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Once upon a time, I lived a pretend "Cinderella" life.
My fairy godmother lived in Manhatten.
Each year for my birthday, I rode into the Magic City.
For one whirlwind weekend, I go to do princess-type things.
New York has enchanted me ever since.
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Feeling Groovy
By Helen Kelley
Once upon a time, when I was young, I lived a pretend "Cinderella" life. My fairy godmother lived in midtown Manhattan, and I lived in New England. Each year for my birthday, I boarded my pumpkin railroad coach and rode into the Magic City. The train rumbled past sooty towns and green fields, then into New York where it came to a stop at the Castle (Grand Central Station). For that one whirlwind weekend with my fairy godmother, I got to do princess-type things. I went to theater matinees and the opera. I went to the Roxy Theater and then for luncheon, we stopped at Schraft's, where a string quartet fiddled Mozart melodies. On Sunday, promptly at the stroke of twelve noon, I boarded my coach and rode back to Everyday Land where I became myself again.
New York has enchanted me ever since those days. I've been back again and again, and every time I have the same feeling of excitement. Sometimes I've simply passed through on my way to Someplace Else. Other times I've dropped into the city to wander through a museum for a day. In 1986 I went back to attend the big quilt show that celebrated the renovation of the Statue of Liberty. Each time I relived my younger years.
New York had a feel about it. I remember the feel of the plastic seats on the Parachute Jump at Coney Island. The illusion was so real that I could imagine the whoosh and pop of the nylon canopy exploding open above my head as I plunged downward on a warm day. My fingers can still feel the softness of the lacy silks in the lingerie workrooms in the Garment District. I can remember the glossiness of the costumes on the dancing Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. They were skirted with graceful netting and spangled with sequins. I remember the tragicomic scene of one stormy, wet night when, emerging from a theater into Times Square, I ran to catch a taxi, slipped instead, and slid beneath a peanut stand wearing the most expensive dress I had ever owned--set off by a perky straw hat. Even to this day, I can remember the feel of that soggy blue silk dress and that cockeyed, broken hat.
As I tried sorting my thoughts one day, I wrestled with the challenge of how to re-create these sorts of fond remembrances in a quilt. It seemed impossible, but then "Ah, ha!" thought I. "If I cannot reconstruct those misty, old tactile sensations, I can fabricate new ones."
My most important memories of New York were of the people--thousands of them everywhere--old, young, all colors, and all cultures. When you stand and look upward in the city, you see miles and miles of windows, and each of those windows has a person behind it. The patterns of these people are interwoven into the fabric of my mind. I decided that if I were to make a quilt about the feeling of New York, it would have to be about the people.
I began to save fabrics for my quilt about this special place. At each fabric store, big or little, I sorted through stacks of flat folds and shelves of bolts looking for cloth with small shapes, things I might find in the rooms behind all those windows. I eventually built a stash that was right for the project. I had prints of flowers, people, furniture, and one with words on it. I found a piece of fabric with an upright hand with a heart in its palm, just right to make a sign for a gypsy tearoom. Another scrap showed women sitting around a quilt frame--an excellent picture for a window! To match this, I found a quilt shop sign for the window of a street-level shop below. Another fabric was printed with chairs. I cut them out and carefully placed them into another window to make a perfect place for elderly men to sit and watch the world outside. I built a window for the couple who would live in a loft in one of my buildings. I hung a flag in their window and put an apple core on the sill. I made a bakery window with lovely, plump pies set out to cool.
My quilt windows were like the windows along the streets of New York. Bit by bit I built a city neighborhood, a fabric neighborhood. As I stitched, I revisited my memories.
Now my quilt is finished, and my street is peopled. Behind all those windows where the people are is a softness quilted into the depth, and I can touch it.
©HK 2005
Helen Kelley is a quiltmaker, lecturer, author, and teacher from Minneapolis, Minnesota. You can visit Helen on the Internet at her website www.helenkelley-patchworks.com or email Helen at this address: helen@helenkelley-patchworks.com.
Helen's book Every Quilt Tells a Story: A Quilter's Stash of Wit and Wisdom is a collection of two decades of Loose Threads. Now in its second printing, the book is available at quilt shops, bookstores, or from us at www.VillageQuiltShoppe.
View our archive of Loose Threads columns.
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