The last straw…

Hello, everyone. I’m sure there are some “he”s among all these “she”s…

As Laurent might tell you, for the past few days I’ve been fuming, boiling over, and building up pressure—and then, boom, I just snapped!

On March 12, I retreated into my shell. After 10 days scattered like the path in *Tom Thumb*—with bank meetings, financial projections straight out of a “Madame Irma predicts your future for a song” fortune-telling session, and sleepless nights—in short… it wasn’t any worse than what you’ve all been through, just a tad earlier given the nature of our work at trade shows. I’ll remember our banker for the rest of my life—a really nice guy who, on March 10, when he was sympathizing with our situation, had no idea what a huge blow he was about to take the following week…

"We're at war," said the man on TV. Okay. Okay. As someone who loves history so much, I didn’t really see the bombs, the arbitrary arrests, and the acts of barbarism, but I was willing to admit that we were at war with this tiny, sneaky enemy that was going to knock us down all of a sudden after having managed, on the sly—I like that word, might as well use it…—to pass itself off as a little cold for two months and change. It was advancing in disguise… ha ha… sorry, it’s the nerves…

So, war. Boom. In the midst of all this, no masks, no gloves, no hairnets, no caps, no coveralls, and no gowns either for the residents of a nursing home in downtown Nancy (yes, really, I swear—I made 30 of them!). Not much, then, but a crowd of brave people who set out on a crusade—let’s switch up the kind of war—against the coronavirus.

Plus, I know some people who are worth their weight in gold. So I pull out my sewing machine (yes, yes, I know, ONE of MY machines, and it was already out) and get to work. First, masks for Sarah, the home health aide, then masks for her employer, who’s rationing them out to his 140 dedicated staff members crisscrossing the roads, and then, one thing leading to another, of course, the golden team at Couturières Solidaires 54. Listen up, brave healthcare workers, unsung heroes, young and old—who wants some? We’ll make them for you. Thousands. Yes, thousands. “CHUD’GRENOBLE” ones, then “AFNOR” ones because they look more professional.

We received requests from healthcare facilities and private practitioners. We were struggling to keep up. In less than a month, there were 18,000 of us in France. I won’t go into detail about what all those masks were used for—you’ve got TV, or at least the radio.

Or where we were also told that “it’s pointless; you don’t need it.” And then, “Well, it’s not completely useless, but if you use it wrong, it’s worse.” And finally, “Well, actually, it’s a good idea—here, we’re reopening the fabric stores so you can stand in line 1 meter apart to buy what you need to make it.”

Since I’m such a perfectionist, as soon as we got the AFNOR document—having been traumatized in a past life by ISO 9002 certification—I wanted to understand everything. What kind of fabric is required? How many threads per square centimeter? What weft? What material? What thread count? Two layers? Three layers? With those little elastic bands there? On the side?? I pulled out my thread counter and counted the threads. I tried everything to figure out what the hell this 120-thread-count poplin is, which even the textile engineer doesn’t know!

* During lockdown, swearing is allowed.

I memorized my copy of *Textile Technology: From Fiber to Finished Product* by Daniel Weidmann, published by DUNOD, 2nd edition…

I came across as a pain in the neck among this wonderful team of volunteers—both newcomers and veterans—who just wanted to serve, serve, help, and make themselves useful, who were moved by all the thanks they received from nurses, nursing assistants, garbage collectors… And who, like me, sewed day and night.

A special shout-out to little Véro, who—whether as a caregiver or home health aide—found time to sew in the gaps of her crazy schedule, all while delivering masks, pampering her family, writing 200 Messenger messages, helping her parents, collecting fabric donations, and caring for her patients after getting up at 4 a.m. Who can top that??? And Laure, Magali, Marine, Elo, Gwen, Edith, Alexandra…

And I was waiting for the STANDARD. Did that 125g/m² fabric pass the DGA tests? Yes! Is it breathable? Yes, yes!! Does it block most of those 3-micron virus-laden aerosol droplets??? No, no, no!!! But ever since AFNOR came along with its “certif-that’s-not-really-a-certif-watch-out” thing, I’ve been waiting for the wolf.

Where's the wolf?

There it is, it’s popped up out of nowhere, it’s crept in on the sly—again! With its little blue-white-red label: 5 washes. 10 washes… XXXX washes… it made a quiet, casual appearance on the 8 o’clock news a few days ago. Without anyone explaining much more than that about what it actually meant. Lately, we’ve been told how to wash the thing. But in the AFNOR, DGA, IFTH, etc., standards, it just said “wash tests in progress,” for example. Or “tested for 10 washes.”

As for me, silly me, I naively thought it was because the fabric would wear out at 60 degrees, become porous—who knows? Not at all! We’ve just been told: it was a well-kept secret, maybe even classified information? The fabric tightens, again and again. And the fibers contract, and we can’t breathe properly anymore. As for the coronavirus, with its little channels, it’s stuck—give or take a year—it stays inside the barrier, or maybe not; in the end, we just know it’s common sense and better than nothing, and don’t touch it with your hands, but the oxygen—it stays on the outside…?

And now this is being brought up. Is it like a plaque-unveiling ceremony for May Day? Is this a special Labor Day celebration for the seamstresses who started sewing masks because they were asked to—and, incidentally, because they’re broke? And because, after having sincerely dedicated themselves, they no longer want to sew for peanuts and at their own expense, since it’s no longer necessary for healthcare workers. Even if it means being publicly stoned and called war profiteers.

No need to shoot me—I’m not a seamstress.

By the way, girls, nobody told you this, but you can’t sew masks to sell. You can, if you want, find a supplier on your own (no public list) who will sell you (if they have any) a fabric (just one type—not the same kind, but maybe a polka-dot print and a floral print) with a reference number and a DGA certificate. You’ll need to produce this in case of an inspection. Or you can try to have two mask prototypes tested—as they say, in a blind test—it’s free.

Well, if they don't pass the tests, each subsequent test costs €1,110 (excluding tax), you know—it's not exactly a bargain.

But on the other hand, kind and generous people, go to the AFNOR website and register. And donate your masks. As Alexandre Jardin said, give, give, to everyone and their brother. But go ahead and treat yourselves—AFNOR says, “If you have cotton, felt, and ribbon,” GO!!!

Or, use Liberty fabric (you see it everywhere—on TV, in photos—it’s super trendy again); 90 grams per square meter, I think; ultra-fine and tightly woven, I’ll grant you—lightweight and very delicate, just the way we like it. However, when it comes to washing at 60 degrees, I’ve tried it, and Liberty doesn’t like it…

There you go. It’s FREE. With this generous gesture—which does you credit—you can let your neighbor choke, since, as they say, there’s a risk of choking. Well, to be precise, you don’t actually choke; you just take off the mask that’s getting in the way of your breathing…

But that’s okay—it’s free. Since we have no idea what kind of fabric the heroic seamstress so selflessly (yes, that’s a poetic license) provided, we also have no idea how many times this mask can be washed.

Right now, my eyes are stinging. I’ve been searching all afternoon for university guides and other recommendations from the UK, the US, Belgium, Switzerland—basically anywhere I can read what’s on the screen—and I haven’t found it anywhere else. Is France the only place where the pool of paid content is shrinking? Come on, it’ll turn up—I misread it, I missed the right article, the right researcher, the study by the right virologist, epidemiologist, whatever—whatever you want.

Laurent says I’m paranoid. Well, he didn’t actually say that. He’s diplomatic, and he loves me (P.S.: No, I didn’t even think that. Laurent). But my feeling today is that the authorities and businesses—big and small—let’s call them that—have brought out their umbrellas and their nets. A nice standard, and a nice little threat to everyone selling handmade masks—the very ones we’re asking volunteer seamstresses and tailors to give away for free to their fellow Covid-citizens.

So here’s my suggestion: EVERYONE SHOULD LEARN TO SEW! With the exception of the frail, the sick, the disabled, and the marginalized—those we must help—anyone capable of opening a beer, playing Minecraft, baking a cake, or taking a cutting is capable of holding a needle—that sharp thing with a hole on one end—and stitching straight, small stitches along a line drawn beforehand with a ruler meant for that purpose. Get the right fabrics (that’s starting to be easy, given the abundance of online resources)—you can even do without elastic—and get to work. Of course, if you have a sewing machine, use it!

We make ourselves lots of nice masks—piles and piles of them. And when we feel like we’re having trouble breathing—since that’s one of the dangers lurking out there—we just put on another one. Yay.

Or, hey, if by any chance she agrees, we’ll head over to the little seamstress down the street with our lovely fabric—chosen with love—and our piece of elastic or one of our grandma’s bras, and ask her to sew our mask for us using her special expertise; she’ll do a great job and finish faster! We’ll pay her for her work and her time, and we’ll manage our own breathing all by ourselves like grown-ups.

Because, as Philippe Claudel so aptly put it through the mouth of his eccentric Italian character in *Tous les soleils*: “Hey, I’ve got a brain, and I use it.”

For my part, I’m going to pick up my pilgrim’s staff and my magic sewing teacher’s cape—after all, I’ve had over 1,500 students (I counted) in 16 years of teaching patchwork—and I’m going to teach Laurent how to sew a mask by hand. On video. And we’ll share it on the blog, the website, Facebook, YouTube, and via 4×3 billboards if necessary.

Kisses. Thank you. Kisses (sorry, Juliette Arnaud).

Your Béné. A little upset…