I’ve never met the woman whose family initials appear on this old French bedding, but I want to thank her. This linen is a hundred years old but it looks new. It has been well cared for, stiffly pressed, and instead of harsh chemicals, stains were removed by treated it to a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and hung out in the sun. I was given this fabric by a local friend, placing me one degree of separation from this family, and it makes me feel connected. No matter how I choose to repurpose it, the embroidered initials of those who slept on them over the last century will remain. Somewhere.
I believe the first known sewing machine was invented in France in 1830. If these bedsheets don’t pre-date that, those first machines were commissioned for the French Army and would not have made their way into households in rural Southwest France. Every bit of stitching appears to have been done by hand, and I am in utter astonishment. The minuscule size of the stitches, the impossibly straight lines, a French seam that looks like it could have been the work of a surgeon. It pains me to cut into it, and I am bound by the hippocratic oath to do no harm.
My workspace here is a whole new experience, the first time I’ve made anything on our property in France. I set up a rudimentary work table in the old wine barn. The walls are dusty, the new lighting is harsh. However, the open space and elbow room is a luxury I don’t have in London. I can stand upright as opposed to kneeling over fabric on the floor, which is usually the largest surface in the room. Here I can move easily around the table, I measure and cut with precision.
Under normal circumstances, I would have measured the chairs first and created a pattern, then cut the fabric, overlocked the edges, and sewn it all together. But I don't have any supplies here. We drove for miles to four shops that I found online described as ‘sewing’ (apparently haberdashery is an English word), and every time I was greeted by a tailor. At last, one agreed to sell me some straight pins. Another old shop recommended by a cafe owner, had among other unrelated items, a single table display of thread. I pray to the gods of Singer that the needle in the machine lasts. Armed with only the bare essentials, all I can do is drape the fabric pieces over the chairs and treat it as a tailor would, fitting the fabric to the body of the chair, pinning it to fit, and then sewing it inside-out along the pin lines. I worked in the tent that we set up as a workspace using the machine that I bought when I first decided to try my hand at sewing seven years ago. The basic model from John Lewis is not too different from the original sewing machines, until recently they hadn't changed much. I had sent it down in a box to our French storage two years ago, apparently believing I would never use it again or I also would have sent down some accoutrement. To my surprise, I plugged it in and it hummed along. It felt like driving a vintage car, and I actually enjoyed the simplicity of it.
The dining table at night