I Patch

Piece A.

It started with a desire. I fell in love, not with an object, but with the idea of an object. A ‘thing’ had never had such a profound effect on me before and it was this bewitchment that sparked the beginning of my new way of looking at ‘stuff’; the everyday objects that surround us and are rendered invisible by their ordinariness and our complacency.

I was freelancing at an advertising agency in the Shoreditch area of London over ten years ago when this passion of mine was first ignited. I had a fifteen-minute walk from the bus stop to the agency and it was on this route that I first set eyes on the object in question. Positioned in solitary splendour in a small studio display window against a backdrop of wallpaper Marie Antoinette would have been proud of, was the most beautiful, imperfectly perfect sofa. It was the essence of sofa made real. An original Chesterfield, it had been entirely reupholstered in quirky yet exquisite patchwork. The colours, the fabrics, the stitching were like something out of a fairy-tale. It was enchanting to me, and all through that first day as I worked on ideas to rebrand the Post Office, the sofa kept making playful entrances into my thoughts. Excitement and joy bubbled up realising that the world could hold such imaginative possibilities. I had to connect with this creation, know it, understand it and have it as part of my world.

I discovered that the studio where the sofa sat was owned by a company called Squint (you can look them up, this is a true story after all). I could make an appointment to go and look at their stock. On my next lunch break, I found myself in a Cave of Wonders. My idea of the Cave of Wonders. Because below that one street-level display window was a huge basement overflowing with treasures. I almost swooned right there and then onto one of the half-covered sofas as I took in what lay before me and slowly came to the realisation that the sofa was just the start of this adventure. Scattered across the workshop benches and floor were stripped-back French armoires, decadent chaise lounges, Georgian dressing tables, gothic mirrors. And lamps.

Standard lamps, table lamps, even chandeliers, and all treated with the same eccentric artistry as the sofa. What made the lamps literally more dazzling, though, was the fact that their very nature meant that they lit up the fabrics that covered them.

It was also dawning on me that to have a little of this magic in my own life a small lamp would be far more affordable than a large sofa. Or so I thought.

This was up and coming Shoreditch and when I discovered the prices for these pieces, I found myself questioning the whole world economy.

But there’s always a solution.

And mine was simple. If I couldn’t cover the cost of one of their lamps, I’d just have to try and cover one of my own.

Piece B

That weekend, armed with a pair of scissors, a carton of PVA glue and a bin bag full of my twins’ old clothes, I began to experiment on a lamp I’d found in the loft. Nothing special right then, but oh the potential. After two days of cutting and sticking, letting instinct guide the process, I stuck the final patch into place on my lampshade, and everything suddenly fell into place. This wasn’t about an object anymore; it was about rediscovering values I’d forgotten. Recycling, not only the lamp that could so easily have been discarded as scrap but also the materials with which it could be recycled. Scraps of material, each one a memory, now forever captured in a corner of my bedroom in a wonderful new way. I felt like I’d discovered the secret to eternal life. Perhaps I had, at least as far as inanimate objects were concerned.

Piece C

Since that first lamp, if something can be patched, I’m on it.

I’ve covered tables and chairs, clocks, shoes, handbags, and statues.

My family used to joke that if something didn’t move, I’d patchwork it.

They were wrong.

Just last week I patched my bike.