|Front - one of these arm slits is not like the other|
Seems this lady had a big soft spot for mohair, but a big disinterest in wearing it. Or was there more to it? What attracted her to mohair? The loftiness? The luxuriousness? Did it remind her of a place or time? Or a person? Was there an empty space inside her that only mohair could fill?
Why didn't she wear it? Itchy? Allergic? Hot? It reminded her of some place, or time, or person? Was there an empty space in her that no amount of mohair could fill? This is what I wondered while my mind percolated on the weightless puffs - so cloud-like they refused to be properly folded.
The construction consisted mainly of pulling and separating the yarns from the edges of the scarves to use for stitching. I wasn't sure at first if I should pull the threads from the long or the short edges, but both proved equally - surprisingly! - stubbornly enmeshed. I don't know much about the process of weaving mohair, but from trying to un-make it I've deduced that it must require some sort of felting step. It looks airy and nearly fragile, but it's no pushover. It took an hour to produce each decent length of unbroken, not-too-frayed sewing thread, regardless if it was warp or weft. After that, stitching it by hand with a darning needle was easy-peasy lemon squeezy.
|Back fringe detail|
|Small ball of yarn fluff|
Hmm. Maybe she did wear mohair.