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#historical pockets
kieraoonadiy · 2 years
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I hope you join us all for the CoSy event!  Here’s one of my contributions to the event, and I hope you enjoy!
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fashionsfromhistory · 11 months
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Pocket
1710s
Fashion Museum Bath via Twitter
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fashion-from-the-past · 5 months
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magistralucis · 1 month
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Headcanon that the current Solemnace crew all have Waist Inventory™, taking after their overlord, who still carries his curios in this manner despite also having free access to such things as dimensional pockets and tessarect labyrinths. We know the Huntmaster canonically carries his trophies like this, and since Sannet apparently fashions his writing implements out of his own necrodermis, it doesn't sound too far-fetched that he might keep field notes and the like in a similar fashion. Ashkut could have a chronomancer prod there or something. The possibilities are endless
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I bet he'd be delighted by the concept of a fanny pack
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daguerreotyping · 9 months
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Tintype of two men sharing a mysteriously charged moment of contention—or benediction?—over a pocket watch, c. 1870s
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jewellery-box · 6 months
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Renaissance-revival lady's pocket watch
Tiffany & Co. (American, active 1837–present)
American (Swiss works)
about 1890
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Gold, silver, enamel, diamond, and crystal
MFA Boston
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fireflywritesgt · 3 days
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Harry in a Hospital
Part 17 of my story! See the index and content warnings here. <3
The night of the storm had broken something in Joe Piccoli. The ghosts of the doctor’s touch haunted his body the way the shock of revelation haunted his mind, and since that night he had been left mentally reeling, suspended in an emotional free-fall that knew no end. As he sat at the phone table and scribbled, what refused to leave his mind above all else was not Harry’s hands or the way he had carelessly let himself fall asleep in them. It was what had happened after. The way he had woken up in the upstairs bedroom once again, laid out on that pillow, tucked in with the greatest of care. The first time he had fallen asleep there, he had assumed the doctor had simply forgotten him, but now it was clear that on that night he had been deliberately placed there like some small child who had stayed up too late. That night, that realization that Harry cared about him, had left something inside of Joe bleeding. Much as he tried to hide it, he now felt raw and exposed, stripped bare of all pretense. He was a knight without armor. A soldier without a gun. A lion without teeth. Harry had made no mention of that bed the morning after, and Joe was far too proud to bring it up himself. He simply did the walk of shame back to the floorboards and ruminated over what on earth he was becoming.
He wondered if being a pet would be preferable to being whatever he now was as he sat there and sketched. Even his art was betraying him; there wasn’t a single thing lewd or obscene about the hands he was drawing, but he could never allow Harry to see them. He could never allow Harry to see any of his artwork, for he knew what unconscious desires bubbled up to the surface whenever he put pencil to paper. This man, who gave him food and a bed and hot water, who worried about him when he was gone, who cared, was driving Joe mad in a way unlike any other man he had ever met. Harry was safe and yet Joe was afraid. Not afraid of Harry himself, but afraid of what Harry had the power over him to do. What Harry represented.
The uncomfortable realization that he would walk into Hell for Harry Avery followed Joe around like a second shadow these days, so when the phone rang, and Joe heard the news on the other line, that shadow all but smothered him.
“This is nurse Murphy from Toronto General Hospital. I’m calling on behalf of doctor Herman Avery. He was in an accident on his way back to the office, and he wanted me to let you know he is doing well but he won’t be back at the clinic today.” Said the businesslike voice on the other end as Joe’s head spun.
“Accident!? Wait—no—what!? What kind of accident? When will he be back?” Joe spat his rapid-fire questions into the mouthpiece with all the force of a machine gun.
“His motorcycle was struck by an automobile and he was flung into a bush. Luckily he has fairly minor injuries all things considered… don’t worry yourself, Mr. Piccoli. Just mind the clinic for the day and he’ll be back in the morning.” Said nurse Murphy.
Joe, who had greater emotional capacity than the average earthworm, was already worried. Harry in a hospital? That ought to be illegal, Joe reasoned. Doctors shouldn’t end up in hospitals as patients, it was a perversion of the natural order of things. He tried to say something else into the mouthpiece, but all his neurons were firing at once and his brain short-circuited. Before he could say anything further, the nurse hung up on him with an abrupt,
“Good day, Mr. Piccoli.”
Harry had moved the dollhouse ladder from the floorboards to the table last week, which made speaking into the mouthpiece much easier for Joe. The bad news sank into him deeper and deeper with each rung of it he passed on his climb down. Mind the clinic! How was Joe supposed to mind the clinic when Harry was in the hospital? Joe knew very little about what a hospital truly was, but based on his imperfect understanding, hospitals were where giants went to die.
Tossing his sketches aside, he rolled the receiver off of the table and sent it flying from the pulley. As he slid down the cord he could only hope that by leaving it there it would discourage any further calls from coming in. Joe had bigger things to worry about than scheduling appointments, he decided. Joe was going to find this hospital and get to the bottom of this mess, and in order to do that, he would need to bring out the big guns.
-
The treasure buried at the bottom of Joe’s wardrobe was so rare and so precious that he had pried the ruby out of a sleeping giant’s ring just to pay for it. The boots and the jacket were a dark brown rathide leather, waterproof and allegedly so tough even a cat’s claws couldn’t pierce it. The trousers and the shirt, in khaki and white respectively, were specialty fabric blends, known of only among the miniatures – the former was a tiny’s answer to denim or gabardine, and the latter was a light and breathable spiderweb silk that moved like water. The belt was tanned mousehide, as were most of the gloves, save for the palms made from the skin of a young toad. By far one of the most useful pieces of the ensemble, they offered excellent grip while climbing.
This was Joe’s good borrowing gear, something everyone in the trade owned, and in all likelihood, never wore unless it was absolutely necessary due to its sheer cost. Joe himself had donned this outfit on one other occasion: when he had hit up a thirty-room mansion in search of expensive soaps and perfumes. The jacket was more pockets than anything else, and he had made it out of that operation with handsworths upon handsworths of goods to trade away at Calloway’s, granting him an easy winter.
So expensive, so useful, and so special were these clothes that Joe could not risk wearing or tearing them in anything other than a high-profile job or a life-or-death situation, and Harry being in this hospital, Joe reasoned, was a life-or-death situation. He slipped his knife into the specialty-made pocket in the side of his good right boot and went about gathering his weights and hooks. He packed a book in his rucksack as well just in case he had to sit on another streetcar for half an hour, then climbed up to the kitchen windowsill in search of something to tide himself over on his travels. The toadskin gloves immediately helped his cause as he grappled up and clung to the rim of the half-open tin of Oreo sandwiches on the counter. He climbed in, grabbed a piece of the biscuit, and climbed out again with ease.
With that, he was ready to face the world in search of this hospital – wherever that was.
-
There was one thing while traveling that miniatures were advised to never, ever do, and that was to travel aimlessly to the center of the city with no destination in mind. Yet that is precisely what Joe did as evening closed in, for as much as the night of the storm had broken him, in other respects it had also emboldened him. If he could survive a rainstorm, he reasoned, then surely he could run off in search of this hospital and come back alive. Even taking the streetcar this time seemed easier now that he wasn’t soaked in rainwater.
If a hospital was a place where giants went to die, then surely it must be conspicuous. All Joe had to do was get some directions. As he walked along and thought, the answer soon came to him in the form of a pair of legs he tripped over as he snuck along a wall in an alleyway. The disheveled tiny who had once been loudly snoring burst to life in a flurry of intoxicated hollering, sending Joe himself stumbling back. Pulling himself together, Joe crept closer to the man he had rudely awakened with all the apprehension of a cat sizing up a nearby snake.
“DAMMIT RUSTY WON’T YOU GIVE ME ONE MOMENT OF PEACE!?” Shouted the red-faced man in a suit that was more patches than suit; then he opened his eyes and added, “…oh. You ain’t no Rusty. I thought you was me brother.”
Joe blinked in utter disbelief at the sight of the drunkard. There was a bottlecap beside the stranger that appeared to have at one point contained a mixture that fell somewhere on the continuum between alcohol and household cleaning product. Where, exactly, Joe couldn’t be sure.
“…no sir, I ain’t no Rusty. Name’s Joe Piccoli.” Joe stooped down to shake the man’s grubby hand.
“Oh, you’re one a’ them fancy borrowing types is ya’? I’m Patches, sir. Don’t got a last name, can’t afford that in this economy. If yer lookin’ for good borrowing you won’t find none here, sir.” The drunkard, Patches, sat up and shook Joe’s hand so vigorously he nearly pulled it off before finally freeing him again.
“I’m looking for a hospital actually.” Joe said. “Where the giants go to die.”
He watched as Patches slouched back again, the gears in his head turning.
“A hospital…” Patches squinted as his brain cells rubbed together, and eventually they generated enough static electricity to light his face up. “Aye, I think I know how to find it, that hospital, but fair exchange is fair exchange. You give me some o’ that good borrowing and I’ll tell ya’.”
Joe wasn’t entirely certain he trusted this drunkard, but Patches was the best, if not the only lead he had. Not wanting to part with his only book written in English, he pulled the Oreo crumb out from his rucksack and showed it to Patches.
“What’ll this get me?” He asked.
Patches’ eyes narrowed.
“If there’s rat poison in that you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Joe’s eyes widened. Even he wouldn’t eat rat poison just for sport, yet for Patches nothing seemed to be sacred.
“I… don’t know what Mr. Christie puts in his cookies, but I wouldn’t rule it out, pal.” He fibbed.
After much consideration, the drunkard accepted his offer.
“Well then it’ll get you over there.” Patches replied, and pointed down to the far end of the alley. “You go out there and turn right. There’s a place on the corner where the giants go to fight, then a special buggy takes ‘em away to die.”
A shiver ran down Joe’s spine. He had seen precious little of giant society, and as time went on, the less he saw the happier he found himself to be. Still, for Harry’s sake he had no choice but to bear witness to whatever bizarre ritual sacrifice this was.
-
Joe sat at the corner and read as he waited for the action to start. It didn’t take long; by the time he reached the second chapter one giant flung another from the tavern’s doorway and rudely interrupted the main characters’ first meeting. He crouched down low by a façade on the side of the building and watched the four shoes of the two fighters in motion as they swore and shoved each other this way and that. He could feel the shockwaves of their feet from where he sat and cowered, and to his great displeasure he could see that the warring giants weren’t moving away from his hiding place, but towards it. Joe could not see it, but the façade he was hiding in, which extended all the way to the ground, also framed a window above him like an arch. Joe only became aware of the window’s existence when one of the men slammed the other’s head into it as he insulted his opponent’s mother, causing a shard of glass to land a mere inch away from the tiny. Luckily for Joe, and unluckily for the poor fool who was getting his head kicked in, the victorious giant flung his victim to the ground a solid giant’s length away from Joe’s hiding place where he then lay unconscious.
Joe had seen his share of bar fights at Calloway’s, but never before had he encountered violence so brazen, done out in the open for all to see. If tinies like him were to fight like that in plain sight they were bound to be hunted or snatched. His morbid curiosity overtook him as he crept out from the façade to examine the fallen giant. The victor was walking off as if nothing had happened, and now curious onlookers were flooding the scene. With a flock of strange giants closing in, and with no better hiding place, he slipped into the unconscious giant’s front pocket and hoped the beast didn’t wake up while he was in there.
Now in the darkness of the pocket, Joe heard a ringing bell in the distance that grew louder and louder until it was completely deafening. When the ringing stopped, Joe then heard a sea of voices as the gawkers commented on this detail and that detail of the fight, until one voice parted the wall of sound like Moses.
“Ambulance service! Out of the way! Out of the way!” It nagged.
Before Joe could even ponder what an ambulance service was, he found that he – and the unconscious giant – were now in motion, as if suspended in midair. Then, the motion stopped, and there was a strange thunk noise. He could hear movements off to his side, and upon peeking out of the edge of the strange giant’s pocket he could just make out the elbow of another giant who seemed to command this ambulance service. The ambulance giant did not appear to be aware of Joe, and sensing his only opportunity to escape, he slipped out of the pocket and onto the white platform the unconscious giant was now lying on. He plucked a hook from his back and went to work grappling down to the ambulance floor as the ringing bell started up again.
He had chosen a good time to escape, for soon after he reached the floor he heard the unconscious giant spring to life again and unleash a series of insults at no one in particular.
“Stay down! Stay down!” The ambulance giant ordered.
The once-unconscious giant did not oblige, and Joe hid in the darkest corner he could find as yet more titans clashed above him. If this was the special buggy that took the giants away to die, Joe reasoned, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what happened at the final destination.
-
Soon the ambulance’s ringing stopped and with it the sickening motion of the high-speed automobile stopped as well. Even the injured giant had quieted down, and finally the doors on the back end of the wagon swung open in annunciation of Joe’s freedom. Smaller wheels moved beside him, which appeared to be attached to the platform the injured giant was lying on. Joe grappled onto the lower frame of the wheeled stretcher and clung there for dear life as the ambulance giant wheeled the injured man out of the van and down a long hall. Then the stretcher stopped, nearly throwing Joe under the wheel in the process, giving the tiny a golden opportunity to retrieve his hook and line and escape into the halls of what he could only assume was the hospital.
Soon he was running down an endless labyrinth of busy feet and white walls. When he came to a staircase that would be insurmountable without throwing hooks around in plain sight and blowing his cover, he stopped for a moment and clutched his chest as he caught his breath. As he gazed up at those stairs and then down at his boots, he wondered what on Earth it was Harry had done to him that had caused him to embark on this ridiculous venture to begin with. No self-respecting miniature in their right mind would ever do something so reckless as this – even Joe at one point used to have limits. Now, here he was, traversing this never-ending maze and wishing he were a giant all the while. How easy it would be if he could just walk right into the hospital, climb straight up those stairs, speak directly to a nurse – whatever it was that a regular visitor would do. Joe, in that moment, couldn’t help but wonder why life had to be as unnecessarily difficult as it was for him.
When he looked up, his heart leapt into his throat as it dawned on him that he was not alone. The spinning of massive spokes behind him caught his eye, and as he turned to his left he was greeted with the right wheel of a wheelchair. Inside of that wheelchair sat a round, grizzled old giant, and Joe froze as the giant looked right at him, then back up to the stairs.
As Joe followed the giant’s sad gaze, something clicked between his ears. It seemed that Joe and this strange giant had a shared grievance in life. He turned back to the old giant with a knowing smile and nodded as the two exchanged a look that seemed to say,
“You too, huh?”
Then a door opened nearby, a nurse rolled a gurney into the hallway, and their moment of solidarity was cut short when the tiny had to flee.
-
The surgical wing. Administration. The medical wing. Joe had traversed all of these with still no sign of Harry. He was at the end of his rope as he ran down a narrow tunnel without end in search of whatever branch of the maze came next. After an eternity spent running down this hall, Joe stood at a crossroads and turned left into the outpatient department.
Here he was met with two rows of beds on wheels, each with a patient. At the far end of the room, he could just make out a nurse who sat at a desk, silhouetted by the wide open door behind her. In that moment, as he gazed upon these two rows of beds, Joe couldn’t help but marvel at how different this shiny, white hospital was from the dens of the barber-surgeons he was used to.
It would be a profoundly stupid idea for Joe to enter this well-supervised room full of sleeping giants, and he wouldn’t have bothered had he not spotted one very important detail. Joe knew Harry best in bits and pieces; his face, his feet, his hands, and there in a bed to the left, hanging down halfway to the floor, was a hand that Joe would recognize anywhere in the world. Immediately a fire was lit inside him and he traced the nurse’s hawk like gaze, judged the distance between himself and Harry’s bed, and sprinted over to it. Taking great care to stay out of her line of sight, he threw his weighted hook around a bar at the end of the cot and climbed up the frame, enjoying the beautiful traction his specialty-made boots offered him against the painted metal.
Then the nurse’s papers shuffled. For a heart-stopping moment he lost focus and slid back down the line again. When he craned his neck and peered at her from around the bar he was climbing, he could see to his relief that the nurse now had her nose in a book. He let out his bated breath and soon he made it to the end of the bed. He crawled all the way across it, over top of the limp arm, and right up to the ear of its sleeping occupant.
“…Harry.” Joe whispered.
The giant didn’t stir.
“Harry?” Joe said.
He moaned this time. Joe couldn’t see the nurse from where he stood beside Harry, so he could only hope that what he did next wouldn’t blow his cover.
“HARRY!” He shouted, straight into the giant’s ear.
Harry jumped and stirred at the sound, which earned himself a stern shushing from the nurse.
“Whaaat?” Harry groaned.
“Harry, wake up! I’m here to rescue you.” Said Joe.
Harry rubbed his eyes in a daze, then turned to look at Joe. His face gradually contorted in terror as his conscious mind began to connect the dots.
“Joe—what are you—you shouldn’t be here!” He slurred under his breath.
“Neither should you!” Joe argued.
“Yeah, but I told you to—“ Harry kept rubbing at his face as he tried to come up with a coherent sentence, then he gave up and tossed his one good arm to his side. “Joe. What are you doing here dressed like a RAF pilot?”
“I told you! I’m rescuing you! This place is dangerous, Harry. I had to break out the good borrowing gear.” He answered.
“Borrowing… gear…?” The intoxicated giant squinted as he examined Joe, then his right hand clumsily reached around to grab at the tiny.
“Hey—hey! Mind your manners!” Joe exclaimed.
Harry’s movements threw Joe off his feet, and he fell back into Harry’s fingers, though he didn’t stay there for long. Finding the position awkward, the giant soon released him. Reflexively Joe found himself crawling forwards to rest on Harry’s bare shoulder in search of more touch.
“What happened to your other arm?” Asked Joe; he could see it was tied into a sling.
“Compound humeral fracture.” Said Harry. "With a bonus concussion on the side."
“Harry this is not humeral, this is very serious.” Joe chided him.
When the giant only laughed in response, Joe kept going.
“What’s so funny!? Harry, cut it out! I mean—” Joe relished what he was about to say next “—do you have any idea, Harry? Do you have any idea how scared I was?”
That was enough to get the giant to take him seriously, though the shush from the nurse certainly helped.
“I figured you would be.” He said. “That’s why I had the nurse call you.”
“I told you, Harry. I told you those motorcycles are rolling death machines. Did you listen? No. You didn’t.” Joe couldn’t help but admire the giant’s big, brown eyes as he told him off - a practice that was a display of affection in its own right. “Now I had to go all the way over here, to bring you some entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
Joe pulled the book out of his bag, and he watched Harry’s eyes light up at the sight of the microscopic literature.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like this. You can have any story you want as long as it’s romance, because that’s all I got.” Joe said.
“You read romance books?” Harry was on the verge of laughing again.
“Who doesn’t?”
Joe cracked the book open and began to read, grateful to have his friend close again.
-
They were three and a half chapters in when the morphine wore off and Harry received word he was clear to leave. Now in the wee hours of the night, Harry lumbered through the door with Joe riding shotgun in the sling on his arm. Harry placed the tiny back onto the telephone table, then hung up his hat and coat. The moment Joe’s feet touched the wood of the table, he went right back to ruminating. He still clutched the book in his hands, and he ran a thumb over the mousehide spine.
“Left in a hurry, I see.” Harry said.
“Huh?”
Harry carefully bent down and picked up the receiver.
“Oh… yeah, I did.” Joe was only partially present as he spoke.
The other part of him wanted to finish the fourth chapter of the book with Harry, but was too afraid to ask. So enthralled was he by calculating the logistics of this task that he didn’t even notice when Harry picked up the sketches he had thrown aside that morning.
“Hm. You’re very good at drawing hands.” The giant commented.
In a timespan shorter than a flash of lightning, Joe’s face turned bright red. Mortified, he looked over to where the giant stood beside him as Harry held Joe’s doodle page between his thumb and forefinger like a postage stamp.
“I’ll take those, thanks!” He said in a voice panicked and shrill.
“Why do you look so stricken?” Harry asked as he handed the sketches back to him. “You’re a very skilled artist. Not many people can draw hands that well.”
Although it would be another nineteen years before the first atomic bomb was set off, one may as well have detonated inside of Joe’s head. His body stood there with its arm outstretched as it clutched the sketches and awaited further signals from his brain. Harry wasn’t done with him yet, of course, because it was that moment that the giant reached out with a single finger and caressed the bottom of Joe’s outstretched forearm. That was enough to bring Joe’s nervous system back to attention, and he snapped his arm to his chest and clutched the paper alongside the book.
“Sorry – I was just admiring the stitching.” Harry said. “You look good.”
Good? Joe was not supposed to look good. Joe was not supposed to have a self-concept at all! As he stood there tongue-tied, for a brief moment he couldn’t help but hate this man in the sling who was smiling down at him. What power that tall bastard had over him now! Did Harry even know what he was doing?
“Yeah, well—don’t expect to see it all the time. These clothes were expensive.” He stammered.
“I could help you get more. There’s plenty of things you could trade in this house, isn’t there?” Said Harry.
“Yeah… I… maybe. If I can find people to trade with.” Joe said.
He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t say no. He couldn’t stand that he couldn’t say no! He had to do something, say something to reassert some level of dominance over this man who had the audacity to come into his house and tell him he looked good.
“You can’t just go looking at my art, though.” Was what he settled on. “That’s personal.”
“I’m sorry, Joe. I'll pretend I didn't see it.” Harry said.
This was the opposite of what Joe really wanted, of course. What he really wanted was to show Harry everything and for Harry to call it good, so after much internal debate he added,
“…unless you take me upstairs and let me impose my literary tastes on you. Without laughing. Then you can see the other stuff I made.”
Now it was win-win. Joe was in charge, he could keep reading to Harry, and show him his art. Though he didn’t like how Harry smiled at him one bit as the giant beckoned with his good hand for Joe to climb into it, it was victory enough.
Read the next part here!
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aeide-thea · 10 months
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[T]rousers were actually a technological breakthrough. Mounted herders and warriors needed their leg coverings to be flexible enough to let the wearer swing a leg across a horse without ripping the fabric or feeling constricted. At the same time, they needed some added reinforcement at crucial areas like the knees. It became, to some extent, a materials-science problem. Where do you want something elastic, and where do you want something strong? And how do you make fabric that will accomplish both? For the makers of the world’s oldest pants, produced in China around 3,000 years ago, the answer was apparently to use different weaving techniques to produce fabric with specific properties in certain areas, despite weaving the whole garment out of the same spun wool fiber. […] Most of the pants are woven in what’s called twill, which you might recognize if you’ve ever put on a pair of jeans. The oldest known twill fabric in the world comes from the Hallstatt salt mine in Austria, and it has been radiocarbon dated to a bit earlier than the pants, between 3,500 and 3,200 years ago. Twill makes a diagonally ribbed, heavy fabric that’s also stretchier than the original wool thread. […] Flexibility isn’t everything, though, especially for the rough use a mounted warrior’s clothing probably got. At the knees, the ancient weaver switched to a different weaving method, called tapestry weaving, which produces a less flexible but thicker, sturdier fabric. At the waist, a third weaving method provided a thick waistband to help hold the pants in place, no doubt preventing extremely embarrassing battlefield incidents. And all of those components were woven as a single piece; there's no evidence of any of the fabric having been cut.
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every 19th century dress I make into which pockets will fit, has pockets
ball gown? pockets. day dress? pockets? fancy day dress with train (promenade gown or whatever you want to call it)? POCKETS
there always are pockets. there always will be pockets. hear me when I say: I intend to make my wedding gown someday, and it will be a Victorian confection with pockets
this is a core tenet of my personal belief system.
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seamsterslocal · 10 months
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i made this apron a couple years ago more or less as an excuse to get as deep into plaid matching as i could. the pattern is an original draft based on 1930s-1950s aprons in mail order catalogs. the side gathers in the hips (detail in last picture) especially is a 30s design detail. the bias straps on the pockets are for hanging a towel from
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cedarboots · 2 months
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18th-century tie-on pockets I made for @jellosaladseance! I based them off the pattern and instructions on Burnley and Trowbridge's YouTube channel.
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pegglefan69 · 5 months
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Over the weekend I used some sock yarn scraps to knit a replica of the purse found with the Gunnister Man! The pattern I used included lots of fun info, including instructions on how to copy the really unusual cast-on he used, & the fact that he had an unfinished knitting project in another one of his pockets.
It was really fun & I want to knit more sometime! I ended up making this one a few inches longer to hold my phone & wallet, so some of the colorwork is me doodling instead of a direct copy. Maybe I'll pick 'accurate' colors in the future, but hey, I figure if he had access to a broader range of colors, maybe he'd've used a little hot pink too. 🧶
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god. this anderperry renaissance au is knocking me around some kind of way
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fashion-from-the-past · 5 months
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Sewing Pattern For Pockets
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gearsbehindthewall · 5 days
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I never posted the pocket I made, and I've been wearing it for over a year now! Poor thing has seen a couple thousand hours of work already.
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The process and the worn piece. It's starting to show some wear and frayed spots, but I'll patch it up.
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waaanderingluna · 4 months
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🥀 𝕿𝖔 𝕸𝖞 𝕳𝖚𝖘𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖉'𝖘 𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘
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