There may be some of you out there (especially those drawn to the organic oatmealiness of “country living” magazine) who harbour the notion that a crafters studio is a haven of ordered chaos. Something like this: a cherished but simple bees waxed table with an ordered arrangement of buttons in shiny gingham topped jars, an open oak cupboard with neatly stacked bolts of colour coded fabric and a modest wooden stool. Of course one mustn’t forget the muslin curtains gently rippling in the breeze or the terracotta pot of emerging hyacinths. I could go on but I think you get the picture.
Now get this picture…
Yeh! I’m sorry to break it to you folks but Mogwaii makes mess…big mess.The only distressed piece of furniture in my studio is me when the pressures on and right now IT’S ON.
I’ve been feeling a certain rebelliousness as I sew the umpteenth tweedie. I want to leave the daisy ribbon hanging from an eye. I want to leave threads uncut and stuff Clarris with hay, I want to put a hens leg on a sheeps body and vice versa, I want to make them with chastity belts, gun holsters and laiderhosen…but I just keep trimming the threads and the daisy ribbon and rebelling only in mind.
At least I can have an art exhibition of conceptual crafts and scatter torn and tattered tweedies upon pristine white plinths. But that’s not really an option for your average sweatshop worker. I wonder whether they have rebellious thoughts too, I bet they do. Maybe the pair of jeans I’m wearing has been visualized wrapped tightly around the bosses neck or cropped into hot pants.
I’m going to show you a picture now of the Mogwaii post bus…
No expense spaired in this business.