Weekend reading: On Marie Kondo and David Bowie

Vieux-Montreal, December 2015

Yes, I'm serious.

First, there was this article in Slate, which argues that Marie Kondo's campaign against clutter is actually "a nonstop assault on the most basic form of human denial," that of our own eventual, inevitable demise: "The piles of stuff we might need someday are an argument that we will always be around to need them."

The article crystallizes something that I've suspected about myself but hadn't quite put the words to: I do tend to take on too much, too many projects, and the physical stuff that comes along with them (I'm thinking mostly of creative pursuits here, especially my shameful fabric stash). And in a funny, almost-hidden way, it's absolutely a bulwark against mortality. It's a way of telling myself: There will be time for everything.

Which brings me to David Bowie. It was striking how within hours of the announcement of his death -- a surprise to all but those closest to him -- pretty much the entire Internet had realized that with his last album, released just days before, Bowie had essentially written his own eulogy. 

I won't pretend here that I am a fan of Bowie's -- or a hater, either; I don't know much of anything at all about his music. (I am what is known as a musical putz, actually). If you, like me, are more literarily than musically inclined, there's also this: a posthumously published memoir by Paul Kalanithi, who was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer while studying to be a neurosurgeon. An excerpt appears here in the New Yorker.

The juxtaposition of these two pieces of art have me thinking about creativity and the art that people make when they know they are dying. (N.B. in case it wasn't obvious: We are all dying.) I'm sorry if this all seems morbid, but there's actually a psychological argument to be made that thinking more about our own deaths will in fact make us happier. 

What does all this have to do with stuff? I have also sometimes allowed myself to acknowledge a sneaking suspicion that this very habit of taking on too much, and having too many planned projects (and the supplies that accompany them) actually hampers creativity, makes it more difficult for me to focus on completing any one thing.

And, sure, there's a balance to be struck here. I'm not shedding my entire queue, just trying to make it a little shorter, so I can focus more completely on the next thing. And acknowledging that some projects aren't going to come to fruition, and then letting them go, is actually producing a weird kind of optimism for me. For example I would love to learn to crochet, but let's face it, I'm not likely to work that into my schedule any time soon. So it doesn't make sense to stockpile a bunch of yarn and thread. But, maybe later in my life, who knows? Perhaps I'll have a crochet season. There will be time for everything.

Finished objects: Living room pillow covers

I made some covers for the throw pillows on our living room sofa.

You can see that the need for new covers was acute. The pillows were hand-me-downs from a friend. (Yay for free decor.) They came with some simple ivory velveteen covers that served us well for a while. But one had gotten quite dingy and one had suffered an even worse fate -- a fatal run-in with a glass of red wine. Oops.



I finished these some weeks ago (there was a sneak peek in my post on Christmas decor) but I'm just getting around to throwing them up on the blog now.

Actually I debated whether they were really "blog-worthy" at all. I mean, I am not exactly breaking new sewing (or decorating) ground with a pair of envelope-back pillow covers. They are nothing more than a bit of arithmetic (I first wrote "algebra" but even that is overstating the case!) and a few straight seams.

On the other hand, I really love them! I love the combination of fabrics -- the backs are a black linen-cotton blend by Robert Kaufman with a wonderful texture, and the fronts are a home-dec-weight fabric with a print of peacocks that I thrifted a while back. The print reminds me a bit of Liberty of London (it's not, as far as I know, just has that look) and feels a bit sophisticated and grown-up.



Also, they took me a whole afternoon to make, so I guess I feel compelled to record the output of my efforts. I am not a very fast seamstress, perhaps because I am not that experienced and don't get to my machine as often as I would like. And when I do sew I like to be very careful and thorough about it. So maybe with more practice I would get faster at banging things out, but I think I'm going to stop worrying about my inability to actually make a "1-hour X" in a mere hour.

All in all, it's good to remember that even simple, commonplace projects can be non-trivial, both in the time and effort required to make them and in their eventual impact.

I did make one mistake in the sewing: I meant to construct both pillow backs so that the outside flap would be on top facing down, as I thought this would keep the pillows looking neater. But I sewed the second one -- of course, it was the very last thing I did, and I was hurrying by that point -- backwards, so that the outside flap is facing up. Oh well, I figured, nobody would really see it and it would be an opportunity to test my hypothesis about which construction technique wears best. (Spoiler alert: I was right, outer flap facing down is best.)



After I finished the pillow covers, I did something very unusual (at least, for me). I put the remaining peacock fabric in my Goodwill bag rather than back on my shelf. I thought: this fabric has served its purpose in my creative life, I'm going to pass the rest of it on (or something along those lines; I swear it sounded less pretentious in my head). And you know what? I don't regret it.

PS: Since we're on the subject, did I ever go through the Christmas stuff to determine what sparks joy in my Grinchy little heart? Reader, I did. And in the end I didn't manage to let go of all that much. I asked my daughter which things were precious to her, and she selected a lot of items that I would have been ready to pass on. So into the Rubbermaid bins and back up to the attic it all went. And I don't regret that either, because after all, it's not just about what sparks joy for me now, is it?

Because what is a perfect Christmas, anyway?

Okay, that last post was a bit of a decoy, I admit.

The pictures were indeed of our home this season, but we weren't there for the actual holiday -- we spent Christmas this year in Montreal.

I mean, once we realized that the airport code for Montreal is YUL, how could we not?

It was lovely to travel again as a family. Sure, there's still a bit of tension around the fact that my husband and I like to travel and my daughter wants to vacation, but each time we go somewhere we get better at it, and that's a great feeling.

The experience was also an interesting counterpoint to some of the thoughts I explored in my last post. We left a house that was cozily decorated for the holidays and arrived at an AirBnB that was perfectly serviceable, but not home, and not decked out in any way. A fake potted plant served as a Christmas tree.



And yet, look at my daughter's body language in that photo above. She is feeling some Christmas magic for sure.

Similarly, our Christmas Eve dinner: split pea soup, bread and cheese, salad. That's a thoroughly everyday meal in our house, as you've previously seen. (We even resorted to bottled salad dressing, in this case.)



I'm not saying we made no concession to the festive occasion. When in Rome (or Montreal, as the case may be), after all...



But the real gift was in that simple meal above. I get a lot of thrill, when I travel, from just doing everyday things -- odd as it may sound, I love to go grocery shopping in foreign cities. And it occurred to me: What immense good fortune, to be able to travel to a different country and have the means and the knowledge to make a familiar, nutritious meal within 24 hours of landing. That is real privilege, if you ask me. And even though our surroundings didn't really look like Christmas, it certainly felt like Christmas in the end.

Only a couple of presents came with us to be opened the next morning. But my daughter still got the essential experience of whiling away the hours playing with new toys.

 

And it seemed that overall, a little bit of abundance can go a long way.



Back home in Seattle, I decided that I couldn't let the holiday season end after all without baking Swedish Christmas bread. Good news: the candied citron lurking in the back of the refrigerator, that I'd made last year, was still just fine.



I added a couple of postcards from the Montreal Fine Arts Museum to our holiday mantel, and we put out milk and cookies for Santa on New Year's Eve. (So yes, that note from Santa above turned out to be slightly inaccurate, but once again my daughter rolled with it. At eight-and-a-half, I suspect she equal parts (1) believes, (2) is humoring her parents, and (3) doesn't want to say anything for fear of disrupting the present racket.)



And we rang in 2016 by finally celebrating Christmas, which wasn't a bad thing at all. Look what showed up in the package from my mom: a book I'd never heard of but can't wait to read, and a doll made by my grandmother that I'd been thinking of recently but didn't know the location of.  The doll, in particular, brought tears to my eyes.



Because it's a new year, but I'm still (despite all the hand-wringing about decluttering) the same old sentimental fool, and I like it that way in the end. Happy 2016, all!

My home this season: December 2015

I thought I would share a few snaps* from around the house while it is still decked out in holiday finery.

(*And yes, they are snaps, quickly captured with my phone -- imperfectly focused and somewhat underexposed, but hopefully they get the point across.)

I love putting out treasured Christmas decorations each year (some pieces treasured because they are beautiful -- like that white-and-gold Lucia figurine below that I have admired since I was small, and that my mother passed down to me a few years ago -- and others because they are silly -- like the Santa I made from a toilet paper roll and red construction paper when I was about five, n.p.).

 

But each year I am also confronted with the realization that we have about three times as many decorations and ornaments as we have room to display, and quite a bit of the excess does not fall into the category of "treasured." Does holiday time in the Marie Kondo era leave anyone else with a feeling of ambivalence?

A lot of our Christmas stuff originally belonged to my husband's grandmother and has been passed down to us by my mother-in-law. My husband's grandmother loved Christmas, and went all-out with decorating. So it's wonderful to have some of her things. I love the little wooden Santas from Germany and the roly-poly tomtar from Sweden.



But she also tended to overbuy Christmas stuff, and had multiples of many items that she never even used. A number of ornaments and other decorations came to us with their original tags from the 1980s still attached.

So these are not sentimental things. And some of them are, um, not exactly my taste, aesthetically speaking. (I don't really think they're my husband's taste, either; if I knew they were, I would feel very differently about them.) Sometimes I look at our Christmas tree and feel a bit burdened by someone else's overconsumption.

And yet, I can't quite bring myself to sort through and cull the Christmas stuff. To do so seems, well, Grinchy. Contrary to the spirit of the season.



Funnily enough, as I was pondering all this my mother-in-law wrote me an email in which she informed me, "I'm just finishing lunch and reading an article in Yes magazine on the KonMari method** and I quote: 'Kondo says that gifting friends and family with our unwanted crap is unfair and actually prevents us from moving on.'  Oh my!  I must stop bringing you Christmas ornaments!"

(**She knows I am a semi-devotee, but, although she has been dedicated to winnowing down her own possessions over the last several years, has not read the book herself.)



And I found myself telling her that I didn't quite think this was the answer. One of the ornaments she passed along to us this year, with instructions to give it to her granddaughter, was her own favorite Christmas ornament: a small, golden Japanese fan that closes and opens, etched with a scene of cranes on one side and a dragon on the other. It's very pretty and delicate, and I think my daughter felt quite grown-up to be entrusted with it. There's a lot of meaning in having physical objects to connect us with our ancestors.

(Looking through my photos I realize I didn't capture a shot of the fan ornament, but it has a prominent place on this little white tree that belongs to my daughter, currently topped with the extravagant purple glass bird that Sinterklaas left in her shoe this year.)




The current craze for decluttering has a lot of upsides (as I notice each time I open one of our newly spacious kitchen cabinets, or marvel at the entirely empty half of one of our kitchen drawers). But one of the downsides is the way that minimalism can actually make us more focused on material things. 

And I suspect this decluttering business is also tied up with some of the other instigators of controlled perfectionism that currently prevail in our culture: the helicopter parenting and Tiger Mom-ing, the snowstorm of closely cropped images that is Pinterest, the relentless "curation" of social media. 

Probably some of us are more susceptible to this sort of thing than others. I find that it's easy for me to get a little too fussy about needing things to be just so, rather than letting them just be.

For example, I felt pleased with myself for not rearranging the ornaments that my daughter had clumped all into a small section of the Christmas tree, and for letting her pick out a selection of cutesy wrapping paper rather than the austere and coordinated grouping that I would have fancied to be sophisticated. And then realized that this tiny bit of letting go was not exactly a reason to get all self-congratulatory. 



I mean, regardless of whether you celebrate Christmas in a religious or secular sense (or forgo anything Christmas-adjacent altogether), I think we can all agree that getting too focused on the trappings*** of the holiday season isn't really the point of the exercise.

(***that's an interesting idiom, isn't it?)

I'm not sure I have a tidy wrap-up to these thoughts. I suspect that there's just a fundamental tension (or maybe, an unexpected kinship) between minimalism and materialism, and I'll probably keep on wiggling at these ideas like a loose tooth of sorts. In the meantime, yes, I'll continue to work on clearing away the crap and the clutter -- but I'll try a little harder to remember that this is not an end but a means.

P.S.: If your Kondo fascination is not yet sated, I thought this was an interesting take on the phenomenon and investigation of the myth and reality behind it.

Slow Fashion October: WORN, and why I care about clothes

This last (I'm a little late with this again; at least I am consistent) week's theme for Slow Fashion October is "WORN," which Karen explains as being about:

heirlooms / second-hand / mending / caring for things / laundering for longevity / design for longevity (bucking trends, quality materials …)

I thought I would pick up on the "second-hand" aspect of the theme.

I think there are a lot of women out there who find that clothes just don't light their fire. Which is honestly awesome. More power to you all: sort out your 'uniform,' wear it with pride and confidence, and go about your important work in the world.

But, the thing is, I really like clothes. I don't mean that I consider myself a fashionable person -- I don't really care about trends and those who do probably give me the side-eye when they see me walking down the street. But I do enjoy the opportunity for creativity that getting dressed represents. I like juxtaposing patterns and colors in an outfit the same way I might in a quilt. I like exploring the way different styles can imply character and narrative in the same way that I like inventing characters in fiction.

And so, though I wholeheartedly believe in the importance of ethically sourced clothing, and the environmental imperatives of minimal (or at least...reasonably sized!) wardrobes made up of items chosen with an eye towards longevity, after a while this all threatens to become a little, well...joyless.

Shopping second-hand can be a solution to this conundrum, I think. It offers an opportunity for low-commitment, low-environmental-impact play. I am always happy when I find wardrobe staples at thrift stores (hello, knee-length denim skirt, and brand-new Breton-striped tunic from J. Crew). But I also like to occasionally relax my rules about what is and isn't "me" a little bit and try something new.

One can go overboard with this; buy anything that appeals to you in some way because "what the hey, it's cheap," and you end up with a mishmash of a closet where it's hard to find the things you truly love. But a little bit of deliberate "I'd like to give this look/item/trend a bash" can be a good strategy. Sometimes you conclude that a particular look doesn't suit you after all, but other times you might discover an enduring element to your style.

While thrifting with my mom during my parents' visit a couple of months ago, I found myself drawn to hippie-like maxi skirts. But I had an inkling that I wanted to wear them in a non-hippie way.

My style is neither "boho" nor preppy/conservative, but I think that sometimes juxtaposing both types of items in an outfit can cancel out or tone down both of those qualities in an interesting way.

So here are two outfits featuring my new maxi skirts, made up entirely of second-hand items. (Sorry for the blurry phone snaps -- this ain't a fashion blog.)

In this warm-weather take on the experiment, the skirt, t-shirt (Ann Taylor LOFT), and wedge sandals (Sofft) are all from thrift stores. The cardigan is by Leifsdottir via Ebay, and the bangle and earrings are both vintage via Etsy.

Next:

This second look is entirely from thrift stores (the sweater is by Banana Republic and the gray suede loafers are by Peter Kent, which I gather is a $$$ Italian brand; I paid $5 for them), except for the pearls which belonged to my husband's grandmother.

The implied narrative here is: "Oh this? I found it in a closet at Gran's country house. Would you believe Aunt Phoebe was a hippie in the sixties?"

In truth, I am not sure how long these skirts will remain in my closet, nor how often I will wear them. But in the meantime I'm having a bit of fun. I think I might wear the second outfit above on Thanksgiving!

Eating lately: October

I am just coming off my busiest, craziest work week of the year, so to get back in to the swing of the domestic side of things, I thought I'd share a few quick snaps of some of our recent meals.

Spaghetti squash with cherry tomatoes and basil. I tried serving spaghetti squash in place of pasta, because healthy! low-carb! But even though I served it with garlic bread, we were ravenous two hours later! This is a delicious recipe, but I think I'll consider it more of a side dish in the future.

Nothing says "Happy Birthday, sweetie, I love you!" like a 10-pound lasagna. (See, because carbs.)

Split pea soup, carrot-raisin salad, and bread and cheese. I agree with Marian that soup with good bread and cheese never goes amiss. And I'm grateful that split pea soup is, unlikely as it may seem, a favorite meal of my very picky eater. Our table looks like this roughly once a week!

Rice and smothered cabbage soup. This was the first recipe I ever cooked from a food blog, way back in 2008, and it's been a staple ever since. It may not look like much, but oh, it's so comforting and wonderful! (Easy, too.)

Works in Progress: Grainline Tiny Pocket Tank muslin and Slow Fashion October

Grainline Tiny Pocket Tank muslin -- hey, at least I've figured out that hemming curves issue!

Here is a muslin for the second of three patterns I've been experimenting with in an effort to find my One True Woven Tank. This is the Tiny Pocket Tank by Grainline Patterns.

It's been a while since I last posted about this project, so to refresh your memory, the first pattern I muslined was the Wiksten Tank, but I decided it probably wasn't for me because (1) no bust darts, and (2) janky shoulders.

As for the Tiny Pocket Tank...I am not sure what I think. When I first tried it on, I thought it was great. When I put it on again to take these photos, I thought it was awful. But when I look at the photos, it seems...ok-ish?

Grainline tank muslin, side view...this is passable, I think.

I do think the Tiny Pocket Tank fits better in the shoulders than the Wiksten Tank, and I think I have some insight into why.

In the photo below, the Wiksten pattern is laid on top of the Tiny Pocket pattern. See the shoulder seam up at the top? The Wiksten tank has much more sloping shoulders compared to the Tiny Pocket pattern.

Direct comparison of the Wiksten and Grainline tank patterns.

So I think, when I lay that angled seam on top of my broad, straight shoulders, the inside portion of the shoulder seam is forced upwards, resulting in exactly the sort of janky shoulder fit that I saw with the Wiksten tank.

Wiksten tank -- janky shoulders.

You wouldn't think such a small angle would make such a big difference, but look what happens when you align the shoulder seams of the two patterns: the Wiksten tank swoops WAY out and up.

A little angle makes a big difference

I suspect this is why I initially wondered if I should lower the armholes of the Wiksten tank. In fact, looking at the patterns, I can see that the Wiksten's armholes are actually markedly lower than those of the Tiny Pocket, and yet the Tiny Pocket tank fit me much more comfortably in the underarms.

So, all in all the Tiny Pocket tank is a much better fit for my body. But it's not perfect. To make this closer to the Woven Tank of My Dreams, I'd need to raise the front neckline (by an inch or maybe a bit more, I think), and also shorten the bust darts (currently they go well past the apex of my bust). I have a short torso and a small bust, so neither of these alterations is very surprising.

I also notice a bit of horizontal pulling above the bust. I see this in a lot of Tiny Pocket Tanks made up online, and I'm not sure what the cause is (in my case, it's obviously not that it's too small there), but I suspect it would bother me a bit.

Horizontal pulling above bust. 

The fit across the back seems not quite right, either. Just under the arms it's very tight, and I suspect that's why I'm seeing that gaping at the back neckline, too -- the too-tight back is forcing the garment upwards.

Too small across the back, no? (Also, sorry for the involuntary sideways-thumb -- which actually sums things up pretty well, come to think of it -- and for the awkwardly placed bathtub faucet -- we only have one wall mirror in the house.)

And yet, from the front, let's be honest...I'm still swimming in this a bit, aren't I? The Liberty lawn that I plan to use to make these tanks will probably drape better than this vintage bedsheet, but it's still a fairly crisp fabric, so I can't rely on drape for a flattering fit.

But...kinda shapeless and blocky from the front.

What I think this adds up to is that the pattern needs the following alterations:
-raise neckline
-shorten bust dart
-cut a size larger (?) at the upper back
-cut a size smaller (? front and back ?) through the torso/waist

But I think I'll muslin my third pattern before doing any of that, to see if it is a better fit in any respect and also to see what additional insights I can gain.

Whew! Are you tired of me nattering on about all this? Me, too. To be honest, I'm feeling a bit demoralized about this project -- rather overwhelmed by the number of tweaks that need to be made in order to get a flattering fit in this very simple sort of garment (a feeling that is magnified by not really being sure how to diagnose what is wrong with the fit or how to fix it).

But I think I need to persevere. Which brings me to Slow Fashion October, an event/experiment/Internet-related happening initiated by Karen Templer. I recently started following Karen's knitting blog, Fringe Association, and I don't knit -- not even one little bit! I think that really says something about how thoughtful her posts are and how compelling her sensibility is.

I'm posting this a bit late (hey, so I'm slow about Slow Fashion October, that ought to be allowed right?), but my thoughts here are inspired by last week's theme of "SMALL," which Karen describes as being about:

handmade / living with less / quality over quantity / capsule wardrobe / indie fashion / small-batch makers / sustainability

I think it's pretty obvious from my last post on the capsule wardrobe topic that I'm not really a minimalist, in terms of either numbers or aesthetic. (Actually I suspect it is easier to be a numbers-minimalist when your aesthetic is also rather minimalist.) But I do care about sustainability.

I think the way that I might square those two things is with the concept of longevity. That is, especially when I add something made with new resources to my wardrobe -- either bought at retail or made from retail-purchased fabric -- I want to aim for it to stay in my wardrobe for a good long time. I mean five years, or preferably ten. Or even longer!

And that means that the thing has to be really pretty much perfect. The right color, the right style, the right details, and the fit spot-on. A big part of the appeal of handmade, as I've previously alluded to, is that it offers the potential for lots of control over these things.

And, looking at my existing wardrobe, I see the same silhouettes repeated over and over, most of the variation being in color and pattern. This means that all this fussing with fit is likely to pay off, if I can get it right; I am an excellent candidate for getting good use out of tried-and-true patterns. But I have to admit that I was hoping the trials would be shorter and I could skip straight to the true!