I always had a hard time finding slacks that fit perfectly at a price I was willing to pay.

Simplicity pattern poster sold at auction.

I taught myself to sew after a college friend failed to finish an outfit for me. Ever the self-reliant person, I decided to teach myself. I spent many hours in fabric shops and knew where every one of them was located in any city where I lived.

Sewing was time-consuming – finding a pattern, choosing the fabric, cutting out the pattern from the tissue-paper sheets, laying the pieces on the fabric, cutting out the fabric and finally sewing the garment. Despite the chore, the end result was a tailor-made piece of clothing that fit me. It was akin to creating a work of art.

So when I came across some advertising posters for Simplicity patterns recently at auction, they took me back to those sewing shops. These were the kind of posters that would be aligned on top of the metal file-cabinet cases stuffed with patterns, tempting you into buying the latest Simplicity or Vogue or Butterick or McCall.

Simplicity pattern posters sold at auction.

Vintage patterns and other sewing items come up at auction pretty often, but this was the first time I had seen the posters. No date was printed on them, but the clothes looked to be from the 1950s.

At auction, old patterns are snapped up pretty quickly by buyers, indicating that there’s still a steady market for them. As for me, I gave up sewing years ago; I just didn’t have the time or the inclination anymore. I even had to abandon one of the best fabrics shops I had ever come across. It had wonderful fabric – especially the wools – at remarkable prices. The place was more warehouse than shop, and that’s probably why the fabric cost so little.

Like most sewers, I had tons of fabric left over after I dropped out. Sewers always buy more than they need, thus the slogan “The One Who Dies With the Most Fabric Wins.” I finally got rid of all of it, along with the piles of patterns.

Simplicity pattern posters sold at auction.

Through my sewing, I was following in the footsteps of millions of women who had relied on patterns to clothe their families inexpensively. That culture of sewing dated back to the mid-19th century when Ellen Louise Curtis Demorest of New York made the first tissue-paper patterns.

By the 1860s, Demorest was copying French fashions, and promoting and selling them through her own magazines. Her patterns were also sold by sales agents, mostly women, in shops across the country. Demorest hired both African American and white women to make the patterns, with both working side by side and earning equal pay. She was an abolitionist and women’s right advocate who, according to one account, shushed people away who disagreed with her politics.

Unfortunately, she did not patent her invention, but Ebenezer Butterick did. In 1863, Butterick’s wife Ellen suggested that she needed a pattern to make an outfit for their infant son that was in his size. Butterick experimented and came up with his own tissue-paper pattern. First, they were exclusively for men and boy’s clothes, but three years later, he started making women’s dress patterns.

Simplicity pattern poster sold at auction.

These two pattern-makers were among a long list of such companies, including Simplicity, which got started in 1927, and McCall, founded in 1870 and whose patterns were marketed through a magazine that later took the name McCall’s.

I wasn’t around when the Simplicity posters came up for auction, and I wasn’t sure how they’d be used. Probably like they were in those fabric shops – as stand-up art placed strategically around the room.

The front and back of a Simplicity poster sold at auction.

Related posts:

1. A mystery sewing item
2. A slew of antique sewing boxes
3. Vintage sewing machines at auction

I had to get closer to see what was calling me. In one full case and part of another were some of the loveliest antique sewing boxes and other paraphernalia – more than I had seen in one lot at auction. This was obviously one person’s collection and she (I’m quite certain it was a woman) or someone else was giving it all up.

A collection of antique sewing boxes and spool holders made this auction very special.

I come across sewing items all the time – coarse threads long forgotten in old sewing boxes, needle packs, needle holders, Singer and other sewing machines with unfamiliar names. But such a large grouping of boxes was extraordinary.

The auctioneer mentioned that they had come from a Victorian home in Cape May, NJ. When the owner first sent him photos, he said, he was a bit indifferent. But when he saw the actual collection, he was very impressed.

And I understood why. Anyone who appreciates the art of sewing would love these old boxes. And I’m one of those folks. I used to sew a lot, but sewing takes time and I found other things to do with that time. I’ve picked up a few small vintage sewing items from time to time, though.

The auction included a variety of sewing boxes, as shown in this photo.

These items were in relatively good condition and intact. Dust had settled on the tops of several and on others, the wood looked to have absorbed the dust after too many years of not being polished. All they needed were a good cleaning and they’d be proud again.

Most were boxes with spool holders that still held thread wrapped around wooden spools, the way they used to be made. At least two trays contained needle holders of all shapes, sizes and materials. Most of the boxes had drawers, and each pull revealed small items tucked inside.

Pincushions were apparently a favorite of this collector, and there were plenty of them – as toppers on miniature shoes, sewing boxes and metal contraptions, one of which was attached to the edge of the glass on a shelf.

The "Lady's Companion" sewing kit - practical and nice.

Lying flat on one shelf was a small white leather sewing kit with the words “Lady’s Companion” imprinted in gold leaf on the side. Inside were tools tucked into deep pockets for that emergency sewing job away from home. It was adorable. On the Barnum Museum website, I found a red leather one with gold lettering that had belonged to P.T. Barnum’s daughter.

When the time came to sell the items, the auction staff laid them out on a table in front of about a dozen of us who had attached ourselves to the edge of the table like magnets. We fingered items we had touched many times before (at least I had because I had previewed them the day before. On auction day, the case was locked).

One woman standing next to me held up a black wooden item with a short handle and oval head. What’s this, she said. A darner, I told her. You put a sock over the round head, and “darn” or mend a hole. It is actually called a darning egg, and some are in the shape of an egg.

The needle holders came in all shapes, sizes and materials, including silver. The darning eggs are in the far back of the photo on the left.

Then she picked up a short deceptively simple-looking cylindrical case. What’s this? she asked again. I unscrewed it as I explained that it was a needle holder. Inside were several needles.

I was her once, before I started going to auctions. I had never seen a darning egg before, and knew nothing about needle holders and tatting shuttles, which were also in this collection. But because I am interested in sewing, I’ve learned about many of its tools after having stumbled across so many at auctions – and still do.

The woman bidded on a few small pieces, but she was outbidded on most of them. Another female bidder took home most of the items, which generally sold in the $50 to $100 range. The cheapest went for $7 and the highest for $160, an egg-shaped needle holder that the auctioneer said was either ivory or bone.

A look inside a sewing case with plush interior and bone tools.

The Lady’s Companion kit sold for $125. A very decorative one sold at another auction last year for $300. A couple were selling on eBay for less than $100.

I didn’t bid on anything because I thought the prices were too high. Besides, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the boxes, except allow them to collect dust like the other sewing items I have at home. I’m sure the buyers at the auction will sell them, because most of the folks there were dealers.

Many of the other items sold at auction also came from the Victorian home in New Jersey, including a lovely Black Forest German clock with a thermometer, glassware, loads of old tintype and studio photos, and vintage dolls. This family seemed to be cleaning house.

A metal thread holder with pincushion.

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1. Needle packs: Too classy for sewing
2. A mystery sewing item
3. Simplicity posters & memories of sewing

Right, I thought, and I’m sure everyone else in the room questioned his veracity, too. No way he would be holding a 189-year-old knitting piece in his hand. But we all knew that there was always at least one person (well, maybe two or three) gullible enough to believe everything an auctioneer said.

This is the center vase of flowers on the tatting piece, along with the initials "S" and "B." The year 1822 had also been stitched into it.

He started the bidding high. Then dropped it low, low and lower until he got to $5. What the heck, I thought. For $5, I’d buy it just to see what the piece actually looked like. So, I took the bid and won it. Click on the photo above for a full view.

This fabric looked to be silk. It was in a cherry frame that was in good condition, but the backing had been removed. Everything was separated – the frame, the tatting, the glass, which was dusty, dirty and affixed with a paper label with the year 1822 written on it. The tatting design had been attached to cardboard with packing tape around the edges. On the back were the words “Tatting 1822″ written in pencil.

I had never heard of tatting until I started going to auctions some years ago and began looking at items other than artwork. I used to sew a lot, making many of my own clothes and enjoying it. I have also taken quilting lessons, where I made a few potholders and started a quilt but never finished.

But I had never been a knitter or a crocheter or a needlepointer. So, when I came across some tatting shuttles in a box lot once, I didn’t know what they were. They were shaped like an oval but rectangular, with two sides attached to each other by a narrow bridge. The ends were pointed. Some were metal, some were bone, but they apparently come in a variety of materials. They were no more than 2 to 3 inches long.

Two tatting shuttles.

I Googled to find out more about them and eBayed to see what they were worth. I even blogged about the ones I had found, asking the question of how they were used.

The word tatting, according to one expert, did not appear until the 19th century but the craft of knotting threads went back even farther.

The craft seemed to be more associated with lace for edging but can also be used to make doilies and other items. It apparently flourished during the early part of the 20th century but its popularity then diminished. Another site described it as an old craft of making lace and other decorations, and said it was easy to learn. It doesn’t look so easy on this video, which showed that it does requires patience. Here’s a gallery of tatting designs.

The shuttles themselves are highly collectible. Here are some lovely ones. Here are some collectors, their designs and their shuttles.

Tatting normally consisted of a series of knots and loops, but the piece I got at auction looked more like a series of thin straight threads crossing each other and forming the outlines of squares.

Two of the three places the year 1822 was noted on the tatting piece.

I kept finding tatting shuttles selling alone at auctions or among sewing items in a box lot. But I had never seen an actual sewn design, until this one came up at auction. When I got the piece home, I looked at it very carefully. It had been applied to a pink satin fabric and then sewn onto the cardboard in a basic stitch that I recognized (and had used before). The tatting showed signs of fading around the edges and some brown age spots.

The design was symmetrical: a row of three vases of flowers, two identical ones on either side of a larger vase. At the top was stitched “18″ in the left corner and “22″ in the right corner. In between them were what looked like the initials “S” and “B.”

Maybe the piece was done in 1822 and by S.B. Now, I was intrigued, because I always want to know more about the people who held or used or made the items I find at auction.

Who was S.B. and why did she make this particular piece? I may never know, but it looks like the auctioneer may have been right.

The cardboard backing of the tatting piece.

Related posts:

1. Tatting shuttles
2. Where were black women?
3. A slew of antique sewing boxes

More than a dozen hooks were lying atop one another on a blue Willow plate on the auction table. Two tables down were more of them, along with some manicure tools.

Button hooks sold at auction.

I’d seen them often at auction before, and always thought they had something to do with sewing. They always had nice bone or celluloid handles attached to long metal prongs with a hook at the end.

It was with utter surprise that I learned their real name and real use: button hooks for pulling buttons through button holes.

They were used extensively during the latter part of the Victorian period when men and women wore over-the-ankle shoes and boots that buttoned up the side. If you’ve seen any old pictures of shoes from that time, you’ll remember that they were tight at the ankle. So, you can imagine the chore of trying to button them.

I looked past the rusted metal prongs on the button hooks at auction and focused on the handles. Several were cream-colored bone, two had the words “French ivory” and “ivory” engraved on them, but my research showed that they were actually the synthetic plastic celluloid. Another had light and dark brown tones, another was green and brown celluloid (with a matching nail tool), another was mother of pearl. Two metal ones advertised shoe stores in Philadelphia.

These were vintage button hooks but there was no way to tell how old they were.

Manicure items were part of the button-hook lots sold at auction.

The lots included a large array of bone crochet hooks and a comb-like item I could not identify, a metal item that resembled scissors with a rooster in the middle, holes at the bottom for fingers and circular pieces at the top. The open piece at the top looked like it could have been a magnifying glass (the glass was missing) and the solid piece could’ve been its cover. The lot also included nail tools and several letter openers.

For me, the prize was the button hooks. I cleaned them, and decided to try one out. First, I had to find a blouse with buttons because who wears blouses anymore. I slid the button hook through the button hole and around a button (it didn’t slide around the button too easily so I maneuvered it with my hand) and pulled it through. No fumbling with the button. It was easy. Then I tried another, not so easy, a little fumbling, and then another, not so easy again. I guess it takes practice. 

Here’s how it was actually done, according to Christopher Proudlove in an article on the website of the Buttonhook Society:

In use, the prong was inserted through the buttonhole and the hook positioned around the shank of the button. A swift tug and a deft twist of the wrist and the button was pulled easily into place to do its duty.

I could not imagine trying to button shoes with it.

A shoe for which the button hooks were made. Photo by haracat3.

Button hooks were pretty common in the 1890s and were widely used until around 1915, according to the Buttonhook Society website, even though they go back at least a century or more earlier. Anyone who wore shoes, stiff boots, jackets, gloves and even corsets apparently used them. They came in all sizes and shapes, and were made of materials ranging from silver to abalone shell.

Some, called “trench art,” were made from metal picked up off battlefields during World War I. Many businesses used them for advertising, like the ones in the lot I bought that advertised Forster’s Boot and Shoes and Sharpless Bros. Shoes, which no longer exist.

The hooks could be as long as a foot or more to prevent a person from having to bend over to fasten boots or as small as a little finger to be carried in a purse, according to the website.

As people traveled more, the hooks were included in manicure, shaving, dresser and traveling sets, according to the Buttonhook Society site. A dresser set could consist of a “manicure knife, shoe horn, letter opener, cuticle knife, scissors, small bottles, and other items set in a specially fitted case.”

Maybe that’s why my auction lots contained several manicure, nail tools and letter openers. They were likely part of dresser sets.

Letter openers and more were among the lot of button hooks sold at auction.

Button hooks are apparently collectible, don’t cost a lot of money and are easy to store. As Proudlove  rightly noted, “you could spend a lifetime collecting button hooks and fit them all in a suitcase.”

Unsurprisingly, I found an association of button hook collectors, the Buttonhook Society based in England, that offered tons of information on collecting, fakes, how to display your collection, early articles on button hooks (including one on how to clean rust: cover with oil or grease, let set for a few days, rub with ammonia). It also included photos from its exhibition of amazingly beautiful hooks, not the sort I come across at auctions. There is also a display from the Bedford Museum in England. Here are more nice photos, including one that shows how they were used.

It seemed that the lot of button hooks I got for $5 each at auction are among the more common ones. None are silver and none have fancy handles. But learning about them, though, was a fascinating expedition.

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I assumed she was Native American by the look of her clothes with the little red trimmed-in-white designs that gave the impression of tiny beads. The needlepoint seemed different – for me at least, since I do not know needlepoint – because it looked like it was raised above the background, not flat against it. As I looked closer, I realized that I was mistaken.

The colorations on her face were variations of light and dark brown, seeming to reflect light against her skin. She looked so real. I went back to the needlepoint several times to examine it closely. And each time, I was convinced more and more that I’d love to have it hanging on my wall at home. I turned to the back and saw that the paper protecting it – which looked to be vintage – had torn. Inside, the framer had used cardboard against the piece, which is a no-no. You should never use cardboard in framing, so I”ll have it reframed.

The piece was not large. It only measured 8 ½” x 9″ in the frame, which was in good shape. The image itself was 3 ½” x 2″.

This needlepoint got me to thinking about whether Native American designs were common. In Googling, I found that several companies produce them, mostly of chiefs, men, women, buffaloes, wolves, dream catchers, along with ones with messages.

One of the things I found that was most intriguing was needlepoint and petit point jewelry made by the Zunis, a Pueblo tribe that lives in western New Mexico. According to one website, the Zunis are considered the premier jewelry makers of all the  tribes. Their needlepoint stones have pointed ends that are set in straight or curved lines, according to the website, and the petit point stones are shaped like tear drops. Another website said petit points were round, and needlepoint were needle-shaped. (The pieces above are petit points from the Zuni Connection website.)

In some cases, the two terms were used interchangeably. Whatever, they are just gorgeous (click here to see pieces by contemporary Zuni jewelry makers). Just like my little girl, which I got for $5. Fortunately, there were no other bidders. (The necklace below is a needlepoint from the Zuni Connection website.)

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1. A floral needlepoint purse
2. Needlepoint samplers – a girl’s work
3. Native American root club

I see some of those crocheted and  needlepoint pieces – not sure if they’re from a dowry but merely from loving hands – at auctions from time to time. Last weekend, I saw some from an actual dowry, bequeathed to a niece by a woman now in her 70s and living in New York. I was at the home of a friend’s friend, and the woman shared her aunt’s handiwork.

The aunt started making the linens at the age of 16 when she was a girl in Vila Cha in northern Portugal, and made them until she was about 21. She moved to the United States in1965 at the age of 28, shipping much of her dowry pieces and bringing over the rest with her.

“You had to have a dowry so when it came time, you had everything you needed,” the niece told us.  ”… That’s what everyone in their town did. They were getting their stuff together.”

Practically everything was embroidered, “even dishrags,” the niece said.

Her aunt also made pieces for other people in the town. The aunt learned the skill of crocheting and needleworking from her mother and aunts, but was self-taught in creating her own designs.

“They lived on a farm (and worked in the fields during the day),” the niece said. “They’d come home and put on the kerosene light and talk and needlepoint.”

The niece has two trunks of her aunt’s linens and her aunt has more at her own home. The niece is putting together a hope chest of the linens for her own teenage daughter. That got me to wondering if teens were interested in vintage linens and hope chests these days. Her daughter very much wants them, the niece said. A smart young woman, because these pieces were stunning. (I wrote a blog post earlier this year about how young girls used to make samplers as a rite of passage.)

In her dining room, the niece carefully pulled out round crocheted doilies, tablecloths and a twin-bed sheet with pink edges from a stack in the closet. We were awed by the artistry, the fine stitching and the patterns on what would be considered everyday items. One of them was something new to me: a round bowl-shaped white linen piece with decorated pockets and narrow crocheted trim around the edges. It was used to hold hot dinner rolls.

I don’t know her aunt, but I couldn’t help marveling at her talent. A lot of time, effort and love went into those pieces. It took her 40 hours to make the small ones, her niece said, and 60 hours for the larger ones.

These were ooh-and aah pieces (and more oohs and aahs all over again) as the niece took them one after the other from the closet and unfolded them on the dining room table. She uses them on occasion, bringing them out for special dinners and placing them beneath plates to give place settings a pop.

She also showed us the first piece of embroidery her aunt had made for her, when she was a baby. She’s not sure exactly how it was used, but it was a small piece with a Portuguese blessing on the front and a pocket on the back. She also has a linen piece with the initial “M” for Maria, her given name.

Her aunt doesn’t do much stitch-work now, the niece said, because of her failing eyesight. She and her husband had no children, so this niece became the beneficiary of her largesse. This is a very lucky niece. (Click on each photo below rather than viewing through PicLens.)

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

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1. Needlepoint samplers – a girl’s work
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I bought the lot, and she got her Acme supermarket needle pack.

It was one of the plainer ones I’d seen, with the company’s name emblazoned on both sides of the folded cover and a simple line drawing of a woman with a shopping cart buying groceries. It had been made in Germany.

Many of the packs – or needle books, as they are also called – are usually more colorful and decorative. For me, the highlight of the packs are their lovely lithographs, such as the USS Iowa on the Army and Navy Needle Book, or the pilgrims and Native Americans at Plymouth. Most still have all of their needles in them, indicating that the owners were collecting rather than using them. Even today, people are drawn to the strong illustrations, including the writer of the blog Seesaw, where you can see examples in her collection. 

 
Today, I’m blogging about old sewing items, in particular needles packs. Yesterday, I wrote about needle cases, used to store needles and other items. You don’t find these works of art on needle packaging in fabric stores these days. Now, they’re very utilitarian.

Some of the classier old ones were used by companies to market their products to sewers. The packs were either giveaways or could be purchased. 

Several of mine are from the Colonial Life Insurance Co., including one of a little girl with her doll and the title “A Stitch in Time.” Inside, the company urged you to contact them for a policy on retirement, family protection, educational funds, mortgage redemption and business insurance. “Like all good needles,” the pack intoned on the back cover, “the Colonial policies have fine points.”

You’ll find many packs with women on the covers (since they were from another era, you won’t likely find any black women). Needles of several sizes were encased inside, many times on colored foil. I also have plain packs with needles only, all made in England, with names like Brabant’s, Milward and Susan Bates.

I found by Googling that in the 19^th century, the center of needle manufacturing was a town called Redditch, England. Today, there’s a museum there, Forge Mill Needle Museum, that recounts the area’s needle-making and fishing-tackle industries.

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The sewing of the earliest samplers – not the ones I see on my auction tables – were a rite of passage, a way for the girls to learn basic needlepoint skills. It’s what their mothers did when they were girls and what the girls were expected to do. They used them to record the alphabets, learn numbers, and sew what they saw around them and what they were taught, especially religious messages.

The ones I come observe always seem to be in a state of disrepair, a bit tattered around the edges, like a mouse had gnawed on them. One website noted that the ratty ones were likely not framed, and the fabric may have just faded as a result. Those considered pictures were cherished, framed, hung on a wall and thus preserved.

At auction recently, I came across a pretty little sampler in a frame, still in good condition, even though the fabric was slightly yellowed from the light. It had the children’s prayer “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” stitched in it, with Noah’s Ark, pairs of animals and a border enveloping it. I’m not sure how old it was. On the floor among some other paintings were a handful of newer ones – done in knitting wool and fiber.

The themes on the earliest samplers were very simplistic, with the girls following the pattern of tradition: A favorite saying, the names of family members, a picture of the family, school or house, flowers, trees and vegetation, along with personal or religious messages, as well as the alphabets and numbers. Some were done on simple kitchen linens.

That was their life and culture, and part of their education. By the mid-19^th century, girls around the age of 5 or 6 were expected to make samplers, the first of which was a marking sampler, which helped them to learn stitches, letters and numerals and learn to read, according to the Metropolitan Museum of Art website. This was usually done with a mother or grandmother. If the girl was from a well-to-do family she would go off to a boarding school where she’d learn to stitch the more pictorial silk embroidered pieces.  

For some time, there was some question about whether black girls created samplers. The answer: yes.

Last year, the Winterthur Museum purchased two samplers made by African American girls: Olevia Parker at the Lombard Street School in Philadelphia in 1852 and Rachel Ann Lee, at the Oblate Sisters of Providence School for Colored Girls in Baltimore in 1846. Interestingly, it was noted that the figures in the samplers were white rather than the skin color of the black girls. There are also a handful more out there.  

On its website, the Oblate Sisters are said to have the largest selection of samplers done by black girls. The samplers are just beautiful.

I found in my research that samplers stitched by black girls tend to cost more, likely because they are so rare. As one site noted, those by white girls can bring in under a thousand dollars, but one by Samaria Gaines, an Oblates girl whose sampler is in the collection of the Baltimore Museum of Art, was listed in 2004 for $24,000.

The highest price paid for any sampler was more than $467,000 at an auction last year, a world record, according to the Antique Trader website. It was a silk-on-linen piece sewn by Betsey Bentley of Boston (daughter of the man who rowed Paul Revere across the river in his historic trek) in 1781. Written on it: “Betsey Bentley, Her Sampler in the 13 Year of Her Age.”

You can view samplers of both black and white girls in Maryland from the book “Maryland Schoolgirl Samplers & Embroideries, 1738- 1860″ by Gloria Seaman Allen. They are from a 2007 exhibit at the Maryland Historical Society.

The Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History has its earliest dated from 1735, the Lydia Dickman sampler. Here are more beautiful samplers to enjoy.

Related posts:

1. Native American girl in needlepoint
2. A woman, her dowry and needlepoint
3. A floral needlepoint purse

In a box next to it was another project I also recognized: An unfinished quilt in what looked like yellow and white muslin. Both were very familiar to me because that was me once. Well, I was that person who quilted. I took a quilting class some years ago and then went about buying every piece of fabric I thought I liked for some eventual quilting project. I got into quilting because of its rich history among black women,and I wanted to be a part of that experience.

I had drawers of fabric scraps and large pieces, and I even started making a quilt. About halfway through the project, I realized that I really didn’t like the design. So I put it aside. I soon gave up quilting altogether. Sorry ancestors. I’ll just enjoy your wonderful creations.

I did make some potholders and gave them as Christmas gifts to my friends and female family members. I must say that they were actually nice little works of art (I actually made them for that purpose and not for kitchen use). I framed one for myself in a shadow box, and now it sits on a bookshelf in my office.

I don’t believe any of the pieces of fabric in the boxes outside the auction house were vintage (I know mine were not). But once I got inside, I found a table full of fabric that appeared to be vintage or reproduction vintage. There were about four stacks of what looked like upholstery fabric, and many more stacks of vintage – and clean – linen: doilies, placemats, napkins.

One of the neatest items was a satin twin bedspread and pillow shams. The bedspread was decorated with a woman dressed in black lace. “Vintage Lady Satin Bedspread,” someone had written on a piece of paper pinned to it.

I’ve come across vintage fabric before at auction, and someone readily snapped it up. You can find pieces at estate sales, flea markets and also on the internet, where many sites sell both authentic fabric and reproductions. You can be as creative as you want to be in how to use the fabric, including making lampshades, as this designer has done at Vintage Fabric Lamp Shade.

Want some inspiration on how to be creative with vintage fabric? Check out this article published a couple months ago in the Philadelphia Inquirer. It tells of a woman who creates lovely pillows that she sells at department stores and specialty shops. Some of her pillows can be seen in the documentary “The September issue,” about Vogue editor Anna Wintour.

So the next time you pass by some vintage fabric, stop and think about how you can transform it into art. But be selective, though, because fabric has a habit of multiplying and overtaking your best intentions.

Trust me, I know.

Related posts:

1. A floral needlepoint purse
2. Is that tatting piece really from 1822?

I was in college before I developed an interest in sewing. Well, not exactly developed. I was forced to learn after a friend messed around and failed to make an outfit for me that I desperately wanted. So, I taught myself on a Singer and made some of my own clothes for years afterward.

When I started going to auctions a couple years ago, I would spot vintage Singer sewing machines. Not the plastic ones in cases that I used. These machines looked like works of art. They were shiny black metal with gold filigree and the Singer gold medallion. I also came across one once that had red and gold filigree.

Some were in good shape; the owners had obviously kept them well-oiled and dustless. Others needed work. There were also other manufacturers I had never heard of before. Some of those were antiques from the late 19^th century.

The first patents for sewing machines were issued in the 1700s, but they were not mass-produced until the 1850s with the Singer machine. As with most antiques, sewing machines do have their collectors, with websites brimming with photos of their collections and information on sewing machines in general. Read this collector’s story and view a few of his 500 machines, all from the 19^th century and before World War II.

Here are some of my finds:

 
Singer child’s toy sewing machine (above) from the late 1940s or 1950s. It is 7” tall and 6” long.

Singer 15-91 Centennial heavy duty sewing machine. The medallion on the side has this inscription: “A Century of Sewing Service. 1851-1951.” This workhorse sews through double, triple and more folds of leather and jeans fabric. A similar model I came across was the Singer 66, another workhorse, manufactured in 1954.

Singer 128. It has red and gold filigree designs and a pear-shaped side plate. The front plate is embellished with grapes and leaves. It was manufactured between 1926 and 1928.

Singer 221 Featherweight. This most popular of the Singers is still greatly sought after and used. This lightweight machine has a nicely embellished faceplate. It was manufactured in 1935.

Cash Buyers Union. It is black, cast iron with silver filigree designs. I had never heard of this manufacturer before, and only found a little information in my Google research. One website said the Cash Buyers Union was a national cooperative society. Another had a catalog that listed the company’s products, including sewing machines, musical instruments, dinner sets, bicycles, clocks and buggies. This machine was circa 1895.

Others I’ve come across:

General Electric Sewhandy. This machine was said to be a precursor to the Singer Featherweight. Besides GE, the Sew Handy was made by a series of companies, including Standard Sewing Machine Co. The machine I found at auction was made between 1931 and 1936.

Willcox and Gibbs. This 1897 machine had a very strange look: Its spine reminded me of the image of a black Halloween cat about to pounce. It was the first chain-stitch machine and was very popular.

 If you’d like to see some nice antique machines, check out these sites: Sewing Machine Collectors  and Sewalot.

Related posts:

1. A mystery sewing item
2. A slew of antique sewing boxes
3. Simplicity posters & memories of sewing