Three years ago when spring began to slide her silvery fingers through the skies, I decided to eliminate pure white garments - so stiff in their crisp harsh piety - from my wardrobe, in search instead for the pale shades of my own nude body. Nude colour appears vulnerable, tender, a shade burgeoning in development, a delicate bud not yet in bloom. I proceeded to dye my white blouses in a series of hues to find these elusive tones of pinky beige. My friends called it 'peige'.
Dying silk is a true pleasure as the fine threads soak up the pigment eagerly and with even distribution. Mixing different ratios of powdered dye to a myriad of results - pink, taupe, peach - resulted in this litany of blouses emerging from the steam. In silk thin as skin these natural tones seem a part of the human body. Sisters of springtime, lined up in my closet they await their chance to be worn as a string of kindred virgins might have awaited the first suitor.