La Via da Qui

From a budgeting perspective, this hobby could go either way. It could be great for my savings, as I'll no longer buy things I never wear, but it could be terrible, as I'll fall in love with patterns and fabrics and get all excited... ...so I've made some rules  Only buy fabric with a pattern in mind (thus buy the correct amount and don't end up with a massive stash) No more than 5 projects in the sewing queue - i.e. if I haven't sewn from every pattern at least once, I am not allowed to buy any more patterns. The one exception here is a pattern that I bought by mistake - clicked on the wrong button when I ordered it! I don't like it so I'm not making it. The Sewing Queue As It currently Stands Style Arc Kate Wrap Dress (completed) Sewaholic Thurlow Trousers in blue fabric (in progress - one muslin pocket down!) Sewaholic Cambie Dress in red fabric - both already purchased Style Arc Melissa Blouse in muslin (depending on how it turns ...

Mum taught me to sew when I was young. I don't remember a great deal of what I learned, but the most important lessons stuck with me: - 1) how to read a pattern - 2) the basics of using a sewing machine - 3) don't cut paper with sewing scissors (maybe that should be 1) - 4) I can do it! For years, a combination of bad/expensive local fashion, lack of good fabric sources, and ugly sewing patterns, has stayed my hand when it comes to putting my sewing knowledge to use. But finally, FINALLY, the internet has come into its potential and connected people for purposes other than arguing about politics or looking at naughty pictures. Now, thanks to Mr Internet, I can get the energy, inspiration and confidence I need to start sewing my own clothes, properly. There's Tasia in Canada, whose  Sewaholic blog started me on my path. She made it sound fun and she explained so many tips and tricks in detail that I actually got excited to try things like "bias binding"! ...

Floorboards: old, dusty, the white gravel/sand from outside has trodden its way in. Nobody in here speaks and the silence is meditative, broken only by the scritch-scratch of pencils, crayons, charcoal scampering across the textured pages of people’s sketch pads. The walls are adorned with black and white drawings and Ella, our model, lies in repose in the room's centre. She is beautiful. The has long golden hair that catches the light, fanning from her crown in disarray. Her eyebrows are dark and expressive, framing her long dark lashes and arching towards each other above her delicate little snub nose. Her lips are a deep rose that is echoed in her areolae. The light rests on her skin, allowing the encroachment of soft shadows over her stomach, onto her thighs, between her fingers and around the flare of her nostrils. An orange ring sparks with a bright point of brilliance, as though it is the true light source of the room. She is delicate, quiet, relaxed, and her childish ...

Taken from an article at the Guardian: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying 1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. "This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it." 2. I wish I hadn't worked so hard. "This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children's youth and their partner's companionship. Women also spoke of this regret, but as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the ...

I first saw her in December. She was perched on the pavement, sunlight bathing her features, flowers in her hair. She had a look of calm, clean beauty about her and I was smitten. But I never thought she would be mine. I watched her through January, planning and scheming ways to entice her into my world. Her beauty was dazzling but I began to see that her style was not to everyone's taste...maybe she was within my reach after all? I told my friends about her, praised her character and charm to the skies; they all agreed that she was perfect for me. I dreamt of dressing her in pretty fabrics, buying her trinkets of colour and light, and spending my nights safely esconced in her embrace. In February I finally found the courage to approach her. Then, somehow, before I knew it, promises were made and she was mine! Want to see her? Here she is... .

It was two years ago, July, summer. I was sitting on the grass at Villa Borghese, cross legged with a book in my lap. The heat was stultifying and I was wearing as little clothing as I could realistically get away with in public. My hair was stuck to my neck and I was sipping from a waterbottle while reading through a "Guide to Europe" book. I had a year stretching ahead of me and only a few weeks of it were solid, looming out of the emptiness like words floating in a vast universe... volunteering in July, La Tomatina in August, London for Christmas, New York for February, home sometime around April. The rest was....what? I had to determinedly avert my thoughts from a sense of panic. I remember thinking at the time that I felt like I was standing on top of a very, very high diving board, blindfolded, with only my faith to tell me that there was water in the pool below. I dithered for a bit, then took a breath, opened a page of the book, liked the sound of a town called "...