It will take a hundred years or more, I expect, to collect enough naturally-shed sparrow feathers for a vision I have. So I'd better either increase my speed of gathering or hope scientists perfect manipulation of the longevity gene!  

You see, what I want to do is make a garment from sparrow feathers.  I can imagine sewing them, thoughtfully, one by one, onto a backing of, oh, say the lining of old drapes that has been softened and shaded by sun and age, something that will honour and do justice to the feathers.

An attempt was made to portray the dress in a painting (see previous  post above)  but it will take the real thing to truly capture the essence. The hues and tints and colours and textures of the feathers of the 'common' sparrow sorely challenged my skill with acrylics: art was a lacking mimic of nature in this endeavour.

And – 'common' – oh, I take umbrage and am only somewhat placated by being told it means they are 'numerous', not 'unexceptional'. 

Surely even the most unimaginative of taxonomists could not fail to be impressed by the scope, the placement – the perfection! – of the shades of amber and umber, cream, chestnut and taupe, and deem the wearers 'extraordinary'.

The dress will need to be of a gentle design. I plan a drape-and- let-happen process with the drapery lining, to let the body dictate the flow.

Patterns are marvellous maps to a set destination. When I was eight-years-old I used a pattern to produce a doll's dress with puffed sleeves which was judged proficient enough to win first prize – a child's Singer sewing machine. Fifty years later the memory still brings a lovely feeling of accomplishment.

Over the years the what-you-see-is-what-you-can-get aspect of patterns has served me well in offering guidance, but, like many creative sewers the urge and the itch has been to follow the "what if I changed this……… or added that………" To personalize. And, of course, there have been, well – 'individual' – results.

However, I once followed to the comma an Issy Miyake coat pattern, wondered several times during its construction if I should perhaps take a degree in architecture or engineering, cheated on the roundabout(!) of underarm seams, but every time I catch sight of that coat in my closet – not to mention wear it – I find I give a great sigh of contentment – and relief!

The bird feather dress, though, will not follow a pattern. I will revert to my earliest (and ongoing) method of clothing construction when I took material and my dolls and wrapped and snipped and stitched and snipped and wrapped and stitched some more. I learned that this might lead to a rather permanent article of clothing but it could be cut away from the body in intriguing variations.

'Mistakes' can produce delightful results: I recently, unknowingly, reattached an exterior pocket to a long coat, lining up with the bottom of the original placement. "Oh, dear," I thought as I tried it on and saw what I had done. Pursed my eyes, pursed my lips in an appraisal. Then my brow cleared. "Oh!" It had enhanced the columnar line of the garment and balanced the dimensions. The second pocket got lowered as well. True, I have to bend a bit to access the depths of these receptacles, but it is worth it. (And I am not the only one, I am sure, who blesses the inventor of pockets. Was she gazing at a kangaroo as she sewed together some skins to cover herself and suddenly had an "aha!" . Whoever she was – many thanks!)

The thought of how it will feel to wear a dress made of bird feathers sends me into shivers of anticipation, awe and joy. I expect I will soar………