Art Final Pressure

The stars of the show (aka THE SWEATSHOP SIX)

Me (Nirbe) and my almost-identical sister Aibren - Gen Z model (basic-level) sewing machines.

Brinane - Our more talented (bells and whistles) sister.

Nerina - The Gen X retro sister with the yellowed metal casing. (Cool, I tell you!)

Nabirne - Our overlocker brother. (Nothing special about him.)

Turcic - The latest addition, a vinyl cutting machine. (We're still getting to know him.)

What happened before ...

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Hello dear fans

I hope you all missed me last week. Yip! It happened. I skipped a week. And so early in my adventure-writing career. But, I won’t grovel. I’ll merely provide my Gen-Z excuse.

I needed a mini mental-health break. That’s what the offspring keep advocating. They’re Gen Zees like me (although Lastborn is a tail-end Millennial). This means they know all about preserving one’s mental health. Queen Kami has no clue about such matters, of course. Despite her ruthless protestations, I took a two-week sabbatical (right after I whipped up a few more baby-shower gifts for another niece) and I sat back and watched my frenzied queen spin her plates and rush towards pointless deadlines. Very entertaining. Now my electronic mojo is restored and my heart is pumping strong again. So, we’re back in business.

Let's head straight back to where I left off last time.

Queen Kami was amassing decor for her planet-friendly kids' party decor business, and my siblings and I were enjoying the show. Our phase-one duties had ceased after we'd produced the required kilometres and kilometres of themed bunting. Queen Kami had also acquired our new brother, Turcic, a nifty vinyl cutter. She'd mastered his mechanics and produced a range of cute cake-toppers. But all those cardstock cake toppers had taken their toll on the three blades that came in the package. The queen was awaiting delivery of sharp replacements. That meant Turcic could rest and enjoy the show with us. From where I watched, it seemed Queen Kami had lofty aspirations for her growing collection of arbitrary junk.

“What's with all those empty bottles?” asked Nabirne.

“For candles, flowers, fruit punch, who knows?” offered Nerina.

“And the stack of old CDs?” Nabirne again.

My overlocker-brother was such a nosy dimwit. Couldn’t he let it go and just wait and see? Besides, the queen was most definitely still in her undecided phase. She had a last-minute-inspiration approach to all her projects. In the Berlin-basement era, it involved opening the green curtains (the ones that hid her metal shelves), then regarding her vast collection of trash/treasure and suddenly shouting, ”Yes! That’s what we’ll do!” Like an Eureka moment, when the lightbulb in her head sent out powerful flashes that zapped their inspirational magic into the items within range. And, voila, the humble bottles sparkled in anticipation of their bright future.

She was in this kind of sorting-and-dreaming-up-greatness phase when Lastborn marched into our space, gripped the queen's face and turned it towards her own. Lastborn did this when she wanted her mother's undivided attention.

“Mum, can you give me a crash sewing course?”

“A WHAT?”

“What?”  ”What?” Nerina and I e-echoed.

“Can you teach me how to use a sewing machine?” Lastborn was rolling her eyes now. As a brilliant fifteen-year-old, she had a low tolerance for mental slowness.

“Why now?” asked Queen Kami. “I've offered to teach you hundreds of times.”

“That was before I needed to. Now I need to know.”

Ooh! If I’d been able to sit down, I would have done that. Seeing that I couldn’t, I vibrated myself over to the edge of the sweat-shop table. I did not want to miss a single syllable that was about to come out of either of those two sets of lips.

“I'm listening,” said the queen, with a remarkable air of calmness.

“You know it's my IGCSE art final in three days' time?”

“Uh-huh,” said the queen.

“So, I've chosen the street-performer-costume option.”

“Excellent choice,” said the queen.

“I have to design a costume for a street performer and it needs to be inspired by some city landmarks or features.”

“Right!” said Queen Kami, as if she totally got it, which she obviously didn't. “So, why do you need to sew it, if they only want the design?”

“I think I'll get a higher score if I actually make my design.”

“Aha!” And the queen finally got it.

It turned out Lastborn felt inspired by the tiles in Berlin’s U-Bahn train stations. Her cutting-edge design would be a cropped top with colourful fabric-painted square “tiles” and a ruffled tutu-style skirt. Not at all ambitious for a creator with zero hours of machine-sewing experience.

The sweatshop-five anxiety level shot through the roof. Our collective shivers shook the table like never before. Of course, our new brother, Turcic, didn't care a hoot.

The queen decided to promote Aibren to the top of our table. She'd been hibernating underneath, due to a lack of space. Nerina wasn't too happy to be plonked onto the floor.

The queen pressed Aibren's light switch!

“Fiddlesticks! It's not going on.” She pushed her foot down on Aibren's pedal.

Nothing!

“Bummer!” she exclaimed. “I wonder if there's a loose connection in the plug. But we don't have time for that now.”

And poor Aibren went back onto the floor. I was choice number two.

“Right, Nirbe. It's all up to you now,” said the Queen as she patted me. “May your sewing-mechanism angels be on full alert. The wildest Kamikaze of all times is about to take control of you.”

“Aww, come on, Mum. Have a little faith in me.” Lastborn was stroking me — very gently.

Awkward!

Sweat drops were running down the queen's face and pooling onto our table. In hindsight, that was quite funny. The sweat-shop table, you get my drift?

“Okay, love, please pay attention,” said the queen. This was an important phrase to start off with. Lastborn was cut of the same cloth as her mother, and instructions were only followed when deemed absolutely necessary.

Kudos to the queen, though. She managed to condense her thirty years of sewing knowledge into a 30-minute workshop, by the end of which Lastborn could thread me correctly and produce a relatively non-wobbly ten-centimetre line of stitches.

“Let's find the right fabric for the costume,” said Queen Kami.

“Remember, no stretchy cloth. That's a nightmare to stitch.” Thank the Lord Lastborn finally capitulated on that one. They scratched around in the four undecided crates and found enough calico for a practice run and for the final to-be-painted crop top. None of the crates had netting for the tutu skirt.

“Mum, will you have time to buy me some of that tutu net stuff? Pleeeze!” Lastborn instantly transformed her face into one I'd never seen on her before — a model submissive tantrum-free teenager. Oh. My. Word!

Mother and daughter agreed that the design should have no zips, buttons or any other potential-for-disaster features. The queen would find some ultra-wide blue elastic, which Lastborn would need to successfully attach to the gathered-netting tutu-skirt. I was sure Queen Kami had developed ten stomach ulcers at the mere thought of this.

“Will your design drawings not be brilliant enough?” she asked.

“Are you sure you actually want to stitch all of this under that exam time-pressure?”

“I'm Positive,” said Lastborn. “I shall stitch my cool costume.” Her rooky confidence-level was at a peak. “And I'll take my lucky meerkat.” She held up the cute wooden animal.

Fortunately, the next day was Wednesday. After the queen's morning teaching stint at the language school near Checkpoint Charlie, she'd have time to hit the Turkish Market.

Wednesday late afternoon, she entered the basement studio with her stash of weed-infused blue netting and ultra-wide elastic, also blue. Lastborn was waiting for her.

“Okay, love,” said the queen. “No time to wash the lovely aroma out of this. Who knows, the intoxicating fragrance might inspire the examiners to boost your score.”

Lastborn miraculously followed the queen's instructions for the rest of the evening. And the next evening. The practice cropped top turned out more or less passable. A test-section of net was gathered and attached to a test-section of elastic. Only two needles broke.

The final pep talk was a disaster-management one. About staying calm when needles jammed or broke, or when fabric tore or the bottom thread bunched up. “And, do not — I repeat, DO NOT — under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES — fiddle with my tension setting.”

Lastborn's eyes were huge.

It was all systems go for the next day's exam.

The queen, who had to leave for work early, delegated the school drop-off to Hubby. A delicate electronic soul like myself could encounter all manner of mishaps on a public bus, you know. Hubby patted his daughter on the knee and told her how she'd conquer the world. Then Lastborn carried me into the school grounds and confidently walked through the intimidating teenage hordes without a hint of shame (which said a lot for her ability to rise above the pressures of teenage coolness).

She set me down on a very inferior art-class table (not nearly as sturdy as the Hubby-constructed sweatshop table back in our basement). I heard how she put down her lucky wooden meerkat next to me, too. As she removed my cover, a sea of pimpled faces with mildly surprised eyes stared down at me.

“Cool! We didn't think you'd actually bring a sewing machine. And, check it out. It's so retro.”

“Hey, Buster,” I broadcasted, “you wouldn't know retro if it slammed you in your dimwit face. My sister Nerina is the retro one. I'm about your age, so watch it!”

Of course, that nincompoop didn't even realise I was trying to communicate. Come to think of it, I needed to dial it down a bit. I immediately started transmitting good vibes and encouragement. Lastborn sorely needed that.

She’d done all her working drawings and design notes and the other airy-fairy stuff artists need to do the previous day and left them in the art class. So, I watched her cut out and paint the pieces of her crop top, and then cut the netting and elastic. As cool as a cucumber. You have to know this about Lastborn. She’d been born for pressure. It first became evident at her stage-debut at five years old. Her compatriots were all frazzled as they painted, drew, or sculpted their inferior artworks. The room emitted a constant buzz. Some of it was from the fluorescent lights, but most was from subdued teenage mumbling and sighing. The ex-rock-star art teacher was cool about all the self-expression sound effects, and even the occasional chatter.

The square tiles were still drying, so Lastborn returned to my table with the net and wide elastic for the skirt. I got threaded with blue.

“Nirbe,” she whispered, “I can't remember which way the thread should go around this bottom spool. Oh, what the heck. I'll just do it this way.”

I gave her a little shock as she tried to insert it. No, Darling. You need to turn it around inside the bobbin thingy.

“Argh!” she says. “I need to change this around. Thank goodness I remembered.”

Sure.

She pressed my power switch, shifted around in her chair, put the first section of netting in position and clamped down my presser foot.

Zhwirr! Zhwirr! Zhwiiiiiirrr!

That's how we rolled — for about two hours. No needle breaks, no thread jams, and only three short bits of unpicking and redoing. And before you knew it, Lastborn's street performer costume was a real, finished product. Well, two products — top and bottom. And three minutes later, the ex-rock-star teacher called “Time's up!”  

What lay on the table next to me was an incredible feat of teenage textile engineering! I almost burst out of my casing from pride.

The teacher did the rounds to collect all the artworks. When he reached our table, he paused.  “Hmmm! Not too shabby. I wonder if you'll ever busk in this outfit?” He knew Lastborn was a closet singer-songwriter. He winked and put the masterpiece on the display table, next to her process drawings. The external judges would be coming the next day. Lastborn's work took up much way more space than the collections of her less talented classmates. Of course it did.

She unplugged me, rolled up my cables, put my cover back on me and shoved the cables, extension plate, foot, scissors, pin magnet, measuring tape and lucky meerkat into the pockets of my canvas cover. Then we proceeded to the fresh air via a spooky hallway. The art kids were the last to leave that day, and the other art kids had had less stuff to gather. We were stone last.

The queen was waiting in the parked car. Royal treatment, indeed. Well, I actually suspect she wanted the exam scoop.

“Hello, darling. How was it?” I bet you she wanted to ask about needle breaks, scissor wounds and so on. But she miraculously kept her trusting, optimistic exterior pose.

“I nailed it,” said Lastborn. “Definitely an A. I can feel it. Nirbe was a star. We make an excellent team. But you can have her back now. I think I won't need to do any more sewing in the next two years.”

So that was my first and last on-site school production. Pity, I really liked that teacher.

Next time, I'll tell you more about the royal party-decor shenanigans.

Toodles

Your school-proof sewing device

Nirbe.