November 2006 Archives

by Emily

David didn't have a haiku handy this Wednesday, but I happened to get this email from a great friend of mine and thought it had the general spirit of a haiku or zen meditation. She writes:

"so the guys here are often on the brink of dirty joke or comment ... but when i am around they stop themselves ... and this is often referenced as them being 'gentlemen' ... how is this the case? if they were gentlemen then they would not make the jokes ... so does this just make them sexist?"

Ommmmm.

by Emily

All those who, like me, ate up Nancy Drew books as kids, will love this intriguing real story behind the fictional sleuth. Although it does shatter the myth of "Carolyn Keene" (a pseudonym invented by Edward Stratemeyer, owner of the powerhouse Stratemeyer Syndicate), it replaces her with three even more satisfying women: Mildred Wirt, the ambitious tomboy from small-town Iowa who ghostwrote the Nancy Drew books for $85 to $125 per book, with no royalties or rights to her work; Harriet Otis Smith, secretary to Edward Stratemeyer who kept the Syndicate running at the beginning of the Great Depression; and Harriet Stratemeyer Adams, who took over the Syndicate after her father's death and ran it with a firm if slightly paranoid hand, radically revising and shortening Nancy's adventures during the 1960's. I found the stories of the dynamics among the characters during shifting and difficult times, as well as the Stratemeyer system of outlining plots and shipping them off to ghostwriters, to be captivating.

I first learned the secret of the Stratemeyer Syndicate from Carole Kismaric's The Mysterious Case of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and got the nitty-gritty background details from Diedre Johnson's Edward Stratemeyer and the Stratemeyer Syndicate, but Girl Sleuth is by far the most thorough and engaging history of Nancy and her creators thus far. Melanie Rehak does a great job of outlining the pertinent historical framework and relating it back to the specific stories of individual women and men involved with Nancy's story. This is especially true when relating the history of feminism and anti-feminism in America to the evolution of Nancy Drew and her creators. Overall, very interesting and well-written.

(fox skull with mushrooms, near Cow Cave, Sandwich, NH)

By David

by Emily

In the spirit of giving thanks for some of the best things in our lives, I decided to include my short review of:

Mrs. Dalloway
by Virginia Woolf

Mrs. Dalloway is very special. I know that some people hate it, but I cannot comprehend that. To me it is the most beautiful, perfectly-realized novel in the English (or perhaps any) language, and reading it convinced me that art is worth making. The use of language; the subtle ways in which communication is difficult, effortless, impossible or transcendent for the different characters at different times; the ways that compromise is both heartbreaking and gorgeous; the anger and love; the gifts that people give one another without realizing it; the way that simple objects become fraught with real significance and everyday, domestic scenes become beautiful moments to treasure...the hat-making scene! The scene where Peter and Clarissa roam in and out of each others' thoughts! The way that everyone in London is interconnected! Elizabeth's ride on the bus! Clarissa's explanation of why she wants to give the party! Every sentence in this novel is gorgeous, the book as a whole is one of the most scathing-yet-kind, brutal-yet-beautiful true inventions I have ever come across.

(deer partly eaten by mountain lion)

By David

by Emily

They told me it was impossible. They told me I was crazy. They told me "you can't do major sewing projects in a 400-square-foot apartment while sharing it with another person." Reader, I am about to prove them wrong.

That is a sea of pattern pieces pinned to a delicious royal-blue, medium-weight wool crepe. Apparently not content to stick to mere "dresses" and "sweaters," I am embarking on my first ever full skirt suit--lined, trimmed, and with all the fixin's. As you can see, even cutting out the pieces in the main suit fabric took pretty much David and my entire apartment floor:

I'm quite excited about this project, actually. It's a flared, knee-length skirt and a really sharp little hip-length jacket with lots of endearing details: horizontal darts on the back of the skirt, a diagonal lapel that creates a "V" shape of buttons down the front of the jacket, and diagonal welt pockets that sit jauntily on the wearer's hips. The jacket will be lined in a pretty mahoghany silk, and I'm trimming the whole in a camel-colored wool suiting, which I think will really "pop" with the blue, making me look more like a well-clad hipster and less like I'm off to join the navy (that blue is a bit intense!).

I am venturing into somewhat uncharted territory (personally uncharted, that is), which is also exciting. I love to learn a new sewing skill, and it's exciting to read through a pattern that Vogue classifies as "Advanced" and find I understand almost everything they tell me to do. Vogue Patterns have a notoriously high opinion of what their patrons are capable of, too, so it's not like that "Advanced" label is a freebie. After doing the paper alterations to the pattern, I can see why, too: many of the "normal" lines that I've been using to alter my patterns are different with this suit. Instead of the easily-adjustable front darts and side seams, this suit bodice has princess seams and consists of about twelve small pieces instead of two large ones. Likewise, the skirt is composed of pieces of fabric whose shape I have never dreamt of before. How to perform a simple task like adding 1/2 inch to the hips, when you have eight pattern pieces shaped like unruly ice-cream cones rather than two of the normal trapezoidal shape? Nevertheless, I soldiered on, and when it came time to cut I was feeling enchanted with the fabric and the whole process, the way my pin-cushion sailed along the sea of fabric like a perky red boat:

Making the first cut, with my back wedged against the couch so as not to upset the delicate balance on the floor, I got that nice intrepid-explorer-making-the-first-steps-toward-a-great-conquest feeling.

As I'm sure Sir Edmund Hillary could tell you, however, great explorations are not always comfortable, and I regret to report that doing your cutting bent over the floor, crouched on your haunches is no exception to this rule. There were many pieces to be cut, and my back did not like that I was going to cut them all before going to bed. Amusingly, David and I followed the same basic emotional trajectory over the course of the evening: he was lying on the sofa, trying to read to page 480 by the next day:

Isn't he nice to put his feet to one side so I can cut? We were both relaxed and engaged at this early point in the evening, and even comfortable despite our cramped environs. By 11:30pm, however, we were both feeling somewhat limp:

Oh dear. Those last few pieces really were a challenge. Now, though, I have a satisfying little pile of cut pattern pieces awaiting the white chalk of the marking pencil. Of course, I also have the contrast fabric, lining, and interfacing still left to cut, but we'll think about that later. Until next time, this is SepiaSew signing off, and reminding YOU to measure twice, cut once, and never sew on an empty stomach. ('Cuz, you know, I always follow those rules to the letter...hmmm.)

A passing car shifts
shadows on the wall; sounds from
the couple upstairs

By David

by Emily

China Doctor of John Day, Oregon
by Jeffrey Barlow and Christine Richardson

This is a fascinating look at two enterprising Chinese immigrants to the small gold-mining town of John Day, Oregon, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. At the time, Ing "Doc" Hay and Lung On were servicing a flourishing Chinatown with their general store and Chinese apothecary. (They also sold fireworks, booze, opium, and, later on, motorcars.) But as the gold veins dried up, the Chinese immigrants moved to bigger cities, and the two entrepreneurs ended up catering to the largely white settler population. For many years, Doc Hay was the only medical practitioner for many miles, and he often cured ailments that western medicine had given up as lost causes. "China Doctor" addresses issues like the gender imbalance in Chinatown and the West in general; Hay's diagnostic methods; and the complex and blatant racism toward and within the Chinese community in rural Oregon during the early part of the 20th century.

The general store that the two men ran was in operation until Hay's death in the 1960's, and is still intact and available to visit as a museum. The story of these two remarkable men is a very interesting read, both for their individual histories, and for the snapshot of cultural history it provides.

By David

by Emily

The other night I dreamt that I was locked in a public bathroom with a bunch of angry anti-abortion activists.

I like to speculate on my subconscious equation of "a public bathroom" and "America."

by Emily

It's been a while since I've posted about any knitting or sewing projects, but it's not because I haven't been wallowing in fiber arts. I've been knitting away on this little honey:

It's in the process of becoming a garment somewhere between a scarf and a stole, knit in a soft teal lambswool laceweight, in the old Shetland lace motif known as "Print o' the Wave." (Pattern courtesy of the lovely and talented Eunny Jang.) Unfortunately, lace doesn't look its best prior to stretching and blocking, so you can't get a great sense of what it will look like finished. Just trust me that it won't be all bumpy and curling like when I'm done with it.

An exciting thing about knitting Shetland lace is that it gets me back to my roots, on the harsh coasts of Scotland and Norway.

In days gone by, my paternal grandmother's family dwelt on the outer Hebridean island of Barra (#1 on this map). Our clan, the McNeills of Barra, lived in a storm-tossed castle and were, according to my father, "unreasonably arrogant people." The patriarch would take his trumpet up to the parapets after supper, blow it and proclaim to the howling wind: "The kings and princes of the world may now dine! The McNeill of Barra has eaten!" (See John McPhee's The Crofter and the Laird for more colorful anecdotes about my kinsfolk.)

My grandfather's family, on the other hand, hails from the possibly even more ocean-swept coast of Norway, #3. As you can see, the Shetland Islands, #2 on the map and the origin-point of the "Print o' the Wave" motif, is right between these two appealingly godforsaken destinations.

I like to imagine some elderly female ancestor, knitting away on a garment (possibly for export or tourist trade) involving the exact same lace pattern that I'm using right now. In fact, if I get really carried away, I can imagine a time in the last century or even the century before that, when two old women were both sitting and knitting their own brand of lace or colorwork with gnarled hands, having no idea that one day their descendents would meet and marry, emigrate to America, and that one day in the 21st century, just after an uncharacteristically encouraging election, the young woman at the (current) end of their ancestral line would be sitting in a cozy, electrically-lit apartment, speculating about their lives and knitting her own Print o' the Wave scarf while a very Hebridean rain slashes at the window-panes.

In other news, I am also embarking on a new sewing project. Here is the lace stole-in-progress reclining on a bed of pattern pieces:

You'd like to know what I have planned? Fabrics? Styles? Hot moves? Tune in next time to the continuing adventures of SepiaSew.

Now the days are grey
But the nights have been moonlit
And as clear as day

By David

by Emily

I recently joined LibraryThing, an ultra-cool (to me) online service that lets you catalog and tag all your books. They even have a selection of different covers so you can pick out the one that matches your actual copy of the book--and if yours isn't already uploaded, you can scan it in yourself.

There are so many cool things possible with this site, especially for someone who, like me, is interested in book-indexing and library science in general. Because of the tags, I can now pull up a list of all my books that feature first-person narrators, all works involving father-daughter relationships as a main theme, or all those which are instructional in nature (cookbooks, knitting patterns, etc.). I can see easily how many Modernist works I own versus how many Victorian works, how many works that I consider to be "witty," and how many that are concerned with mental illness.

The lists I end up with are sometimes very surprising, juxtaposing books that I would never think to put together. Charles Bukowski's Ham on Rye, Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, and Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird? All feature prominent father/son relationships. Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's, Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, and Morrison's The Bluest Eye? All are told by a first-person narrator about another person. The fun is endless! (I am serious, but you don't have to be.)

LibraryThing also allows you to write reviews of your books, and in honor of this fabulous new discovery (and all the LibraryThingers who have been linking to this blog--Hi y'all!), I thought I would start posting the reviews I write for it on Tuesdays. Some of these will be quite short, some may be way too long, but they will all be about books that I love (why else would I bother, really?). I love that LibraryThing has encouraged me to revisit some old loves. So, without further ado, I give you my little rave about:

The Little Prince
by Antoine Saint-Exupéry

The Little Prince never fails to make me cry now that I'm an adult, although it didn't when I was a kid. I think the difference is that now I've had to let go of things I really loved. The fox that wants the Little Prince to tame him so they can be friends, even though he knows that the Prince has to leave him eventually and then he'll be sad...it's such a simple, bittersweet parable of deciding to live life fully even though it means you're sure to get hurt.

I love the bravery of the Little Prince when he travels among strange "grownup" customs, and when he explains that he needs to die in order to return to his home, but that the narrator will always remember him when he looks up at the sky or sees waving fields of wheat.

I also love the circular logic of the drunkard, and the absurd miser who counts his stars even though they'll never do him any good and saying he owns them is obviously ridiculous. And how the Little Prince has to guard so carefully against baobab trees, or they'll destroy his tiny planet. Can't we all relate to guarding that tiny, beloved part of our lives against disaster?

And when the Little Prince can tell what the narrator's drawing is, after everyone always thinks it's a hat! Isn't it the most special thing in the world when you meet someone who can see and understand the world you've created? Someone who is enthusiastic about the things you imagine?

I think The Little Prince is about how we must live carefully, in a way that's full of love, in order to live well, and how we also must accept that living well will mean feeling heartbreak as well as happiness.

by Emily

In honor of the new blog redesign and my role within it as craft & clothing diva, I offer you this gem of a video from 1941. In addition to showcasing some great pre-war ladies' fashion, it seems to be simultaneously an advert for TWA, Paramount Pictures, CBS, the United States military, Spandex precursor Matletex, and everyone's favorite oil and gas multinational.

For those who can't watch the video for themselves (we've been getting reports of video problems), I offer the following recap:

During a seemingly endless credits section, with a silver TWA plane in the background, lettering advertises the excellent credentials of our narrator:

In addition, we are told that the fashion editor comes via Paramount Pictures, and are reminded why we might recognize the primary female figures:

Notice that this screen characterizes Esther Fernandez as "Paramount's Mexican Discovery." As if she were a really killer recipe for chile relleno.

Here is Latin Discovery Esther on the flight. The announcer informs us that "Of course! Like every woman, she's taking a last look in the mirrors of the Stratoliner's charm room."

Landing in New Mexico, Esther is bustled off to get ready for her screen test, while the other starlets arrive. I have to admit, I love those tailored '40's coats and hats:

Meanwhile, the lads are unloading the luggage from the plane. The announcer tells us to "take note of the smart aeroplane luggage that the passengers are using. It's Halliburton luggage, especially travel-tested by TWA for air travellers." These strapping young bucks are confident in the knowledge that they can't lose, with with Halliburton and TWA on their side!

You can see racist ol' Hollywood in action during the next two segments, which feature "Navajo hunting chants" being performed AT THE AIRPORT as Mexican Esther is led over to play her role as an Indian Maiden. Because, you know, she's a brown person.

We also get to visit with more of the natives while Esther is busy with her test, including these ladies:

The narrator comments "One little, two little, three little Indian girls. Perhaps your garments were inspired by the rich colorings worn by these Indian women." Perhaps so, dude. Perhaps so. He also offers a characteristically upbeat assessment of the Catholic mission located on Navajo lands, where "in the faith brought them by Coronado in 1620, the Pueblo Indians reverently worship the God of the white man." Isn't that nice.

Luckily, we are reaching the part of the film mostly devoted to beautiful old outfits like these:

And this:

The narrator urges us to "note how the pockets are outlined in the same Jersey material as the skirt," and for once I agree with him. Just pretend those furs are fake.

I don't really know what's with the hawkishness apparent in this movie, since the film is displaying the fashions of the 1941 season, and Pearl Harbor didn't happen until December of that year. For a nation at peace, though, we seem to be feeling awfully martial. The announcer assures us that "TWA planes bring new speed, new service to all Americans--indispensable in peace, invaluable in war." Not that we're going to war. But you know. Just in theory.

With that happy thought, we're onto vacation at an Arizona ranch resort, where we're told "thousands of vacationists relax and find new frontiers of fun," and where "the girls will soon be sun-lazing." In this shot, the announcer seems dramatically pleased that Margaret and Esther are wearing dresses made of Rayon:

More weird beacons of war enter the film in this scene, where three out of five women are wearing outfits described as "patriotic": two red, white, and blue bathing suits and a pants suit in similar colors.

Just a few minutes later, actress Virginia appears in a hideous skirt suit with huge red chevrons on the sleeves:

Even if war was sexy in 1941, what were those designers thinking?

From here on in, it's just one great outfit after another, with occasional wince-worthy moments as the Paramount people display Esther in "Aztec" and "Panama" themed dresses, or the narrator brings up the new elasticized Matletex process once again. Here are a few of my favorite moments:

In this scene, Margaret and Virginia discover that their outfits share the exact same shirred Matletex waistbands! OMG, Virginia!

Here we have TWO of the ladies sharing ONE four-piece bathing suit! Pretty racy, eh kids?

This little "shopping outfit" is probably my favorite suit of clothes in the movie:

Finally, the ladies must reluctantly leave their Arizona vacation. But hey, at least they're escorted by this nattily-attired airline hostess:

I hope you enjoyed this little tour through the bizarre advertising haven that was b-rate Hollywood of the early '40's. I'll leave you with a final thought from our narrator, uttered as the ladies fly back to sunny California:

"Doggonit, where ARE the adjectives to describe the magnificent Grand Canyon?"

Is that guy homeless?
But he's wearing an iPod,
sitting in the dirt

By David