THE ART OF GENTLE REPAIR
MOLLY MARTIN CHAMPIONS HAND- REPAIR FOR DEEPENING OUR CONNECTION TO THE CLOTHES WE WEAR AND THE FABRICS THAT WE SURROUND OURSELVES WITH, A SLOW AND RESPECTFUL WAY TO ADD BEAUTY AND MEANING TO TREASURED BELONGINGS
The dress that always accompanies you on summer holidays. The jacket that belonged to a loved one. The top that reminds you of your first feeling of freedom: there are stories in all of our clothes and, chances are, the more we love them, the more stories they’ll have to tell. Even so, we can be guilty of casting them aside when they’ve become worn and damaged with age. The art of repair, championed by Molly Martin, is an antidote to that attitude, a slow, considered act that treats these items with the love and respect that they deserve.
Molly is an illustrator, artist and textile repairer, based in south London. Her advocacy for repair began when she tackled the holes in a favourite pair of socks, and gradually she began taking on garments for other people. Today, she works as a repairer at London shop Egg, as well as running workshops for Toast. Pictured are some of the garments on which her needle has carefully, thoughtfully, worked its magic.
Repair might be a gentle act, but Molly also considers it a radical one. “To repair something (anything) in the modern world is a defiant act,” she writes, “which flies in the face of consumerist values and products.” Not only that – she also believes that repairing much-loved clothing for ourselves increases our sense of connection to the item, as well as boosting our own wellbeing. “People often tell me how pleased they are to reconnect with their hands,” says Molly. “How they are left feeling relaxed, confident and capable, how they are able to slow down.”
With these personal stories of repair, Molly invites us to slow down too. Perhaps you’ll be tempted to pick up a needle for yourself but, at the very least, you’ll be encouraged to appreciate the beauty that lies within every garment, well-worn and well-loved.
MY YELLOW LINEN JACKET
My aunt bought this jacket in 1999 in Boston, Massachusetts. I remember her wearing it with white dungarees and Dr Martens. My mother ‘borrowed’ it from her and eventually it became mine. Worn at the shoulders, from rucksack straps, it was first repaired by my aunt with a couple of patches, and then patched further by my mum. It’s an ongoing project, almost like a living garment, ever changing as the years go by. It continues to break and I continue to mend and each time its sentimental value increases. Its history lies within the broken and frayed fibres – each patch represents a moment in time, a phase of life.
EMMA’S ITALIAN
PILLOWCASE
Plump pieces of appliqué, hand stitched by someone with exquisite skill, yet years of sleeping heads slowly destroyed the cotton fibres. It came to me in tatters and hours of careful stitch work ensued to strengthen the fragile fabric.
Emma believes it came from her mother’s friend Carole, who moved to Italy and married an Italian. Throughout Emma’s childhood, Carole would visit, bringing beautiful Italian linens. She thinks Carole gave her this set about 30 years ago when she moved into the house in Somerset, where she still lives. Every time Emma puts the linen on her bed, she’s reminded of Carole’s visits, and of visiting her in warm and sunny Rome.
FERG’S SCOTTISH SOCKS
My mother’s partner Ferg bought these traditional woollen socks to accompany the kilt he had rented for a ‘Burns Night’ in Edinburgh. Made from thick Scottish wool, they’re designed to withstand Highland weather. When, after multiple walks, they became worn at the toes, I repaired them with a contrasting yellow Swiss darning stitch, to illuminate the damage.
RACHEL’S BOILER SUIT
Sometimes you can read a garment like a book. This boiler suit, worn at least three times a week for the past ten years, bears the imprint of its owner. Once dark blue indigo, it’s faded with a batik-like pattern, indicating the movement of the body that usually fills it. The sleeves are rolled up; the legs, too, yet still they scuff the ground with every step. I could tell which elbow was most leaned on, which leg most kneeled on and that this was an active person who moved quickly.
I repaired using patches on the inside at the armpits and crotch.
For the cuffs and arms, I left the patches visible on the outside. The knee was backed with a large patch inside, stitched in Sashiko- style to reinforce the cloth and prevent the tear from growing. The suit is now back to being lived in most days.
MY LILAC BLOUSE
It was my 16th birthday when I found this blouse, hanging in a dusty vintage shop in Falmouth, Cornwall. Made from silk, with copper-covered poppers and stitched together with a baby blue thread, it was love at first sight.
I was with a dear family friend, Sue, and when I tried it on she bought it for me on the spot. Eventually, after a few too many nights out, it began to tear at the armpits and around the seams. It was one of the first things I repaired properly. Miniature stitches with vintage silk thread follow the side seam all the way up from the bottom to the armpit. I love how the baby blue threads that originally held it together now look like a river on a map, held in place by my reinforcing stitches. Today it’s too delicate to wear and is permanently hung on my wall, reminding me of my teenage years and of Sue who bought it for me.
ALF’S GRANDPA’S
SWEATER VEST
After my friend Alf’s grandpa passed away, his mother and her siblings began going through the family home, sorting out the contents – a lifetime’s supply of stuff. When Alf was eventually invited to choose something he might like to have, he found this handmade sweater vest, folded neatly in his grandpa’s chest of drawers. It fitted Alf perfectly, his grandpa having once been the same build. However, the sweater was completely covered in moth holes and badly in need of repair. Because the wool was very thin I used a fine darning yarn, in contrasting colours (after approval). Among other keepsakes, including an eggshell collection and some excellent corduroys, this sweater vest is a lovely reminder of Alf’s grandpa.