Nana's Trade.

I always remember valuing money as a kid. One of my favourite childhood memories was hustling my Nana to pay me for picking up hundreds of pins fallen amongst the mountains of lace in her sewing room. I would get paid $0.01 per pin. A delicate task that would take me hours.



I remember the distinct smell of mothballs that still to this day haunt me. My nostrils still sensitive to the thought of the smell. A combination of Nana’s musky chic perfume and old op-shop sourced lace almost mimicking a scent similar to Le Labo’s no.14 Tuscan Cigar and Petulia. 


I remember the humming buzz that escaped from the old Janome machine when pressure was applied to the foot pedal. Like an old steam train that is slowly taking off from its tracks. The sounds of my Grandmas soft murmurs subtle under the breathe;’forheavens sake’, when a finger and pin made contact, or a stitch went wrong. 

I remember running around the school cafeteria with pockets full of five cent coins made from my previous night earnings. The feeling of being on top of the world as I had more money to show than the rest of my peers, all in a hard days work.



It is these quintessential sensory memories that today has sparked not only an appreciation of my Nana and her devoted dedication to the delicate work of a sewer but also my deeply engrained inspiration to take on the trade myself.



It is only recently that I have found myself sitting point blank in front of an old Janome machine, wishing that I had my Nanas firm eye watching over me as I fumble over the twine and needle. This slow, yet progressive skill that I so inherently love resurfaces not only those fond memories, but a new burning desire to create. A similar spark that I once remember seeing in my Nana’s eye. 


There is something so soothing about the swift glide of fabric scissors cutting through all kinds of textures and shapes. Of watching the machine needle bounding in and out of rhythm like a choreographed dance. Of watching the twine dissipate through the loops of the machine. The contrasting feeling of the machines inbuilt heat lamp that warms the cool body of pins amongst my finger tips.



For me, the reward comes with an ability to give life to things that would have previously been discarded. The combination of a $2 mens work shirt used for patching up distressed denim jackets. A beautiful collaboration of Op shop finds that none the less becomes another ones treasure. Cutting up hole ridden jeans to make patch worked cushions. Old stained curtains that once been kissed by the machine, rebirth into a summer flock.



When I am not working in harmony with my machine I find myself hopping through local op-shops, channeling my earned pennies into charity shops. It brings me great joy rummaging through the endless sea of racks at thrift shops, filling the trunk of my car with someone else discarded trash and bringing life to these new items. I see potential in others hand me downs.



There is so much freedom in creating pieces that spark joy in not only myself, but those around me. I see my pieces being worn by people I love and cherish and that to me is the ultimate happiness. I have found myself dedicating all my time and energy into my machine which simultaneously is both therapy and a form of meditation amongst this crazy world and for that I am eternally grateful.