If I think of the sewing machine, my grandmother’s one immediately comes to mind, and I see myself as a child observing the gestures, the big wheel I couldn’t stop touching, the pedal, the bobbin.
She made everything seem so easy, then, over time, I experienced that it is not at all, like a whole host of other things.
Even the protagonist of the book, whose name is never mentioned, perhaps to leave the reader the faculty of identifying themselves at a deeper level, as a child watches her grandmother, who is all her family, sew, and she teaches her, together with sewing, the life.
And the teachings of the grandmother, as well as the strong bond between them, will save her in various situations.
The only place mentioned in the book is Paris, all other places are indicated with only the initial. Paradoxically, instead of losing the references, I found a precise orientation, as if Paris represented a single fixed point while “it’s a small world”, precisely with the slightly negative meaning of the proverbial saying.
A world in which even dreams become a luxury that cannot be afforded.
And so the sewing machine becomes more precious than a jewel, transfiguring itself in the way to improve one’s condition more easily, more intensely, but always with commitment, with constancy, with one’s own strength, without discounts, working.
Once again I thank Monica for this reading: an embroidery of female figures that I admired.
Stories of Women of those we like, of those who stand out, of those who struggle not to be princesses.
Women who survive.
Women who teach.
And the negative figures, the ruthless women, consuming themselves in their wickedness do nothing but make those who deserve shine more.