It's here.

Illustration by Kat MacLeod, who seems completely awesome … I'm going to have to find more of her work!

As promised, the penultimate Duro … this is Amy Butler Morning Glory Slate (yesterday I thought it was Lotus, but I think that's the name of the line, not the pattern). Anyway, as you can see, it marks a return to piping. I also piped the bottom of the midriff, which you really can't see here, but which lets me someday decide to wear the sash tied in the back (as if).

Here's the back, which has no piping:

As you can see, I made no effort whatsoever to match this pattern on the back.

Here's a slightly closer view of the bodice:

When I first saw this fabric I lurved it, couldn't wait for it to arrive, had all sorts of plans for it … and then I waited. I had ordered it through … well, I ordered it from some folks who were not very well organized, and so I waited. And I waited, and I sent some emails, and then I waited some more, until when it finally DID come, I was so over it that I didn't really want to look at it. I kept dragging it out and looking at it and then folding it up again and putting it back on the shelf. I'm glad I was so exasperated, though, because otherwise I would have used this up three times over and would not have had it available for the Duro Jr.

I made one more Duro Jr … it's sitting upstairs in my suitcase and I haven't taken a picture of it yet. I'll try to do that soonish-like. (I'll give you one hint: it's made from one of the fabrics I just bought in Japan.)

Whoa. That pic's a little out of focus, isn't it? Try this one:

Ah, well. This is another Duro Jr, made from Simplicity 3875.

This is fabric I bought ages ago, probably at Vogue Fabrics in Evanston. I actually made a skirt out of it first, and then didn't like the skirt (and perhaps sent it to my sister? Kate, you there?), but surprisingly, there was enough left to make this dress with even a smidgen to spare. (I think I might have to go through my "leftover fabric" laundry basket and see what else might be ready for the Duro Jr treament …)

The fabric has a slight pucker to it, and is ridiculously comfortable. I think the print may be a bit too much of a good thing (if I'd had a red or a pink that matched, I think I would have made the bodice bands and midriff bands in a contrasting fabric) … but again, ridiculously comfortable, and that's what I was going for. I made this (and another one, which I'll show you tomorrow) for my trip to Japan, because I had been told that the humidity in Tokyo was slightly greater than that found at the bottom of the Mariana Trench (and they were right).

Here's the back:

And the back waistband:

I have cut out one more of these (and may finish it tonight, if a particular eight-year-old cooperates in the matter of BEDTIME), but I think that may be it for the Duro Jr this summer. I had big plans to make seven or eight of these … and then the September fashion magazines arrived, with all their wools and turtlenecks, and the thought of more summer sewing seemed a bit risible. It'll be October REALLY SOON, won't it? And this is not really something you can wear a sweater over. (Nor does it seem as if it would work in corduroy.)

But as summer dresses go, man, this one is nice. (Especially once I added good deep side-seam pockets.)

Tune in tomorrow for another Duro Jr … this time in Amy Butler fabric!

Linda sent me a great link to this dress:

It's not that the dress is so great, really; it's more about the description:

In which the writer posits that there is a part of the body called "the empire," which is right under the bust, above the natural waist.

It would be easy to write this off as an error (which I guess it technically is, at this point) but it's more interesting to look at it as an example of lexical change. (Perhaps this belongs on my other blog?) There are lots of different ways that words can change, but I think this is an example of a folk-etymological change.

If you had never made the connection that "empire" in this context refers to an actual empire, it would be completely logical to assume that "empire" is a more genteel way to say "high-waisted" or "under bust," right? Folk etymologies come up with explanations that seem logical and that fit the facts. Which is a simpler explanation: that a silhouette is named after some long-dead French people, or that the name is based on the part of the body it emphasizes?

I'm not trying to say that this interpretation is right; I'm just trying to say that it's interesting … but I also wouldn't argue that a word must slavishly adhere to its etymological origins. Words change, after all. That's just how things are. I don't know if this usage is going to catch on, but I'm going to keep watching for it. (If you hate it, never fear: Nobody's going to force you to start referring to your "empire.")

I also look forward to finding out that the part of my body where the knee meets the calf is called "the capri," and that a little further down I have a "clamdigger."

It surely is, and probably way overdue. First off, Holly at LuciteBox would really, really, really like your help in finding her this:

It was originally listed on eBay (by Red Buckaroo, but not in Holly's size. (You see the problem.) If you want to see a part of why Holly wants it so much, click through to her blog to see her adorable dog Oslo …

Theresa sent a link to this slide show of First Ladies fashions, which is interesting not only for the pictures, but also for the evidence of the complete absence of copyediting ("shoulder-bearing" and "arm-bearing" where they should have "baring", sheesh).

Wink sent this rickrackalicious skirt … with pockets! Nadia found us shoes to not-match, and Judy suggests these. And if that's not enough rickrack for you (and how could it be?) there's this rickrack fabric, sent by T.C.

Becca thinks the brown dress in this link may be a fauxlero. Opinions? [WARNING: link plays (bad) music]

Speaking of fauxleros, Wendy pointed out that the AMC Dress at BurdaStyle has a very nice one.

Robin sent a link (inspired by the discussion of one-yard patterns) to furoshiki, the cool Japanese practice of wrapping presents in fabric. I heartily endorse this idea.

Kathleen (at Little Hunting Creek) sent a link to this really interesting semi-Duro, up at Pattern Review. Check it out!

Leslie sent in this awesome typography poster. In a similar vein, Lorrwill sends us the link to the thesaurus t-shirt.

I can't believe it's the end of August already, but Jen at MOMsPatterns.com can and she's running a back-to-school sale on 1100-1300 new old stock children's patterns. You get a 15% discount with coupon code 'backtoschool' …

Sorry it's such a short linktastic Friday … but please keep those links coming!

You can't see it in this image, but if you click through to the eBay auction (where this is listed for a couple more days), the pattern envelope has "Leola" written on it in red ink.

I am consumed with curiosity about Leola. First of all, if this was her pattern, I know I would have liked her — this is one excellent pattern. I wonder why she never made the dress? (The seller says it's "factory folded", but maybe Leola was just very, very tidy?) Maybe she had a bunch of sisters (or roommates) and that's why she felt she had to write her name on her pattern?

Maybe Leola got distracted by a life of hijinks and adventure, or maybe she was planning to wear this dress on a hot date and he broke her heart, leaving her too despondent to sew, or maybe she joined the WAC and started wearing uniforms, instead.

I think (basely solely on my onomastics-are-destiny reaction to the name Leola) that she was attracted to this pattern by the green print version. (Also, that's the one I like.) According to Nametrends.net, the name Leola's last popularity surge was in the 1910s, meaning that when this dress came out it's likely that she would have been about my age.

I would love to make this in bright primary colors (big surprise) with a black midriff band and black piping between the tiers. Too bad it's not my size.

Oh, Leola, why didn't you ever make this dress? I need to know!

[Oh, and thank you, everybody, for the kind birthday wishes of yesterday! You all rock!]

"One absinthe drinker had a mania which made it impossible for him to see a blue silk dress without attempting to set it on fire. He was arrested on a national fête day for having put his lighted cigar to no fewer than thirty-seven dresses."

As some of you have winkled, it is indeed my birthday today, and I claim thirty-seven years on this fête day (although I do NOT countenance the torching of blue silk dresses today or any day, under the influence of absinthe or not). Hurrah!

Searching on "thirty-seven" got me (in addition to the marvelous excerpt above) some other real gems:

"There is nothing extraordinary in the existence of a beautiful, vivacious, attractive woman of thirty-seven, nothing strange in the fact that lovers should collect about her … still the situation is unusual, to say the least … thirty-seven is a very good age, a very good age indeed — if Lady Matilda would only think so, and would only show that she thinks so. Why there are plenty of ladies who are quite passé by thirty or thirty-five — they are full-grown women, they think sensibly and talk sensibly about their children and servants and domestic affairs — those are the things that ought to interest women of Lady Matilda's time of life." (found here)

She was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump, without being fat; she was not pretty, but her face was pleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes. Her skin was rather sallow. Her dark hair was elaborately dressed. She was the only woman of the three whose face was free of make-up, and by contrast with the others she seemed simple and unaffected. (from here)

September, 1856, when she was thirty-seven years old, marked the beginning of her effort to become a writer of fiction. She had always desired to write a novel, but she believed herself "deficient in dramatic power both of construction and dialogue," although feeling that she would be at ease "in the descriptive parts of a novel." (about George Eliot)

A Lady about thirty-seven years of age, having an oval face, represented in nearly a front view. She has on a white cap, and wears a very large full ruff, edged with lace, and a black silk dress, and is adorned with a cluster of gold chains, suspended round the neck, and reaching down to the bodice. Dated 1633. (from here)

Oh, and in other birthday news, Rita celebrates her birthday this month, and is offering 15% off at her site, Cemetarian … use the code "Birthday".

Hope you all have marvelous days today, whether it's your birthday or not. (But extra-marvelous if it's your birthday.)

Do you know why the woman in this illustration looks as if someone is poking her with a red-hot iron? Do you see how she can barely bring herself to touch her skirt with her right hand? It's because the pockets on the skirt she is holding out so gingerly are FAKE.

Yep, that's right. FAKE. They're applied with transfers, like so:

Obviously, the woman in the background is sneering at the poor deluded woman in the foreground who thinks fake pockets are better than no pockets at all. If anything, fake pockets are worse …

Thanks to wundermary for the images!

Reader Lynn is looking for fiction that describes twentieth-century older women and their clothes, which reminded me of the wonderful descriptions of clothes (on women of all ages) in the novels of Kathleen Norris, like this one:

Only the wearers and their dress-makers knew what hours had been spent upon these costumes, what discouraged debates attended their making, what muscular agonies their fitting. Only they could have estimated, and they never did estimate — the time lost over pattern books, the nervous strain of placing this bit of spangled net or that square inch of lace, the hurried trips downtown for samples and linings, for fringes and embroideries and braids and ribbons. The gown that she wore to her own dinner, Mrs. White had fitted in the Maison Dernier Mot, in Paris; — it was an enchanting frock of embroidered white illusion, over pink illusion, over black illusion, under a short heavy tunic of silver spangles and threads. The yoke was of wonderful old lace, and there was a girdle of heavy pink cords, and silver clasps, to match the aigrette that was held by pink and silver cords in Mrs. White's beautifully arranged hair.

Mrs. Burgoyne's gowns, or rather gown, for she wore exactly the same costume to ever dinner, could hardly have been more startling than Santa Paloma found it, had it gone to any unbecoming extreme. Yet it was the simplest of black summer silks, soft and full in the skirt, short-sleeved, and with a touch of lace at the square-cut neck. She arranged her hair in a becoming loose knot, and somehow managed to look noticeably lovely and distinguished, in the gay assemblies. To brighten the black gown she wore a rope of pearls, looped twice about her white throat, and hanging far below her waist; pearls, as Mrs. Adams remarked in discouragement later, that "just made you feel what's the use! She could wear a kitchen apron with those pearls if she wanted to, everyone would know she could afford cloth of gold and ermine!"

From The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne (review here; For a contemporary account of Kathleen Norris, look here).

Do you have a favorite author for descriptions of dress, especially descriptions of twentieth-century dress? (Georgette Heyer is great for Regency dress, at least to read — I have no idea how accurate her depictions are, but I'm sure someone will tell me!) Please leave your recommendations in the comments …

Cecelia sent this to me (because of the pockets, obviously) and isn't it just neato keen? It's a teen pattern, which makes me think that probably someone, somewhere, saw this dress made up and clucked over the ridiculous habits of "kids today," with their enormous pockets and their lack of respect for authority.

This illustration, all by itself, is the plot of a Hayley Mills movie, isn't it? About orphan teen bank robbers. They (both roles played by Ms. Mills) are on a two-girl crime spree (and hunted by the police and all the papers, who think that they are not teens, but master criminals, albeit of very short stature) until they are befriended by a kindly bank guard (played by Morgan Freeman) who inspires them to change their ways. Somebody make that for me, okay? Thanks.

Oh, and speaking of crazy kids, do y'all remember Rebecca (of course you do, she designed this) and Trish (of CraftyPlanet.com)? They're currently working on a book called "One Yard Wonders," and are looking for really cool projects that can be made with no more than a yard of fabric. More details are here.

Please submit projects because I have a LOT of one-yard leftovers that I would really like to use up …