I’ve lived through it. No scars to show, but memory serves well enough. The room’s pulse lurches to a halt. The hairs on the back of peoples’ necks stand up in fearful anticipation of what comes next. Exclamatory cursing meets its match when this dreaded event transpires. Sailors in paper mache hats run for cover. Perspiration drips. Eye contact hurriedly dons a funeral veil (conveniently, we have quite a few funeral veils in stock at all times, looming less than two feet above your head). I gulp.
For anyone in this situation, it’s important to remember to stay calm. The serger feeds on fear. The only way to fight back against its bellowing is to cobble together some tenacity. The best weapons to keep at the ready are: one standard pair of Garment Center Swing SMT1 tweezers, a tiny brush, grade A canned air, and a 60 watt bulb (preferably attached to a lamp that’s plugged in). The best tip for defeating the serger-dragon is the buddy system, preferably with someone who has gone head to head and lived to tell the tale. Luckily for me, a true serger sergeant showed me the ropes. Where the pressure points are located and which levers to pull. Focus and refraining from blinking are key.
Conquering a behemoth that weighs about as much as a female gorilla comes with a few nonnegotiable conditions. Firstly, as soon as the machine throws another tantrum, you will be drafted to go in and perform your civic duty. Secondly, a whole new range of projects basks in the light of potential assignment. With great power comes endlessly provokable responsibility.
Thus the trade-off between desirable, obscure skills and friendly requests to make and repair things for other people.
Although I tire of being expected to leap at the request of a friend in need of some crafted creation, I also insist on doing a whiz-bang job despite other obligations. Pride propels the vicious cycle.
For better or for worse, mine is the type of existence that treads denial. I exist indirectly through the things that pass through my hands and into the universe. Felt scraps and umbrellas transcend their original purpose as I morph them into handmade monsters and demons, syringe mobiles and puppet show curtains. Even if not directly associated with my name, I labor over projects not only to nurture a friendship, but to keep myself busy and prove my capabilities. The projects that come my way typically provide welcome relief from the rigors and/or tedium of everyday work. Granted, working in a costume shop provides plenty of amusement; however, making miscellaneous props for a rock opera to illustrate the narrative arc of industrial anarchy, picnics with glow sticks, and a man-eating worm monster certainly takes the edge off of normality.
An important part of the creation process is collaborating with the frenetic mastermind and trying to untangle his or her ideas into something feasible. Translating a concept into reality tends to strip it of some whimsy, but bringing something to life that previously only existed as vapors in someone’s mind involves a different kind of magic.
The act of creation, be it a poem, prom dress or pancake, means a great deal. It shows effort and planning and patience and follow-through (the pancake, less so, but how thoughtful is bringing someone breakfast in bed?). Being able to manage a project where someone else is the beneficiary makes the reward greater than if the end result was for oneself. Especially when it comes to something handmade. The time taken to make something imbues the something with preciousness that gives time itself a run for its money.
My mother grew up so poor she sewed her own underwear. Once she was able to buy clothes at her every whim, her practical sewing slowed to a halt. It became a novelty. When her daughters reached a certain age, she brought it out on special occasions like an heirloom silverware set. She made First Communion dresses and other costumes throughout my younger years.
In comparison to my two sisters, I took to sewing much more voraciously. I loved it. I loved the flat patterns that turned into a three dimensional form. I loved the amount of focus needed to stitch fine details. Interfacing, flip n flip hems, putting in zippers, buttons, snaps: it all fascinated me. Time-wise, it was not exactly practical, but I relished the opportunity to learn from my mom who had learned from her mom and aunts. The past time turned into a conversation with my family history that survived in the form of old quilts, clothes, and secret sewing knowledge. To explain how much of an impact sewing had on me, I allude to my handmade prom dress since it illuminates a much different image than handmade throw pillows. Why make something mundane when you can make something beautiful?
Sewing was one of my intermediate forays into the world of creativity (following crayons and preceding ceramics, paint and many other media). I took it upon myself to make challenging projects for myself and others. Reacting to a heaping pile of t-shirts in my basement, I started making t-shirt quilts for family members that over the years became increasingly complicated and refined, not to mention larger. After completing one to two quilts for each of my immediate family members, I branched out to uncles and aunts and then I made two for myself. A couple were for pay, but I mostly made them without planned compensation. These ubiquitous quilts are scattered around the house and act as a record of the time and effort I put into them.
Keep in mind my family had no shortage of blankets in the house. I was not making these t-shirt quilts out of necessity, but rather out of one part boredom, two parts ambition. When life gives you a pile of t-shirts, make t-shirt quilts. Transforming a mundane raw material into a well-made token of appreciation is kind of my thing. Like turning magazine pages into envelopes and paper into handwritten letters. Creation is my strength and my downfall. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. But the second part of creation is entrusting that creation to someone else. When it comes to family, there’s no question I receive much more than I can give. Close friendships, too, provide ample space to give and give alike.
However, when my time input exceeds a certain amount it’s only fair to receive some sort of compensation. At the most basic level, affirmation through positive feedback is most appreciated. The process of creating puts me in a euphoric state, but the most deleterious response to a handmade gift is apathy, or worse: lackluster praise. It’s different than something store bought because I, as the creator, zapped it into being. If I receive no affirmation, my existence wavers on lapsing into existential paranoia.
I end up using things I make for friends as bargaining devices to combat my fear of inadequacy. Bartering with the fruits of my labor can lead to tension when deciding what denotes a “fair trade,” but mostly there is just an inherent delay for me receiving satisfactory compensation since I take up challenges with such alacrity.
Identifying my own strengths allows me to appreciate the strengths of other people. Not everyone has sewing skills, but some people are skilled at making budgets or devising business plans and schedules. Skills I categorically lack. What better payback for my lovingly-crafted creations than receiving much needed consultation for tasks that give me trouble?
Forging something collaboratively taps into a type of creation more powerful than that of one person working individually. Even though my strength for showing appreciation takes a very physical form, there are plenty of other ways to show appreciation that build on the collective talent in the room. Determining validity is up to the discretion of the people involved in the collaborative exchange.
My desire to be creative, or rather my inescapable habit of being creative, noses its way into all kinds of situations and relationships. Although it inhabits the very central part of my being, it is much less shy than me and I can rely on it to take first step toward instigating or strengthening some sort of bond. Creativity has a way of transcending time and other terrestrial limitations.
From what I can gather from stories, my grandmother loved her serger. She nursed it like a 5th child and lovingly fed it fabric to nibble on on a regular basis. It did not weigh as much as a female gorilla, in fact it more closely resembled a koala bear. In all the years growing up in the same house, my mother never learned to understand it even though she became fluent in the sewing machine. A serger is a whole different animal.
When my grandmother passed away, possessions my grandfather would never use were divvied out and my mother inherited the serger. For over a decade it lived in our basement, never knowing the tender touch of its new owners. My mother occasionally lamented her fear of threading the machine and I took her word that the underbelly of the serger was not to be taken lightly.
It was only after I wrestled the gorilla-sized industrial serger at my workplace, the performing arts department costume shop, gaining confidence with tricky threading maneuvers, that I rode in on a chicken wire frame horse to save the day. As a result of my merit badge wielding, the serger has had a chance to stretch its legs and can now gawk at the dishevelment of a different part of our basement. Sadly, even though I resurrected it from an unglorified, dingy shelf, no one currently living in the house appreciates it for all it can accomplish.
It has so much to give. All it wants to do is finish edges and keep things from fraying and falling apart. It was born to create things that last, but most of its life has been spent being misunderstood and under appreciated.
When I make tracks headed for a new nest, I plan on adopting the little guy. I think we would get along quite nicely.
