This includes a colour plate showing five styles of purse, of which three were intended to be crocheted with silk thread. The first known published instructions for crochet explicitly using that term to describe the craft in its present sense appeared in the Dutch magazine Penélopé in 1823. Perhaps it was.A crocheted purse described in 1823 in Penélopé Perhaps it was wanting to preserve the tradition of our ancestors or wanting the attention of these old ladies. The women who do it are hunched, in pain, their bones deformed. "To make one centimeter, it takes more than an hour. "It is time consuming and hard on the body," Grandma Bonka said in her sing-song Russian accent (she had spent most of her youth in Moscow). "Why does no one want to learn?" I asked, sad that this beauty would someday be lost. Soon this knowledge will be gone forever."
IVORY TABLECLOTH HOW TO
"Only a few old women in Belgium and in the Bulgarian town of Kalofer know how to make it, and none of the young women want to learn. "This lace is difficult to make," she explained. Grandma Bonka was just over four feet tall and, as always, stood well-balanced on five-inch stilettos, the epitome of sophistication. She took out a bundle wrapped in white paper.Īs she unraveled the bundle, we gathered around, a benevolent coven, to witness for ourselves the delicate detail and spiderweb perfection of the marvel inside: the bobbin lace. We all followed her to her special closet where she kept her lace hidden as though it were an ancient, magical treasure. My grandmother adjusted her lavender patent leather belt across her purple-flowered dress. They looked at me with pity for not knowing.
IVORY TABLECLOTH MOVIE
I think I also liked the admiration and recognition I received from my grandmother's girlfriends, who often said, "Look at how little she is and how fast and beautifully she crochets." Their admiration and recognition gave me a sense of pride.ĭuring one such ladies' gathering, my grandmother's best friend, Grandma Bonka-her hair in a voluminous, graying, classy bun, her tiny body wrapped in a tight pencil skirt and a widow's black blazer like a European movie star-announced she had ordered a blouse collar of Brussels lace. I loved watching the beautiful patterns emerge centimeter by centimeter out of, essentially, nothing-a magical web. Even my best friend, Rose, said so when we walked our two dachshunds in the evenings. I knew it was a weird, uncool thing to do. By the time I was ten, I was quite good at crocheting. My grandmother, short and sturdy, usually in a colorful 1960s-style A-line dress and a dainty necklace, taught me to crochet when I was six. I loved sitting with these ladies, crocheting and listening to their conversations. According to them, we lived in a great, sunny country where political leaders had good intentions, we had no racial problems, our women were equal to men, our poor were equal to our rich, and our Olympic athletes were superior to all others. As the wives of Communist officials and prominent academics, these women had enveloped themselves in happy rhetoric.
IVORY TABLECLOTH TV
Ours was a perfect society after all, or so these ladies and everyone at school and on TV pretended. The gossip was never lascivious or vicious it usually revolved around what had happened at a women's committee meeting or whose daughter or son had married or had a baby or whose grandchild had been accepted into the Young Communist Organization. Sitting in plush armchairs set atop fluffy carpets, among ivory statuettes and colorful bouquets, they came together to crochet, exchange patterns, have coffee with pastries, and gossip.
My grandmother and her girlfriends gathered every week at her apartment in the center of Sofia. There, I was to learn to make a type of bobbin lace called Brussels lace. On the first day of spring break in fourth grade, half a year before communism was to collapse in our little country at the end of Europe, my grandparents, dressed in their well-ironed politburo clothes, drove me three hours in their newly washed, grass-green Soviet-produced Lada to the town of Kalofer in central Bulgaria.
0 kommentar(er)
