My god-sister called me a bit ago and said, “Send me some gowns.” I was moving at the time and so I shoved them in a box like they were bits of tacky calico cotton instead of precious fairy frocks. I can’t imagine what it looked like when it arrived, probably a bad scene out of Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book.
Besides linen work duds for hard farming, my favorite thing to make is something fae. It-don’t-make-no-kinda-sense, my penchant for: utilitarian minimalism & then a mess of silk and frill and fantasy. I want to blame it on something – probably my parentage, but that fae bit is totally the fault of my Crumpackers. My god-momma could sew anything you ever dreamed up and I grew up sitting on the floor of her blue-muppet carpeted sewing room trying on costumes for my stylist & art director god-sister’s latest fashion shoot, or runway show.
And so I grew up to became an apparel designer that wanted to create well designed working clothes & also spin dream dust & then have birds come gather the gowns & flit them to their rightful homes.
The result of that phone call from my god-sister arrived in my mailbox this week:
The most complicated and work intensive part of design work is The Photoshoot. The prep, the plan, the 1,000 moving parts and people that make that one gorgeous photograph. If you haven’t been a part of it, it is something you cannot imagine.
I had things to say. I had heartfelt rants to rant. I kept trying to talk about froufy dresses and farm parties, but I was getting stuck in the mud and the muck of an aching heart over The State of Things. And then a friend reminded me that putting beauty into the world is its own act of protest and promise. Loving people with different opinions & inviting them all to come together whilst I wear a grown-ass-woman’s fairy princess skirt has it’s own merits.
As an apparel designer I opine that we only have 3 seasons really. Too hot, too cold and just right. Just right is alluring & slippery. And like all things coveted, it lasts for 3 weeks, twice a year. To be honest, floor length slips of silk are actually too dang hot at anything over 79 degrees and like sheets of ice at anything below 63.
So when you have it (and it happens to be your birthday month) – fae out my friends. Wear all that silly silky floaty floor length business. Get twigs and grass in the hems.
It’s a big fat pie slice of heaven here:
I hope you’re well. I hope you’re whole. If you’re not, I hope you’re supported and finding folks who love you, stand by you and up for you and I hope your path gets easier.
& I heard these words from the wounded: look up, look in, and take them time to offer a word and a smile.