needled

Mr B knew there was something funny going on when I brightened up at the prospect of darning and patching the arse of his jeans. “I’ve seen you,” he said, “looking at those books. You just want to do some elaborate darning, like the stuff you saw in there.” I rolled my eyes and told him that darning was about use, not ornament, and was therefore never ‘elaborate’. But he kind of had a point . . . about the book at least:

I have had darning on the brain since I saw these wonderful samplers by late eighteenth- and nineteenth-century young Quaker women in a book I am now reading (more on this later). While the main purpose of these samplers is evidently the learning of a useful household skill, there is lots of showing-off involved too. Examples like this one are, to me, breathtaking decorative objects which, like other kinds of sampler, are obviously meant for display, circulation, and private appreciation. Indeed, many of the items of plain work or utility sewing in the book seemed to me to be stitched with large quantities of (entirely justified) hubris. The immaculately executed and minute herringbone stitch in this sampler really fills me with wonder. Unfortunately, I have no reason to be similiarly proud of my darning skills. For me, mending really is all about utility.

To fix Mr B’s pants, then, I darned the hole and reinforced the arse with a patch on the inside, as per the instructions in a book my sister got for me, which contains reproductions of WWII government-issued pamphlets. It’s absolutely brilliant. Though I don’t need advice on using anthracite in your boiler, or how to sew with parachute nylon, the sections on darning, and other things — moths, clothing alteration, making kid’s slippers out of old rugs — are really fantastic.

I have only darned socks before, and not very well, frankly. So I am thrilled to say I did a much better job with Mr B’s arse because of the instructions in this book. He’s not keen on my illustrating that here, so you’ll just have to take my word for it (ahem).

Anyway, the reason why my sister gave me the book is because I have decided to stop buying clothes. I plan to do this indefinitely, but until the end of 2008 at least. I have been very inspired by various bloggers’ refashioning pledges and Alex Martin’s Brown Dress Project and have been thinking about it for some time. But one of the many things that has really got to me of late is this advert for Tesco’s ‘affordable elegance’ range. Let’s wear dresses so cheap they are disposable! Let’s add to the world’s landfill a veritable mountain of garments so badly made, out of such poor materials, that Oxfam can’t re-sell or recycle them! Let’s exploit the lives and labour of third world women to clothe the women of the West in $5 dresses! Huzzah! Its utterly shameless. . . So its make do and mend for me for a while — no clothes, and no new yarn or fabric either . . .

I was very affected by Floresita’s tribute to the lost women of Juarez. For those of you who do not know or have forgotten, over 500 women — most of them poor factory workers — have been horifically raped and killed in Ciudad Juarez over the past decade and a half. Because of Mexico’s fourteen year statute of limitations on murders, many of these crimes will now remain unsolved. This injustice adds yet another appalling burden to the families of these women, who, as well as grieving for loved ones who died in such terrible circumstances, have also had to deal with the insensitve investigations and official negligence of the Mexican police and judicial systems. After reading Florestia’s Dia de las Muertas post, I was moved, as she suggested, to follow her example.

It is a small thing, but I wanted to state my solidarity with Floresita, and opposition to all violence against women, in stitch. Please visit her blog to see her beautifully embroidered act of memory. You can learn more about the Juarez murders from Theresa Rodriguez’s book or Amnesty International.