I did go to the annual Jane Austen Ball in Pasadena, dressed in my slightly out of fashion Turq(ish) jacket and "Italianate rump". Not cork, but padded and definitely not wearing mouse brows. I painted them on with burned cloves as fashion dictates. I should have stuffed by cheeks with wool and been a la mode 1789..... We all re-live our youth.
|Giving good Goya|
Why Gaul-ic? Because it's divided in three parts.
|That's going to kick up something fierce, all my edges tremble.|
|These have to be sewn on individually, a bead, a drop, another bead and home again. Repetitive work is kind of soothing.|
|See, three parts.|
Last month (was it only last month) my brother lost a button from a vest I made and became unaccountably sad. At the loss of a button. He is not sentimental, but he is effusive and grateful for a new bit of sartorial splendor. But buttons spill from my pockets, I leave them in my wake. I cry button tears and comb them out of my hair. I have them in pseudo-military metal and fragile tissue wrapped glass, with "made in Czechoslovakia" on the label. I have candy colored plastic ones from the Sixties ready for a knock-off A-line dress. I have Art Deco and Nouveau. I would never make a garment that didn't have extras, am I mad? I think ultimately I am made of buttons, buttons and clay like a sewing golem (I always knew). Animated by singular sentimental buttons.
Ever Your Thimble Servant,