I do not remember your name. I was very young, and spent the majority of my time toddling around my parent’s ankles at the artists’ market, a collection of odds-and-ends housed in the guts of an old meat market, big bluestone shell, honeycombed with little shops, an art bookshop, the Hungarian goldsmith with the waxed moustaches, the puppeteer who also made masks, the glassworkers, and the milliner. She’d let me into her lair, the back room where she stitched a hundred tiny flowers into the brim of a Oaks’ Day hat, or repair the crown of an old man’s fedora. There is something beautiful about the meeting point of felt and silk, waxed flowers and fruit, netting and feathers.
Today’s dress is in homage to the skill of feather-pinning. The collar and embellishments are spotted turkey (?) feathers.
All my love,