That heaven permits, I have time to make these fancies! My husband is home, having been unjustifiably removed from work in these hard economic times, hence he is here to watch the babe, and I am free to stitch and twist and fold and squint....
I hearken the beauties of Empress Augusta, Queen Elizabeth, Victoria, and yes, even Mary, these ladies of emminence for whom time has a bit quelched, but for their costumed framework, and hence all ladies of feminine and fully-dressed tradition. To bedeck the dress is to bear tradition, but to decorate it is to punctuate the intent of being a woman in society, in season, and in play.
Or perhaps, I miss the masters of rococo, vomiting pretty and filigre on the walls, the drapes, the carpets, the furniture, the wigs, the frocks, the pianos, the paintings, and the mouse's door when they find it. Where have all the flowers gone? Do we miss the blooms of spring, the fruit of autumn, and the rose of winter? Do we know their ways anymore? Do we worship the moments of season's progress, know the weather in fields? Do we have to? Did we ever want to?
Here is a riddle for you, a vanity, a haiku; a flower in respite, one that won't die, one that suffers only the wrinkling from fingers that pet and primp and don. Here is a fleeting memory of emotions of happy days frozen in silk, velvet, and the spun and woven wares of forgotten looms, and forgotten purposes. Or for whatever reason, an exquisite flounce of an accessory to the way the light plays upon your skin, your hair, your eyes....it is this, the ribbon flower.
I hearken the beauties of Empress Augusta, Queen Elizabeth, Victoria, and yes, even Mary, these ladies of emminence for whom time has a bit quelched, but for their costumed framework, and hence all ladies of feminine and fully-dressed tradition. To bedeck the dress is to bear tradition, but to decorate it is to punctuate the intent of being a woman in society, in season, and in play.
Or perhaps, I miss the masters of rococo, vomiting pretty and filigre on the walls, the drapes, the carpets, the furniture, the wigs, the frocks, the pianos, the paintings, and the mouse's door when they find it. Where have all the flowers gone? Do we miss the blooms of spring, the fruit of autumn, and the rose of winter? Do we know their ways anymore? Do we worship the moments of season's progress, know the weather in fields? Do we have to? Did we ever want to?
Here is a riddle for you, a vanity, a haiku; a flower in respite, one that won't die, one that suffers only the wrinkling from fingers that pet and primp and don. Here is a fleeting memory of emotions of happy days frozen in silk, velvet, and the spun and woven wares of forgotten looms, and forgotten purposes. Or for whatever reason, an exquisite flounce of an accessory to the way the light plays upon your skin, your hair, your eyes....it is this, the ribbon flower.
I make them custom for whatever you can imagine, with all the trappings of my own vision (without which you would not have chosen me, eh?). Some ready-made pieces are being sold at a great new brick and mortar shop in Kansas City, KS called Mash Handmade. An Etsy site, you ask? Well, someday, but I have yet to hold onto any inventory (a good problem to have, surely).
But please, ask questions and ask for commissions of camillesribbonflowers@gmail.com.
Thank you,
Camille
They are beautiful, Camille!
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