, far better one by Potter Wright and Webb.

I'm not sure what to do with all my Dorset buttons, perhaps I'll just keep making them and find a use for them later. I think they would add a lovely finishing touch to a Fair isle cardigan, if made in some of the left over yarn, although my skill at (and patience for) colourwork knitting only extends to cuffs around socks, beanies and the odd scarf. However, I do find the repetitive work involved in Dorset buttons rather addictive, so much so, that I've started to apply the technique to some drawn thread embroidery I've been experimenting with. You might just be able to see some of the little Dorset button-like wheels in the photo below.

I'm enjoying making a few samples and working on smaller projects now that my Star quilt is complete. I wonder how many, if any, of these little doodlings will make it into my next quilt?

Elizabeth,
x.

Samples and what to do with them.

Starting a new project, especially one as large as a double bedspread, is quite a daunting prospect. What if I commit to something, that, later I change my mind about? So I decided to make a section of my intended quilt in minature. That way, if I changed my mind about how the quilt might look, all I'd lose would be a pleasant afternoon spent messing around on my sewing machine–not such a bad way to waste a few hours! Below is one little 'sketch' I made (and in the bottom picture, some pleating and channeling that I might also include in the quilt). The central strip of the top picture is fairly indicative of the colours I'd like to use, and I'm happy with the texture a mix of cottons, silks and velvets produces, the outer posts still need work though. I've only recently started experimenting with free machine embroidery–and it shows, nevertheless, I can't decide if I want beautifully controlled undulating stitches, or if I should just go mad and see where the machine takes me! I also want the posts to be a less dingy grey linen than shown below, but alas, all I could find for this sample was a trouser leg from an old pair of my husband's trousers that were destined for the local charity shop. Honestly, he had no intention of ever wearing them again–honest!

This recently acquired habit for making samples has had an unexpected and most welcome side effect. Unlike most people who love textiles, I am the opposite of a hoarder (Patrick does enough of that for both of us), I don't have boxes of fabric crammed under the bed, on top of wardrobes, or under my desk, quite the opposite, I tend to throw everything away (and sometimes live to regret it). I still can't resist buying fabric though, but once I own it, immediately start fretting about what purpose it serves and whether or not I really need it! But making samples not only allows me to work out ideas and techniques, if made large enough, they are perfect for turning into little make-up bags for friends. Now, knowing it will be put to good use, I don't feel guilty about buying fabric. I even go off piste and buy fabrics I wouldn't normally choose for myself such as these bright and jolly bundles from Ray-Stitch.

However, I'm beginning to think that although samples do take up valuable space, I really should hang on to at least some of them so I have a record of my work. Photos are all well and good but you can't turn them inside out, or over, to see any hidden bits of construction. Perhaps samples are more useful than I like to admit and should be looked after, not destined for the bin.

Elizabeth,
x

The Art of Manipulating Fabric

Anyone who loves fabric and playing with it, be it pleating, smocking, shirring, cording, stuffing, or gathering it into anything from Suffolk Puffs (yo-yos if you're American) to flambouyant ruffles should put Colette Wolff's The Art of Manipulating Fabric at the top of their reading list. An absolute classic, photographed entirely in black and white, illustrated with basic line illustrations, and showing swatches rather than finished pieces, The Art of Manipulating Fabric is nevertheless utterly peerless for the breadth of knowledge and inspiration it contains. I don't think I've ever seen a book that offers as much to everyone from quilters to dressmakers to accessories designers: you could say, I rate this book very highly indeed!

Now that I've almost finished my Star Quilt I'm beginning to think about my next big project. Encouraged by my husband, who loves the seaside as much as I do, I'd like to base my next quilt on a strip of the Kent coast that we both love, and use some of Colette Wolff's techniques to achieve my aims. If you live somewhere exotic, perhaps near the equator even, I imagine that mention of the seaside probably suggests a sunny, golden, joyous place, and hence a quilt based on this would be a riot of colour. But you'd be wrong. I'm from England and it always rains here so the sky is usually grey and foreboding (although, as I write, a strange yellow ball is making a rare appearance in the sky). Besides, the seaside I'm thinking of isn't even the seaside proper, but a stretch of estuary mouth called the  Swale, which eventually becomes the river Thames. Call me perverse but nothing makes me happier than trudging for miles in the wind and rain across stones, shingle and mud flats and scrambling over groins to see what the tide and walkers have left behind.

Who needs sunshine!

It can be a bleak landscape: endless groins (there to prevent the beach being swept away by the tide) and a concrete sea wall (there to prevent flooding) and that's about it, no yachts or fun fairs or ice-cream sellers–maybe the occasional fisherman. The only embellishments on the horizon are windfarms: love them, or loathe them, it's hard to deny the mesmeric power of these graceful, waving giants at sea. It's such a utilitarian landscape, completely lacking in frivolity, and yet, to me at least, the Swale is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

So my next quilt will be in tranquil tones of grey, sand and stone, which I think suits a quilt intended for a bedroom, and hopefully, what it lacks in colour will be made up for in texture and pattern. Since I want it to have the repetitve, sectional feel of the Swale I'll use a simple Chinese Coins design. I'll machine quilt the plain linen sections that fall between the coins, and try to include some of Wolff's techniques here. The colourful strips could suggest what has been washed up on the shore, and I'd like to add in as much texture as possible here.

I think I may need to do a few test swatches first, but this is my plan, let's see how it progresses.

Elizabeth,
x