Chinese Ribbons - Ancient and Auspicious

I am a ribbon fancier. Take me to a shop such as Bell-occhio, Mokuba or V V Rouleaux, or set me in front a box of antique trims and ribbons at a flea market, and I am in vintage textile heaven.

So when I spied a sack full of rolls of old embroidered ribbon at Beijing’s Dirt Market I was hooked. I soon became the stall vendor’s new best friend, as week after week I filled my big blue Ikea bags with these precious ancient threads. Then I found out that he made house calls. (In Beijing everyone makes home deliveries - the tailor, the nail lady, the Indian restaurant, the wine merchant). So every few weeks, the man from the market would appear at my door with a few plastic bags full of ribbon, which he would open and empty onto my dining room table. And then the bargaining would begin.

Most of the examples date from the late Qing era, at the time of the last Emperor, circa 1900. Their original purpose was to imitate hand-embroidery, and to trim garment robes, jackets and hats, or interior decorations. My ribbons are mostly machine woven. They range in width from ¼” to several inches wide, and in length from tiny swatches to many meters of a particular pattern. Rich in color, the surfaces are covered with graphic repeat patterns of Chinese characters, motifs, and symbols such as flowers, butterflies, and birds. Lately, the clever seamstresses of Beijing have been busy cutting antique ribbons up to make replicas of the the small slippers so popular with foreign tourists. So in a sense I was rescuing these textiles from such a fate.

Alas, my accessioning halted with our departure from China.

But, what to do with such beauty?

Taking lengths of the ribbon, I matched these to corresponding Chinese silver rattles (once used to adorn Children’s hats), and created necklaces.

From The Parrott Collection (Photograph courtesy, Pomme Gallery)

But I still feel these exquisite ribbons deserve just the right couture treatment.

Perhaps, elegant evening bags, or, as one friend suggested, Chinese ribbon patchwork quilts or throw pillows. I am open to suggestions. Any ideas out there?

Merci,
Marjorie

Valentines in the Classroom ~ February 1915

It was February 1915, and all week long, the students at North Street School prepared for Valentine's Day. Little hands were kept busy cutting out hearts from red and pink construction paper. As they worked, their teacher, Miss McCherry, recited the following poem by Mary Catherine Parsons for inspiration:

Forget-me-nots are round the edge,
And tiny roses, too;
And such a lovely piece of lace-
The very palest blue.

And in the center there’s a heart,
As red as red can be!
And on it’s written all in gold,
“To You, with Love from Me.”

Then, when they were finished, like good little children everywhere, they put away the unused sheets of colored paper, pots of paste and scissors. It was time to rehearse their Valentine's Day play. The celebration is memorialized in the above photograph. The class poses, wearing hearts and holding American flags. A few tiny cupids with paper wings aim bows and arrows at heart-shaped targets. In the center, reigning over it all, are the youthful King and Queen of Hearts, in crepe paper crowns. The teacher stands proudly in the the center back row.

I too, have been busy. I've been digging through my collection of antique Valentines, and searching for a special one to send to you. As much as I am attracted to antique paper lace Valentines, I chose instead this sweet handmade card. It was lovingly crafted long ago, by some unknown child. I think it is perfect!

Wearing my heart on my sleeve,
Marjorie

P.S. You might be interested to know that most of the antique paper used in my blog postings comes from The Parrott Collection, my archive of antiquarian books, prints and ephemera.

Sisters of the Convent

This posting is dedicated to Mary Kane. She lived across the street from me when I was a little girl, and she was Roman Catholic. I am protestant. My father’s family came from old New England Puritan stock. My dreams of becoming a nun began about age seven, when I attended my friend’s first communion. Things really got serious when she taught me the sign of the cross, and the two of us erected a shrine in the basement of my house on Maxwell Avenue. Soon, I was reciting Hail Marys to the astonishment of my parents. All this should not have been so strange, since the other side of my family were French-Canadians and Irish!

How appropriate it was then, that I should find myself living in Belgium, a country with so many remnants of the beauty and theatre of the Catholic Church! Religious imagery and architecture are on show everywhere. In addition to the churches and shrines, many of the larger towns in Belgium had a beguinage, compounds where semi-religious women’s communities flourished in the 13th century. There was even a small roadside chapel or kapel across from our farmhouse. In Brussels, we discovered the “Musée du Coeur” devoted to the heart in religious iconography

On one of our many weekend antiquing excursions, we met a jolly Flemish man named Jan and his wife, Marcelle. They graciously invited us to their home which adjoined the medieval town walls of Mechelen. Inside was a miraculous collection of antique religiosa-statues, chapelets (crucifixes), and bénitiers (holy water fonts). The couple had even built their own chapel next to the wall in their garden.

Elsewhere in Belgium, we encountered other religious souvenirs. Near Antwerp cathedral is “Het Elfde Gebod” (Eleventh Commandment). This unique café offers its patrons sanctuary in an interior illuminated with church candles, and packed to the rafters with effigies of angels and saints.

The more we looked, the more new collecting passions were born within us. We trawled the antique markets and brocantes for delicate paper lace holy cards, ornate silk priests’ vestments and miniature travel reliquaries. The inspiration for my Sacre Bleu necklaces (from The Parrott Collection) with tiny blue enamel medallions, comes from this time. Frankincense and myrrh, purchased at a monastery shop near the Vatican, brought home the memory of the smoky-scented church interiors of Italy. The ancient pharmacy of Santa Maria Novella in Florence was a miss, but it is on my must-see list.


It is comforting to know that so many former religious buildings have been born again. In Australia, and other locales down-under they have the right spirit when it comes to reusing these structures. One example is the imposing Convent Gallery in Daylesford, Victoria, (once The Holy Cross Convent and Boarding School for Girls), whose shop was the source of my slender and graceful beeswax church candles. Near Melbourne is Abbotsford Convent. Eleven heritage listed buildings, once the cloister of the Sisters of the Order of the Good Shepherd, now shelter artists, writers, small organizations, a restaurant and a radio station. On New Zealand’s South Island at the Old Convent bed and breakfast in Kaikoura, we swam with the dolphins by day, and slept in a former classroom of the church school by night.


Long ago, I gave up my calling to become a nun. That doesn’t mean that I don’t weep watching Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story, Deborah Kerr in Black Narcissus, or Donna Reed, the good sister in Green Dolphin Street as she takes her final vows.

These days my spiritual side is sated by a visitation to Diamonds and Rust, at 472 Lighthouse Avenue, Pacific Grove, California. Susie and Marilyn opened the shop two years ago in its current location, and it is ecclesiastical Nirvana! There, artifacts such as shell grottos, Virgin Mary statues, and ex-votos/milagros help me find my lost saints.

Dominus Vobiscum,
Marjorie

My Bicyclette

My first bicyclette was a gift from Aunt Lois and Uncle Julian. They lived in Richmond, Virginia, and ran a tourist home on Chamberlayne Avenue. “Br-ring, br-ring” went the bell of my four-wheeler, as I rode the bumpy sidewalks of their street, and raced the large trucks that plied that route. At night, tucked into my bed, a lullaby from the sounds of those same trucks sang to me of faraway places.

One Christmas, not long after, Santa brought me a shiny black Raleigh: a real big girl bicycle! That bike transported me through my young adult years, and later safely ferried my toddlers to their nursery school.

In Belgium, our hove (old farmhouse in Flemish) was situated on a country road popular with the local bicycle racing clubs. On weekends, we would become spectators of this sport, as swarms of
riders would whip by our house.

One day at a local brocante, I found a large collection of vintage enamel bike manufacturers’ plaques. I had great fun fashioning them into the ultimate biker ‘bling’. (from The Parrott Collection at Pomme)

La Bicyclette is also the name of a café/restaurant here in Carmel. It is the artistic creation of the Georis family, who have made names for themselves with a series of experiential /themed eateries and a winery. Perhaps, due to their Belgian roots, their café is evocative of the estaminets of Belgium. These are the quirky cafes where an eclectic mélange of tattered and discarded elements; such as ancient baby buggies, umbrellas and chairs adorn the walls, and where good honest rustic pleasant fare is served. La Bicyclette is ‘ouvert’ for lunch and dinner. You can expect a good wine list and creative dining touches. This includes copper pots of steaming soup brought to the table, and elegant deserts. The deserts are made by the pastry chef at another Georis restaurant up the street, and are delivered in the basket of a vintage bike by one of the waiters. It’s the “wheel” deal!

Happy trails, Marjorie