I used to live in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, now I live in Málaga, Spain. I used to write fiction, now I sew kimonos. This blog documents my love affair with this newly discovered art form.
The original meaning of kimono is ‘a thing to wear‘, so I often use the word when referring to any Japanese-style garment. These days, the word is often used to refer to the luxurious silk or wool robes worn on very special occasions. I don’t actually sew those because I can’t afford the material; good silk crepe goes for hundreds of euros a meter. But also, they just aren’t very wearable on a day to day basis, and they require training and skill to put them on properly, along with the obi – the broad belt – that they are worn with.
But that wasn’t always the case, and it doesn’t have to be today. Yukatas – made of cotton, linen, or other lesser fabrics, are constructed exactly the same as formal kimonos and can be just as impressive, especially if they’re lined, embroidered or painted. I’m not a purist. If I have to be honest, it is the simplicity and economy of the construction that I fell in love with.
Oh, and the cats. I have two of them – both female. The story of my journey into the world of making kimono would not be complete without them, if only because they are my constant companions on the adventure. I have never made a garment that doesn’t have cat hair inadvertently sewn into a seam or threaded through the weave of the fabric.
Jacques is a female tabby street cat born in a cardboard box in an alley in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. When she was tiny, she suffered badly from ringworm and has never forgiven me for shaving off her fur to treat it. She’s extremely clever and can open anything, but wary of strangers and loud noises. For some reason, when I sit and sew by hand, she must snuggle up right beside me. Pins be damned!
Dora is a five year old ‘vaca’ (the Spanish term for a tuxedo cat) born in a farmyard just outside Malaga, Spain. She fears nothing and no one, and must ‘help’ no matter what I’m doing. She has an uncanny instinct for lying on whatever I’m trying to work on. Valiant unthreader of needles, tape-measure thief and indefatigable gazer, she supervises all my machine work. The noise of my sewing machine makes her purr.