A window that is not square, a camper berth, an old curtain worth saving rather than replacing. The work that has to be measured in place, because no standard size applies to it.
Most orders resemble another order. A living room, a bedroom, a bay window: the opening is square, the dimensions are ordinary, and the craft is in doing a known thing well.
Then there is everything else. An arched opening in a house built in 1910. A boat. A bed a grandfather built by hand. A length of cloth someone carried back from a trip that now has to become something. These take longer to work out than to sew, and they are the ones I enjoy most.
They all start the same way: I have to see the thing. Not a dimension over the phone, not the nearest standard size. The measurement is taken in place, or you send me photographs and I tell you what is realistic before you get attached to an idea.
A good pair of curtains lasts decades. What fails first is almost never the face fabric: it is the lining eaten by UV, a hem that has let go, a heading tired after twenty years of opening and closing.
Replacing the lining on a panel whose face is intact is routine workroom work, and it costs a fraction of a new pair. It is also the only way to keep a fabric that is no longer made. I do length alterations after a floor change as well, and repairs on pieces bought elsewhere.
Cleaning and pressing also go through the atelier, for the before and the after: the cleaning itself goes to a specialist cleaner. I first check that the face fabric and the lining will take the treatment, then I put the pleats and the drape back before rehanging, including on curtains made elsewhere.
A camper has no standard window. The openings are small, often wider than they are tall, sometimes set into a curved wall, and rarely square. You work to an eighth of an inch, around cranks and obstacles, with fabrics chosen to move without wearing through.
It is the most demanding sewing I do, which is why it sits here rather than filed among ordinary services. The same precision is what a house needs when one window refuses to be normal.
A Roman shade, or Roman blind, is a flat panel of cloth, lined when the window calls for it. Channels are sewn across its back, battens sit in them, and when the cord lifts, the panel folds on those lines. The mechanism is a way of pulling. Everything you see is textile, and the fabric decides the shape of every fold: a washed linen gives a soft, rounded fold, a firm cotton gives a flat, tailored stack.
The lifting mechanism, I order for each shade: cordless, cord or chain, to suit the window and your habits, and compliant with Canadian child-safety rules for window coverings. You have nothing to buy or supply. One shade runs up to 5 feet wide; for a wider window, two or three sit side by side. The drop goes to about 80 inches, a little more or less depending on the weight and weave of the cloth. Electric systems, no.
What makes a Roman shade a project of its own is that the finished measurement is taken from the mechanism, never from the frame alone, and that the lining, when there is one, is chosen here for the moisture of a January window as much as for light. It is premium sewing work, slow to make, and priced to match. Send me the window measurements and a photograph of the recess taken from an angle. I will tell you whether a shade is the right answer for that window.
And when the window wants a shade that rolls instead, there is the zebra blind, whose alternating opaque and sheer bands forgive no approximation and are cut to the exact frame.
Pieces smaller than a curtain, and not one of them simpler. Each has one making rule that decides the result, and that rule is what I give you here.
Cushions and cushion covers. A cover is cut smaller than its insert, or the corners empty out within a month. The zipper goes along the bottom edge, where nobody sees it. I make them on their own or with a curtain order, often from the fabric left over once the panels are cut.
Sink skirts and cabinet curtains. Under a metre of fabric, the opposite fullness of a window curtain, and a cotton that stands up to steam and the washing machine. It is the smallest piece I make and not the simplest: the fixed costs of a project do not shrink with the piece, so I would rather talk it through before you order, and one skirt on its own often becomes three small pieces that belong together.
Valances. Today's valance is flat and short, and its bottom line is straight: the whole effect lives in that line. I make the textile, the lining, the interfacing and the stapling onto the board once the board reaches the atelier. The board itself comes from you or your carpenter, cut to the dimensions I give you.
Canopy and four-poster bed curtains. You look at these panels lying down, from below and against the light, and that changes the fabric you choose. The weave shows, every seam reads as a line, and the inside face matters more than the outside. The frame carries the weight and it stays on your side. I will tell you plainly when I think it will not carry what you are asking of it.
Fabric room dividers. A divider has no back. It has two fronts, so it is sewn on both sides, in a fabric you are willing to see from both sides. The ceiling track comes from you and fixes into the joists, never into drywall alone, and the size limit depends as much on the fabric as on the measurement: I settle it with you before starting.
Commissioned pieces. A length of cloth carried back from a trip, a family piece to remake, an idea sketched on the corner of a table. An object with no name in any catalogue. I start from what you bring, I draw it by hand, and I tell you before cutting whether it is within my reach. The textile is my part. The structure, the hardware and the carpentry stay on your side, and that division is what makes the piece hold.
“Bring me the difficult one. That is the one I want.”
Talk about your project