>> Susie Bright is an amateur dressmaker and a professional writer. She blogs at susiebright.com.
Before I started sewing, I thought a “stash” was a secret bag of illicit drugs. An ounce of pot, two tabs of something psychedelic, the hash oil lint from a Navajo rug ... that’s a stash.
Now that I have an attic, a closet, and the entire floor under two beds crammed with my guiltiest pleasure, I know differently. Fabric, not weed, is the devil’s worst temptation: those silks, crushed velvets, buttermilk knits, and bouclé remnants, the cashmere lengths, the chiffon waves. I’m helpless.
I have enough patterns and fabric to clothe the world, open a retail emporium, hoist a circus tent. It’s still not enough for me: “My name is Susie and I’m a stashoholic.” My hoard of yardage makes my entire lifetime of prescription, over-the-counter, and recreational drugs look like a pitiful bump.
This is how it started: it was all my daughter Aretha’s fault. We took our first sewing class together when she was 10. I knew no more than she did; I couldn’t have told you where to plug the sewing machine into the wall.
Aretha took an in-depth look at the pattern books our teacher offered us. “Let’s make mommy and daughter dresses that match!” she said. She was mesmerized with one of those McCall’s Stepford duo photographs of a mother clutching the hand of her daughter, both in identical pink shifts, like Balthus meets Barbie. What empty-eyed phonies!
But when your child asks you, with stars in her eyes, if the two of you can make matching costumes, to parade through the streets as perfectly synchronized beloveds, you know what happens? You tear up, you clap your hands with joy, your voice scales up a full octave: “Oh goodie, let’s do it!”
We started combing through the color-fields of cotton prints at our local fabric shop. Aretha pulled out a bolt of tropical and dark green forest leaves,
against a black background — a jungle print with a hint of abstraction. I loved those colors, too. “Let’s get six yards!”
But then, shouldn’t we also have a Plan B, in case we screw up our first pattern? Or what if we change our minds in the middle of the night?
After all, there was a whimsically Eloise at the Plaza print of pink poodles and Eiffel Towers that caught my eye, which I immediately dubbed French Bitch. I can’t resist a fabric with a sense of humor — one of my favorite dresses is made from something called Rocket Rascals: an Apollo-11-era design of little boys and girls running around the ether in naughty space suits.
The two of us took no chances; we got everything: the fabrics for Plan A, Plan B, and Plan C. My teacher applauded our choices, as did all the other students. It’s like being in a bar at 6 a.m. with all your friends. Have another one!
Now there are sensible reasons why serious sewers have to accumulate fabric faster than they can sew it. First off, you are dealing with limited quantities of unique designs that often cost a small fortune.
If you can get lightweight sky-blue linen that feels like heaven in your hands for under $10 a yard, you have to buy it, even if your sewing machine hours are booked up until the Rapture. You are quite right to think you will never see a deal like that again.
Then, there’s the serious sewer’s tool chest. You’re going to need silk, cotton, and rayon linings in neutral colors — there’s no escape from it. If you buy a pattern simply because it has a unique scalloped collar on an otherwise plain bodice, you’re saving yourself many hours from drafting that collar yourself. And it’s uncanny how scallops work their way into your life! You do need tulle — you can’t get through the holidays without it. You’d better grab it in turquoise, as well as the ivory and black. You need
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