A year of saying yes to new experiences has had one consequence I didn’t anticipate. It has reignited a romance with Dublin that I hadn’t felt since first moving here almost nine years ago.
Our relationship had become jaded, the city predictable. I tied myself into a pattern of visiting the same places, taking the same routes, and generally ensuring that Dublin delivered only what I expected.
It takes an aimless wander to happen upon some of the city’s hidden delights, and I had neglected to schedule in enough aimless wanders.
It all became clear this week, when I bemoaned to friends and colleagues that I had never pursued my interest in sewing.
I’ve always wanted to make something useful. The intersection between creativity, precision – at which I’m abysmal – and utility that goes into making a garment is fascinating.
You see it particularly in children’s clothing. A tiny cardigan. A hat too small even to fit on a teapot. Nothing could be a greater declaration of love and protective instinct than to make a garment for a child: I love you, and I’ll keep you warm. That is essentially what someone is saying when they take the time to fashion something tiny in the certain knowledge that in a year it won’t fit any more.
Native material
My moaning was silenced by a colleague, who directed me to Lucy Clarke, founder of Elks of Ireland. Clarke designs children's clothes, handmade in Ireland using native materials. I was put further in my place to discover that her studio is in Rathmines, minutes from where I lived for years. I thought I knew all the nooks of that neighbourhood, but it seems not.
This is what Dublin does. It is as though your partner of 30 years comes home from work with a little surprise for you that says, “We’ve been together a while, but there’s more to know about me. We’ll never be bored together.”
Pleasantly tactile
Clarke’s studio is tucked away in a residential neighbourhood, and the moment I walk in, I feel comfortable. There is a sense of organised chaos, and the feel of walking into another time.
There are swatches of tweeds and linens, and some tiny but intricate garments hanging from rails. Although I love the mossy, landscape-inspired demeanour of tweed, I wouldn’t have associated it with children. When I touch the fabrics, however, I’m surprised to find them very pleasantly tactile.
I’m most taken with a beautiful linen that is designed to look like a tweed. From a distance, it has the green hue you’ll see when staring into the sea from a pier on a cloudy day. Up close, it is a tapestry of duck-egg blue and taupe. It reminds me of gawking into hedgerows as a child, trying to spot birds and other treasures.
Clarke suggests I use some of the fabric to make a cushion cover, and directs me to her sewing machine. “But I have absolutely no knowledge or skill,” I say, recalling that moment at school when the teacher had sent me up to the board to (fail to) work out a percentage in front of everyone.
“Of course you can. I’ll help you.”
I am briefly reassured, but the fear comes back when Clarke tells me the linen I like so much comes from an innovative Irish company called Emblem Weavers, and that there are only two bolts of the fabric in all the world.
I touch it reverently, suddenly understanding her love of these fabrics. They are special; in their mottled patterns is a narrative that goes back centuries.
It takes two hours, but with much patience, Clarke helps me to produce a cushion. Only one of them exists, and it lives on my couch. elks.ie
- The Yes Woman says yes to . . . getting creative and no to . . . getting stuck
