For the past few months I’ve been undergoing a revelation of sorts. It probably all started when I watched the documentary “how to cook your life.” It was a realization that I should probably say fuck off to most of the beautiful fashion magazines and designers, and furniture stores and fabric warehouses, and the delicatessens that I love so indulgently — because I’m broke. and I still live at home. and I’m dang near twenty-five. Obviously a revolution needed to take place.
So, after gathering dust for weeks next to my desk the musty gold fabric that clung pathetically to a street found chair needed to be put to rest. Although I’ve never reupholstered a thing in my life I decided to rip apart this chair down to it’s gorgeous-bones. With my parents uttering fiened encouragement in the background at their daughters bravado I rewound the chair one stubborn staple at a time and learned the art of upholstery.
DECONSTRUCTION: stage one
I slowly ripped apart the chair attempting to figure out the way in which the chair had originally been put together. I documented each step with photographs.
RECONSTRUCTION: stage two
* i hand stitched the back cushion to create a shell pattern.