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.
I was reminded of you by an article in the paper about the tiny workshops in Paris. Embroidery and Featherwork ateliers, where Lagerfeld’s creations are brought to life by little collections of old women, where young girls are introduced to the skills handed down between gossip and political debate over a workstation littered with silk chrysanthemums. What I would do to spend time photographing these women at their work. All my love,
IP
