dear you — we cut it from silk that used to be something else, we shaped it with our fingers and a little steam, we stitched it by hand in a room in london with the window open, and then we stopped, because there was only enough for one. it will not be made again. it is not a copy of anything. if you are reading this, it might be yours. it might go on your collar, in your hair, on the strap of a bag, on the t-shirt of the person you love. wherever it goes, it goes alone — cut, shaped and stitched by hand in london, one at a time, so no two are the same
Every brooch is posted in a hand-numbered paper envelope, folded around a note about where its fabric came from. No plastic. No box you’ll throw away.
hackney, 11 november
you were the best backdrop we’ve ever had. low sun, a girl in her dad’s coat, and forty centimetres of hand-torn ribbon catching every bit of wind on mare street.
the rose took eleven hours. she took it home.
p.s. nº 014 is still looking for someone.
at home, a sunday
nobody got dressed. jeans from the floor, a vest, and a faded silk rose pinned into short hair. he wore the other one on his t-shirt.
we tea-dye the petals so they look like they’ve been loved for years already.
p.s. they come as a pair, or not at all.
old compton street, a tuesday
three of them, sitting on your kerb in borrowed furs. the blue flower used to be a coat lining. the cream one was a wedding dress nobody wanted.
we can’t make them again. the fabric’s gone.
p.s. bunking off is not endorsed. the outfits are.
cut, shaped and stitched by hand in london. one at a time, so no two are the same.
— every adorn brooch, everone letter a month. new pieces, a day before everyone else. the odd story about where the silk came from.
