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My love of fabric has early beginnings. When I was a child, one of my favorite things to do was visit my grandfather’s shop. “Pop-Pop,” had a storefront filled with beautiful fabrics draped over chairs, threaded through brass rings, and hung from polished rods; it was filled with upholstered furniture in glorious color, gleaming side tables and magnificent china cabinets with lit glass shelves. Clients sat on feather filled cushions to look through books of fabric swatches. In the workroom there were rows of fabric bolts taller than I lined two and three deep against the walls. Being close to the yardage, touching and feeling the textures, absorbed in the sensation of color, I discovered a world of my own.

I rarely tired of watching the work behind the scenes. At times my dolly, Leo, was cloaked in scraps of fabrics left over from Pop-Pop’s decorating projects. I would tear and pin and tie the strips of fabric in place.

If I shut my eyes I can transport myself back to Pop- Pop’s workroom. I know I am there. I can feel the rough flooring on my bare skin as I sit with legs spread about a project on the floor. I can lean back on the slick surface of a divan draped in plastic. Sayers, my grandfather’s seamstress is humming along with her machine. My grandfather’s oversized sheers snip and clip as he cuts fabric for chairs and sofas. On such days I can feel the impact of the hammer as he constructs the wood frames for upholstered furniture. The hammer bangs, the sound reverberates, and the huge worktable gives a small almost imperceptible skip. The impact is felt across the floor. It’s a rhythm I learned to love. We all work silently together. The only music is the hum of Sayers and her machine. I am a part of the team and we all love what we do.

All images and text are © copyright Christine Adams.
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