Some blouses are worn A LOT. Those are everyday blouses, and I have quite a few of those (with more to come, I am sure!) And some blouses are worn infrequently, but equally loved for their unique properties. These would include exceptional fabric, refined or formal appearance, limited wearing opportunity, or their ability to make a statement. The blouse I most recently completed has all those properties.
This deep pink silk charmeuse Jacquard has been in my fabric closet for over ten years, having been purchased at Britex Fabrics when I started sewing for myself again, way back when. Its color, and the polka dot woven motif, both personal favorites, drew me to it. A couple of years ago, after purchasing another piece of silk – a printed silk twill – I paired the two fabrics together and added them both to my sewing queue. The skirt may have to wait until next year, but the blouse earned a spot in 2022’s sewing agenda.
I used a blouse pattern which I have made once before. From 1957, this pattern is timeless with its elegant collar (which looks good lying flat or propped up around the neck), petite French cuffs and feminine three-quarter length sleeves. I suppose in 1957, this style blouse may have been considered a casual piece, which the illustrations on the pattern envelope suggest. I saw this blouse as dressy, however, and that is how I have interpreted it.
One of the details which make this blouse so flattering to wear is the waistline open-ended darts, easily visible above. They minimize the bulk when the blouse is tucked inside its skirt and add a lovely billow effect above the waist. I made these darts a bit shallower than the pattern indicated. When making these darts, I secured their upper edges by pulling the thread tail on one side to the other side so that I had the ability to knot those threads with three tight loops. For those of you who have made a classic French jacket, this is the same method used to secure the quilting stitches at the end of the columns. The photo below helps to show this.
Buttons are such fun to select for a blouse like this. I have had these vintage white pearl buttons for some time, and no doubt they were waiting for this project. When the skirt is made at some point, the three-lobed profile will play off the designs in the silk twill. But, more than that, I needed something to act as a foil for the polka-dotted field. More “round” would have been fine, but not exciting. Additionally, these buttons are a bit bigger which helps them hold their own on that deep, rich, pink silk.
Being the ‘statement” blouse that it is, I doubt I will be wearing this blouse casually. But I’m betting/hoping I will find good reason to wear it not infrequently to one or another tony event.
Added Value…. There is a significant little entry in 101 Things I learned in Fashion School (Alfredo Cabrera with Matthew Frederick, Grand Central Publishing, New York, New York, 2010, page 40). Although aimed at Ready-To-Wear customers and the designers who cater to them, it certainly is meaningful to those of us who sew our own fashions: “Fashion customers often need to be convinced to buy a new garment that, in effect, they already own. … Value addeddetails [my emphasis] are those that are inherently necessary to a garment but are executed in a novel or interesting way…” thus making them attractive to potential customers.
Well, not that I really need convincing to make another coat for myself, but I will freely admit it is the unique little details in a pattern (and gorgeous fabric, of course) which convince me I MUST make THIS coat, even though I might not really NEED it. Such was the case with my very pink coat, which is now finished.
Those details included 1) the three welt pockets with flaps, 2) the concealed front closure, 3) the arrowhead detail accompanying the minimal top-stitching, 4) the sleeve tabs (okay, not really a necessary detail, but a very nice one!), and 5) the opportunity to add a little flash to the lining with edge-piping.
I’ll cover the sleeve tabs first since they were the detail in question in my last post.
As you can observe, I decided to leave them with the buttons facing forward. Several comments left by readers (thank you – you know who you are and I am very appreciative!) got me thinking anew about the orientation of the tabs. Then I had an aha moment when I realized that the one button which is visible on the front of the coat, at the neckline, might look a bit disconnected without its counterparts showing on the sleeves. Decision made, with confidence! However, I doubt I will ever look at a sleeve tab in quite the same way again.
The three welt pockets with flaps are quite likely my favorite detail on this coat. First of all, I like making them. There is a certain feeling of empowerment, although slightly nerve-wracking, to cut those big slashes into the front of the coat and be confident it will all be okay. And this type of pocket is just so pretty when they are done. In addition, while they are utilitarian, they also suggest refinement, elevating a simple car coat to a coat with some sophistication and flair.
I must have a certain penchant for concealed coat fronts. This is the third one I have made and I can let you know there may be more to come (but not soon.) As I mentioned in my last post, I was able to reduce the bulk of the closure by using my lining fabric for one layer of the buttonhole side of the front flap.
I made three machine buttonholes for this part of the flap, which made everything lay flat and neat.
The gray buttons – 6 of them, which is what I needed – were in my collection, so that was a happy find. They are 1950s’ vintage gray pearl, very appropriate indeed for this 1957 pattern.
Although this coat pattern called for some topstitching, it was minimal. Just the sleeve tabs, the pocket flaps and the collar, plus the front detail on the right side. I was unhappy with the machine topstitching I did at the front closure. There was enough bulk from the wool and the facing and the fly front, that it interfered with the smoothness of the topstitching. So I took it out. Initially I was going to do without topstitching and the arrowhead detail, but it looked a bit plain and unfinished. So I did my fallback to what I know works – topstitching by hand. Because of the hand-worked arrowhead detail, I felt hand topstitching would not look out of place. Of course, I had never done an embroidery arrowhead before, so I had to practice, practice practice so it hopefully does not look amateurish.
Finally, coat linings lend themselves so beautifully to that extra little treatment – a narrow edge piping.
I deviated from my Vogue pattern to add this dressmaker detail, but I am sure they would have approved. My Avoca wool scarf which is such a perfect complement to this coat inspired me to choose checked piping. I “robbed” a small corner from some pink silk gingham (intended for a Spring coat, as mentioned previously here) to make my flat piping.
Well, there you have it. My first major project of 2022 finished. I am happy I chose pink for my theme this year as it has brightened up many a dark day in this troubled world of ours.
When I am getting ready to start a new project with a pattern new to me, I like to read through all the instructions just to get a feel for what is ahead. That lets me know if I can mix things up a bit, deviate from the step-by-step instructions, prepare a component ahead of time (such as sleeves. If I feel confident about the fit, I will often make the sleeves first and set them aside until I am ready for them). During this initial study of the instruction sheet, all was straightforward except for one thing. For the life of me, I could not figure out how the concealed – or fly – opening on the front was constructed. I have done this type of opening before (here and here), but this construction was different.
Because I wanted to use my gray lining fabric for one layer of the buttonhole side of the opening (to reduce bulk) I needed to know if I could do that and be confident that the lining would not show. So I REALLY needed to understand how this detail went together. I decided I would have to do a trial run. What better use of a well-marked muslin (toile) than to use it for this task? Armed with pins, I proceeded to do a mock-up.
Instead of taking my mock-up apart, I decided to keep it for referral when I got to that point of the coat. And I am so glad I did. It helped me through many a confusing moment, giving me confidence that I was doing this correctly. Wouldn’t it be nice if all of life gave one a trial run first before facing the real thing – and then stood by to offer reassurance? Well, you will have to wait to see the finished opening in my next post, but it is all but complete. And I must confess, I think it is going to be very lovely.
Now here is something to ponder. A few days ago I walked into my sewing room and was startled to observe something that did not seem right on my up-to-that-point constructed coat. I had it hanging on my dress form and almost had a panic attack when I looked at the to-be-buttoned tabs on the sleeves. It certainly looked as though I had sewn them on backwards! The buttonholes, and therefore the soon-to-be-attached buttons, were oriented toward the front of the sleeve, rather than the back.
Before completely losing it, I went to my pattern, and there, plain as day in the illustration, the tabs wrapped around to the front of the sleeve.
I still could not quite believe it, so I went to the illustrations in the 1957 Vogue Pattern Book Magazine, shown in my last post. Yep – the tabs were oriented the same way as mine. Just to make sure, I checked the silk organza under-lining on the two-part sleeves to double check my markings which would tell me that the backs of the sleeves were truly in the back (although my common sense had already answered this question for me. Of course, the sleeves would not have gone in as smoothly as they did if I had put them in incorrectly).
After being reassured repeatedly that I had not made a BIG mistake, I started to question why the tabs were oriented that way. I looked for other examples of buttoned sleeve tabs. I found one or two in which the tab wraps around to the front, but most tabs were sewn into the inside seam, wrapped around the front and buttoned just past the center point of the sleeve (or seam, if there was a center seam as with my pattern), toward the back. I wondered if this might one of those things which is distinctly feminine, such as the fact that buttonholes on womens’ apparel are on the right, whereas mens’ are on the left. But no, I could not verify that.
Now I am left with a decision to make. Somehow, I think I would like the tabs on my coat to button toward the back. I had faced the tabs with my gray lining fabric, again to reduce bulk. I think that gray lining would better stay undercover should the tabs button in the back. I also think a backward orientation will reduce the incidence of “catching” the tab on things. Both of those considerations obviously figure into my thinking. Do I take out the bottom part of the finished sleeves, with their pretty catch-stitched seams, remove the tabs and reorient them?
Or do I leave well-enough alone and stay true to my vintage pattern? I must decide before the lining goes in the coat. Which brings me to the realization I have just 4 pattern pieces remaining, all for the lining. Part 3 of this saga is just around the corner.
Some projects deserve more than one blog post and this pattern and coat fall into that category.
From the magical year of 1957 (I promise some time I will devote an entire post to the notable spot that the year 1957 occupies in the modern history of fashion), this coat pattern is in a class of its own. Referred to as a “car coat” in two Vogue Pattern Book Magazine entries, it is a quintessential example of that genre. Here’s why:
It is a wonderful example of fashion following lifestyle. The copyright date of 1957 puts it firmly in the early appearance of this form. To wit, the entry for car coats in Fairchild’s Dictionary of Fashion reads: “Sport or utility coat made hip-to-three-quarter length, which is comfortable for driving a car. First became popular with the station-wagon set in suburbia in the 1950s and 1960s and has become a classic style since then.” (ibid, p. 89)
The flap pockets – three of them – are intentionally utilitarian, but also add a certain finesse to the coat. Those flaps help protect the contents of the pocket – in the case of a car coat, obviously keys, perhaps gloves, or even a change purse.
The side slits give a bit of wiggle room to the area of the hips, for sliding in and out of car seats. And the buttoned tabs at the wrists add to its aesthetic appeal. No, they are not really necessary, but that is not what this coat was all about. It was meant to be extremely functional, but smart looking.
The concealed front in View B, commonly referred to as a fly front, steps the appearance of this coat up a notch. Particularly notable is the arrowhead detail at the top of the topstitching on the front of the coat.
The busy mother and wife would have looked very “put-together” wearing this coat out and about. Later versions of the car coat style included Benchwarmer, Duffel coat, Ranch coat, Mackinaw jacket, Stadium coat, and Toggle coat (according to Fairchild’s Dictionary of Fashion) But this coat was a car coat, in its very pure early, but fashionable form.
This pattern is featured twice in the Vogue Pattern Book Magazine from August-September 1957.
Here is the longer version shown on page 22:
And here on page 37 is a drawing (by illustrator Dilys Wall) of the coat in red with this description: “A hounds-tooth-check car coat with three flap pockets, side-slit seams, and tab-button detail on the sleeves. Designed in sizes 10 to 18.”
Interestingly, also featured in this same magazine is this example of a child’s coat, also with a fly front. This type of opening takes more skill – and time – to make. I love the affirmation this item gives to the commitment and ability of the home-sewer in the 1950s.
Because this coat has those extra details which put it a notch above ordinary, there is a lot of preparation work before seams can actually be sewn together. The sleeve tabs, with their bound buttonholes must be complete before the sleeve seams can be sewn. Additionally, the set-in pockets with their flaps present a considerable amount of prep work on the fronts of the coat. Sounds like fun to me! More to come . . .
Or do you call them pants? For some reason, I tend to think there are slight differences between pants and slacks. But not so, according to Fairchild’s Dictionary. Slacks are listed as “Synonym for pants. Term is usually applied to loose-cut casual pants, not part of a suit. In the 1930s when women first began wearing pants for leisure activities, these garments were generally called slacks rather than pants.” (The Fairchild Dictionary of Fashion, by Charlotte Mankey Calasibetta and Phyliss Tortora, Third Edition, Fairchild Publications, Inc, New York, New York, 2003, p. 359-360). I find this interesting, and a little confusing. I have always thought of slacks as a bit more refined than just pants. “Slacks and a sweater” conjures up a town-and-country-state of mind for me – rich wool, cable-knit sweater and a string of pearls or simple gold necklace. Perfect for being comfortable but stylish. Although it doesn’t really matter what one calls them – pants or slacks – I prefer “slacks” – especially when they are finished!
It took so many fittings during the process of making these slacks, and so many minor tweaks, so that when I finally took the last stitch, I was so relieved! A lot of thought went into them which I will share here.
First of all, the vintage wool I was using (and from which my matching cape is being constructed) is – you guessed it – an uneven plaid. Fortunately, the dominant colors in the plaid allowed me to “ignore” the uneven aspect and concentrate on what WAS even, if that makes sense.
Then I had to determine where I wanted those lavender lines to hit my hips, and where I wanted them to run up and down the legs. These considerations needed to accommodate where I wanted the pants-leg hems to fall in relation to the larger blocks of the plaid. I generally like to have a hem fall somewhere mid-way between dominant horizontal lines. I never want a dominant horizontal line to be right at the edge of a hem if I can avoid it.
I underlined these slacks with silk organza, I lined them with silk crepe de chine (from Emma One Sock Fabrics). I am lining the cape with matching color silk charmeuse, but I wanted a lighter weight lining for the slacks. The only exception to this is the facing on the waistband, for which I used silk charmeuse. The interior of the waistband may occasionally be against my bare skin, and silk charmeuse is just a bit more comfortable in areas which call for a snugger fit.
It was serendipitous that I had a wool sweater, purchased many years ago, which is a perfect complement to the darker purple/eggplant color in the plaid.
Now I’m excited to make more progress on that cape, which has taken a backseat to holiday sewing and shopping. It may, indeed, be after Christmas until the cape gets its debut, but life has its priorities, doesn’t it?
While bogged down in the fitting of these wool slacks, my mind has been thinking about capes instead.
I know myself well enough to recognize it is always prudent to work on the least favorable item first and save the ”goodies” for later, and that is what I have done with this cape and slacks ensemble introduced in my last post. There is a reason I have made few pairs of slacks in my years of sewing: I find fitting them tedious. So, while I think I am just about satisfied with how they are coming along, the thing which has kept me sane is the prospect of making that beautiful cape.
All of this has led me to do a little research into capes. I started with Fairchild’s Dictionary of Fashion, as I often do when investigating a sewing/fashion topic. Well, oh my! There happen to be no fewer than 8 pages of entries for capes, cloaks, and shawls! It turns out a cape is not just a cape, and the history of capes is long indeed. For my purposes here, the simple definition of a cape is sufficient: “Sleeveless outerwear of various lengths usually opening in center front; cut in a full circle, in a segment of a circle, or on the straight – usually with slits for arms. A classic type of outerwear worn in one form or another throughout history….” (The Fairchild Dictionary of Fashion, Third Edition, by Charlotte Mankey Calasibetta and Phyllis Tortora, Fairchild Publications, Inc., New York, New York, c2003)
Interestingly, Christian Dior has no entry for capes in his Little Dictionary of Fashion, another one of my go-to reference books. But as luck would have it, the newest J. Peterman Company catalogue, Owners Manual No. 197, Holidays 2021, arrived in my mailbox this week. And there on page 5, he has offered for sale a Plaid Wool Cape, with the enticing caption: “Capes are mysterious. Alluring. Functional. In the past, they’ve existed as an alternative to coats so you wouldn’t crush your real clothing…” He goes on to say one will not want to take off this particular cape, as there could be nothing better under it. Well, I guess that’s an arguable point, but you get the picture. Capes demand attention, but in a good way.
I started thinking about the patterns I have gathered over the years, and I remembered at least two which feature capes. Once I got into my pattern collection, I found four besides the one I am currently using.
The earliest one is clearly this Vogue Couturier Design from the second half of the 1950s.
Its description reads: “Suit and Reversible Cape. Easy fitting jacket with concealed side pockets buttons below shaped collar. Below elbow length sleeves. Slim skirt joined to shaped waistband. Reversible, collarless cape has arm openings in side front seams.” I think this is pretty spectacular, and while the suit is lovely, it is enhanced many times over by the addition of the short cape.
Next is this Advance pattern from the 1960s, a cape in two lengths.
I was attracted to this pattern because of its lengthwise darts, its rolled collar and back neckline darts.
The 1970s is represented by the Molyneux pattern I am using and two more: a Pucci design and a Sybil Connolly design.
I purchased the Pucci pattern for the dress (which I now believe to be too “youthful” for me), but its cape certainly completes the outfit. The description reads: “…Cape with jewel neckline has arm openings in side front seams; back vent [which I find interesting}. Top-stitch trim.”
And the final cape pattern I own – almost a capelet – is this Sybil Connolly design. The caption states “…Short asymmetrical flared cape has side button closing.” No arm slits in this cape.
I actually made this cape a number of years ago, but I must admit I have worn it infrequently. The wide stance of the neckline makes it a little unstable. I guess there is a good reason most capes have a tighter neckline – and open in the center front.
So there is my whirlwind cape tour. What do you think? Are capes alluring and mysterious? Functional and sophisticated? I, for one, think capes have a slightly romantic charm to them. Do you?
Do you love pockets and add them to your sewn creations wherever you can? Would you be happy never to have to sew another pocket? Do you tolerate them in a garment, preferring to do without if possible? Many people have very strong opinions about pockets or the lack thereof. I think those of us who sew are among those with the strong opinions, primarily because we have it in our power to add them or delete them. My personal mantra on pockets is “Let’s see if we can do without them, unless we can’t.”
I generally divide my thoughts about pockets into three categories: those in dress pants (slacks), those in dresses and skirts, and those in dressier coats and jackets. (A little caveat is probably useful here before I get any further. Yes, jeans should have pockets, as should hiking and/or activewear pants and shorts. And absolutely, pockets are part of the functionality of active outdoor coats and jackets and vests. Those categories are not part of this discussion.)
It was over two decades ago when I first started thinking about the dilemma pockets in slacks present. I had just purchased a navy blue wool flannel, dressy pair of slim pants, which fit well and were flattering. There were two welt pockets on either side of the front which were basted closed, as is the custom in better clothes (leaving it up to the purchasing customer to remove the basting.) I left the basting in and preserved the slim silhouette of the slacks. Had I removed the basting, the front, I am sure, would have “pooched” out at those two spots and, well, not done my tummy any favors. Once I started buying vintage patterns a decade ago, I began to notice the slacks in the patterns from the 1950s generally were pocketless. (I have long thought fashion and style in the decade of the 1950s was at its zenith, both in elegance and in silhouette, which is a topic for another discussion.) Here a few examples of patterns from the 1950s:
In my mind, pockets in dress slacks are superfluous at best, detrimental at worst, and just unnecessary. Although I rarely make pants and slacks, I have yet to put a pocket in any of them.
Dresses and skirts are a bit more complicated. Fuller skirts often provide the perfect camouflage for in-seam pockets. I have sewn at least three such styles, the patterns for which included pockets in the side seams. Interestingly, two of them were vintage Diane von Furstenberg patterns from the 1970s; the other is a more recent Vogue shirt dress.
There was a charming article appearing this summer in a Weekend Edition of The Wall Street Journal by author Jasmine Guillory and her “perfect dress” which, alas, has pockets. (Check her website here to read the article under “About”.) Here is what she wrote, “The only element that mars this dress’s perfection is its pockets. This might be a controversial statement, but I don’t like dresses with pockets. They pooch at my hips, even when empty, and if you put something in them, it’s worse…. What’s this great need for dresses with pockets?” She goes on to say she regularly takes her dresses with pockets to the dry cleaner to have the pockets removed. (Alas, again! Her dry cleaner closed during the pandemic, meaning that her “perfect dress” still has its pockets, making it “almost perfect.”)
But what about slimmer silhouettes? In-seam pockets could cause the same “gapping” situation, which begs the question “Would you put anything in those pockets which would cause that pocket to gap even more? Probably not. I would place my hankie or my cell phone or lip stick in my handbag, not in my pocket – and that goes for fuller skirts as well. (Besides, like Jasmine Guillory, I am quite smitten with handbags.)
However, what about in-seam pockets which are part of the design? Here is a notable example:
And then, of course, applied pockets are often part of the design, but not really intended for practical use. Take a look at this evening gown:
You might be able to tell I have decided I am not so keen on pockets in skirts and dresses either – UNLESS they are integral to the design.
Which brings us to coats and jackets. I think one’s first reaction to this category would be “Well, of course, jackets and coats need to have pockets.” And for the most part, I would agree with that. Often pockets in coats and jackets are part of the design and add stylistic interest as well as functionality. Here are a few examples of coats I have made, with such pockets:
Here is a jacket pattern which is in my sewing queue for 2022. I absolutely love the pockets.
And where would a Classic French jacket be without its pockets? They are not really functional, but undeniably integral to the design.
Not all coats have pockets, however. Take a look at this Madame Gres design which I made in a lavender linen. It has no pockets, nor would I want them in this Spring coat.
And here is a “summer” coat which I think is just so chic. No pockets.
I have made this coat pattern twice – once with pockets and once without.
But here is the same pattern, made as a “cocktail” coat. I made it pocketless and love it.
Clearly there is much to consider when it comes to pockets. When we add them to a garment, or delete them, or change their placement, or baste them shut to eliminate that dreadful “pooch” problem, we are admitting that not all pockets are equal. Some are perfect in every way, some not so much, and some – are never missed.
One might get the idea I love to iron should they take stock of how many cotton blouses I have made over the past few years. Now I do love a crisp cotton blouse, and I find them to be imminently wearable, neat and tidy, and versatile. So I keep making them. But do I love to iron? Not really, although it is not my most dreaded household chore. (I think that might be grocery shopping – or more precisely, lugging everything home and putting it all away. I don’t like that.)
One advantage to having lots and lots of cotton blouses is that the ironing can pile up, yet I will still have blouses to go to in my closet, so there’s that. I think – no, I know – another reason I keep making casual cotton blouses is that I love to sew with beautiful quality cotton (of course Liberty comes to mind!) The selection of quality cotton prints, checks, plaids, stripes, and solids available online is astoundingly diverse, making the temptation great to make “just one more blouse.”
And then there are the buttons. If you follow my sewing life through this blog, you know my fascination with and pursuit of vintage buttons to use on my blouses and other projects. Yes, a white plastic button can perform the same function, but a beautiful pearl button adds a touch of class to a simple blouse like no other detail can.
It also helps that I have a set of blouse patterns which fit well due to many alterations and tweaking over several years’ use. It is a lovely feeling to start a new project, knowing I don’t have to fit the pattern and make a muslin before I can get started on the fashion fabric.
I had been eyeing this Liberty cotton lawn on the Farmhouse Fabrics website for quite a while when I decided last Spring to go ahead and indulge. Having a floral among my blouse selections is something just a bit different for me, as I already have numerous ginghams, plaids, and stripes.
So – is Tuesday really for ironing? There used to be a proscribed schedule for all those household chores – and it went like this:
Monday: Wash Day
Tuesday: Ironing Day
Wednesday: Sewing Day
Thursday: Market Day
Friday: Cleaning Day
Saturday: Baking Day
Sunday: Day of Rest
Well, times have changed. Now, every day is Sewing Day.
Eyelet is one of those fabrics which can conjure up memories from one’s life. So often associated with pinafores, eyelet is lovely for little girls’ dresses – and petticoats. It is often used for lingerie or sleepwear for all ages, as well as dresses and blouses. It is a summer fabric, with its “built-in” air conditioning – ie. all those little holes surrounded by embroidery. Often eyelet trim – and sometimes eyelet yard goods – have one or two finished borders. Such was the case with the eyelet I found earlier this year for the ruffled collars for sundresses for my granddaughters.
It was working on those collars which convinced me I needed to make an eyelet bouse for myself. I went back to Farmhouse Fabrics, from which I had purchased the double-sided eyelet panel for those collars, to find a suitable eyelet for a blouse. Farmhouse Fabrics has quite an inventory of lovely eyelets, so it was difficult to decide. But decide I did, and purchased this all-cotton eyelet made in Spain.
For a pattern I used this vintage Vogue pattern from 1957.
I liked the convertible collar of this pattern, as shown in View B. A convertible collar is one which can be worn open or closed. The collar is sewn directly to the neckline. I did, however, shorten the sleeves to below elbow-length. I also chose to make plain, buttoned cuffs without the extra turn-back detail.
Although the blouse is described on the pattern envelope as “tuck-in,” I liked the gently curved and split hem which would also allow me to wear the blouse as an over-blouse. The thumbnail detail from the pattern envelope shows the curved hem.
I lined the main body of the blouse with white cotton batiste, leaving the sleeves unlined. To reduce bulk, I made the undercollar and the cuff facings from the white batiste.
Buttons are always a favorite component of a blouse for me. I had a card of vintage Lady Washington Pearls which seemed a lovely complement to the scale of the fabric embroidery.
I first wore this blouse on a very warm evening to attend an outdoor concert. I was amazed at how cool the blouse was. The little breeze there was, did indeed feel like air-conditioning as it wafted through all those embroidered holes!
Finding beautiful eyelet fabric is now on my sewing radar. I would like to make more with this timeless, feminine and versatile type of lace.
When inspiration strikes, one must seize it, even if it doesn’t really make sense. You may remember this fabric from a couple of months ago, purchased online from Britex Fabrics:
This is one of those fabrics which has just gotten better and better the more I have looked at it. I have had it sitting out in my sewing room since it arrived, just pondering its potential. Then one day I went “shopping” in my fabric closet. I have my stored fabrics divided according to fiber or usage, with a large “basket” container for each class. For example, all the silks are together, as are the linens, the cottons, the lining and underlining and interfacing fabrics, with the wools (which take up more space due to their generally bulkier nature) stacked on shelves next to the baskets. Well, this particular day – the day I went “shopping” – I pulled out the silk fabrics just to reacquaint myself with what exactly I had in that container. Buried down at the very bottom I found a deep pink, polka dotted silk charmeuse jacquard and INSPIRATION struck! I had found the perfect complement to my newly acquired floral printed silk twill.
At that point all I could imagine was a pink silk blouse and a flowing hostess skirt. My prudent, practical side told me I have no occasion for such an outfit. But my creative, dreamy side said “If you make it, you will wear it.” I am stealing the following quote from some unknown sage, but it is speaking to me now: “The chief enemy of creativity is good sense.”
These two fabrics are meant for each other with their perky polka dots and shared sheen. And the somewhat amazing thing is I purchased the pink charmeuse probably 10 years ago from – you guessed it – Britex Fabrics!
Once I had the two fabrics side by side, I really began to “see” the floral twill, all its intricacies, the brilliance of design in having a spacious polka-dotted field for those whimsical flowers, and the color combination where the blues and pinks play off of each other in a color tug-of-war. In the words of Oscar Wilde, “To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing.” [My italics]
My mental wheels were really turning by this time. I knew what blouse pattern would be perfect for this two-piece project. I had made this 1950’s pattern a few years ago in a silk dupioni – and it has continued to rank among my most favorite makes.
I will have to search for a skirt pattern, but suffice it to say, it should have uncluttered lines to show off the fabric, and it definitely needs to have a gentle fullness to it. Decisions still need to be made as to how I underline this fabric. I believe white cotton batiste will be best, as I will need to block the show-through of the pink blouse fabric. That, combined with a white crepe de chine lining, should do the trick. We will see, as they say.
Time is, God-willing, on my side. I envision the start of this project in late Winter or early Spring of 2022. And buried deep in my head – like that pink fabric buried deep in its lair – is the thought I may just have to HOST some tony party to provide the perfect setting for my elegant hostess skirt and swanky blouse. Who wants an invitation?