My work space is an ever-changing treasure trove of inspiration, raw materials, and my own work and that of other makers—such as this wood chair crafted by Melbourne maker Bern Chandley.
TO JOHN DENVER, WITH LOVE
chapter one
Who the hell is John Denver, I hear you ask, and why does he have a chapter dedicated to him? Memories of my very early beginnings as a maker—a time I feel a great connection to and fondness for—will always be accompanied in my head by the sweet folk and country acoustics of this fair-haired American lad. I also borrowed the title of this chapter from the name of the very first collection I launched as a modern craft designer: a re-working of the infamous macramé owl back in 2008. It was both an homage to my beginnings and, unknowingly, a door to my future.
My parents were young when they had me; teenagers, in fact. It was 1971 and by all accounts I was pretty much part of the gang. My memories are of beaches, surfboards, the scorching-hot vinyl seats of our Valiant, an abundance of long sun-bleached hair and gold-tanned skin, and music, music, music. Our house was most unusual and stood out from those that surrounded it because of its uncanny similarity to an igloo. Featured in The Australian Women’s Weekly in 1952, while it was being built, “La Ronde” was affectionately referred to in the neighborhood as “the roundhouse.” In 1976 we swapped the roundhouse for a farmhouse five hours from the coast. With no beach in sight, my parents focused on farming by day and making by night.
The resurgence in craft and making during the 70s not only suited my parents’ new lifestyle, but also fostered my beginnings as a maker. While my father’s craft of choice was leatherwork, my mother excelled in patchwork and needlepoint and went on frequent adventures, mastering and eventually selling and teaching an abundance of crafts. There was always something being made in our home: more often than not a tray of enameled jewelry would need to come out of the oven before dinner could go in, or a half-stitched quilt had to be removed from the kitchen table before we could eat.
Influenced by my parents, I experimented with different crafts, challenging my ability with the assistance of a seemingly natural affinity. It is the memories of my mother’s store, Country Road Craft Supplies (named after a song by her musical love of the time: you guessed it—John Denver), that holds my personal connection to macramé and that very first collection. The afternoons I spent at the shop after school were heavenly and (if I wasn’t at the convenience store next door, having my appetite spoiled by the beehived shopkeeper) I was more than content to marvel at the multitude of colored wooden beads, metal rings, and huge skeins of macramé yarns on display.
As a teenager I was incredibly interested in expressing my creativity through clothing. Despite living on a farm on the outskirts of a country town that had absolutely zero interest in fashion, I managed to do this by using my passion and skill for sewing to make or rework everything I wore. By now it was the 1980s and I was conjuring a weird fusion of Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink and Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan. This meant searching through the pattern books at the local fabric store in search of something to alter, or using my country girl charm to worm my way into the backrooms and unexplored treasures of the two local, second-hand clothing shops. At the very least I would make my own buttons from oven-bake clay or change the hem of a dress, so, in some way, shape, or form, there was a new outfit, most often outside the box, made every week. Certain people in my life fostered this expression, not least my mother, whom I could always count on to put some of the more narrow-minded country folk in their place on my behalf.
While wearing my latest creations to round up sheep in the dusty paddocks, I dreamed with fervor of moving to the city and becoming the junior fashion editor at Dolly magazine. But leaving home at seventeen and arriving in Sydney shortly afterwards, I quickly realized there were at least a thousand girls with the same idea and, although I pursued my hope of working in fashion magazines for a number of years, even briefly in London, I never made it beyond internships and test shoots. I had a ball and delved passionately and successfully into many aspects of the fashion world—predominantly design, production, and brand creation—but gaining full access to any of the publications was one place my country girl charm couldn’t get me.
I’d never given much thought to working with interiors. Although I’d always been very aware of how I wanted my space to look and extremely involved in making it unique, it wasn’t until I started to feel disillusioned with the fashion industry that my blinders were removed. Being introduced to Elle Decoration UK magazine by a visual merchandising colleague in the early 90s blew my mind. I wanted to explode after reading it and taking in the imagery for the first time. I still look forward to it every month, and add each issue to my ever-growing collection that now spans twenty years. The odd Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar gets a look in now and then, but the sparkle I once saw in fashion is gone.
Things moved ahead quickly and organically for me once I discovered interiors. At first I focused on making limited edition and custom homewares for boutique stores and interior decorators; this then evolved into making props for interior stylists and fabric showrooms, which then turned into developing specialized products for interior retailers.
I have been sewing ever since I can remember. I love it. LOVE it. This old girl has been with me for over a decade and our relationship is one of mutual respect. She’s as heavy as a small car and a total bitch to move, but I would drag her out of a burning building if it ever came down to it!
I was drawing on the making skills I’d developed while growing up, including my father’s love of leatherwork, which featured heavily in my custom pieces. On one particular trip back to the farm, I brazenly made off with his original leatherwork tools, claiming them as my own. I still have a small selection of this kit that manages to transport me effortlessly back to the farmhouse table whenever I revisit leatherwork.
Something happened when my husband and I decided, in our late thirties after twenty years in Sydney, that we needed a country hiatus. Our little refresher pause came in the form of a wisteria-covered cottage complete with fireplace and converted barn kitchen, and it was here that everything changed for me as a maker. Stripped of the excessive visual noise of the city I slipped into self-awareness. Very quickly, and certainly without trying, I was able to connect to what really resonated with me. Going with the flow, I decided that I would redesign the macramé owl of my childhood. Who knows whether it was the country air fooling me back into my youth or the pile of my mother’s treasured craft books in my possession, but I was incredibly inspired. Considering macramé had died an ugly death after the 70s I had no idea if the world was ready to embrace a modern version of the owl, let alone the craft itself. Yet here we are some seven years later and not only did the world embrace my owl and the resurgence of macramé, but I was catapulted headfirst into a new way of seeing my making practice and sharing my output.
My online store, The Six Week Boutique, certainly wasn’t my first foray into selling my wares but it was my first online, and it was perfect, considering my geographical isolation. It was very early days for the small group of independent makers who, like me, were focused on introducing modern craft for interiors, particularly those setting up online. Its immediate success was due to a somewhat unexpectedly hungry audience and a very lucky case of good timing. Being featured on then relatively new blogs, such as The Design Files, Design*Sponge, and Apartment Therapy, I couldn’t knot fast enough to keep up with demand. When I added modern versions of cross-stitch kits, inspired by my trouser-wearing motorcycle-riding great grandmother, things got even crazier. I began to receive requests to teach others to make and to speak about modern craft to audiences and interviewers, and eventually I took on the project design and production of modern DIY for Inside Out magazine’s “Why Don’t You?” page. After adding the role of Craft Editor for independent magazine SoHi to my expanding career, I watched as my skill as a maker, understanding as a designer, and ever-increasing affection for interiors grew into the perfect love triangle.
Being involved in the journeys of other aspiring makers through the sharing of my own output made me realize just how collective yet unique making is. From the popularity of a modern craft DIY project in a much-loved interior magazine, to witnessing a room full of people learn the same basic skills yet produce something wonderfully individual, it became clear that making brings us together while allowing us to be ourselves. Taking this fundamental idea and applying it to the creation of a space, the making of a home, made perfect sense, and still does.
Today, I stand by this awareness, employing it as the backbone of my work as both maker and designer, creative director and stylist, teacher and mentor. Intertwined on a daily basis, these aspects all support and encourage each other but when, on occasion, I feel I can’t breathe, I’m very clear it’s the maker in me that needs prioritizing. Spending quality time with raw materials and technique, alone in the quiet possibility of collaboration, is pure freedom and when I’m most able to feel content and energized by the fellowship I share with other makers.
“Color is one of my biggest drivers as a maker; I have never been scared of it. Although, when I teach others to make, it’s always in monochrome so the aspiring maker can focus on learning technique and skill. Keeping color out of the picture allows you to linger in the craft and not get caught up purely in aesthetics or end results.”
