My duct tape dummy lists a little bit, but you get the idea.

Here’s the back:

I was in love with the Snow White collar at first, and may still love it when I’m wearing it in a brisk wind, but Jilly Be cut hers down, and that might be a good idea.  It’s one tall collar.  Folding it down makes it more human scale, but reduces the drama a lot.  Here it is with the collar turned down, reducing the size and showing some contrast:

Patternreview bizarrely describes this as a “cape/coat” or something along those lines, but it’s not any kind of cape. It’s an open swing coat.  It’s not at all difficult to sew, but the construction of the primary side is time-consuming, and requires some care:  For instance, nearly every piece of this coat is bias, so stay-stitching is absolutely critical.  Here’s the photo from the pattern envelope:

I wanted the look of the Koos design, but not the bother, so I did quite a few things differently from the Vogue instructions.

~ I made the two sides of the coat entirely separately, treating the solid side as a reversible lining.

~ This allowed me to top-stitch instead of flat-felling.  I have vowed to never do another flat-felled seam, not just for 2012, but forever.

~ I did not quilt the two layers together.  This makes my solid side much less interesting, but saved me hours of aggravation. I’m not a quilting fan, either.

~ Although I made a special trip to New York to find bias trim (make-it-yourself bias trim is also on my “nyet” list), I decided not to use it, or any trim, along the seam lines.

~ I didn’t make the welt opening on the pieced side, because I didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the fabric.  The pattern calls for a single pocket, attached to the solid side of the coat, with openings on both sides.  I attached the pockets on the solid side of this open coat, but skipped the access from the pieced side.  Not having pockets on one side may drive me crazy, but, if so, I’ll deal with it later.

My reverse solid side, front:

My pockets are larger than the Vogue ones.  I always use a narrow seam for patch pockets, and since I love over-large pockets, I didn’t alter these to reflect my seam size preference.  I always line my patch pockets “patches”, and these were interfaced, too.

The Vogue instructions call for quilting along the seam lines on the pieced side, so that the solid side gets quilted.  The quilting looks fantastic in the Vogue photos, but I have neither the patience nor the skill to attempt anything that ambitious, so my reverse side is much simpler.

Here’s the back:

I’m not thrilled with the finish on the cuffs, so I may re-do them (it’s Noile issue, not a Vogue issue), and I made a horrible  mistake that I was unable to correct (after three tries!), which I’m not going to confess to.  Not in detail, anyway.  I’m hoping it will go unnoticed by all but the most observant sewists.

Vogue made things unnecessarily complicated by using two different numbering schemes for the pattern. One is for the pattern pieces themselves; the other is for the contrast panels. The pattern pieces for the largest, lower, coat band are numbered 5A, 5B, 6A, 6B, but the band is meant to be cut of a single fabric choice.

Several other pattern pieces have different numbers than their corresponding sections.  Why?  Why not make the numbers identical?  Visualizing that bottom band would have been much easier if both the section on the coat, and the pattern pieces, had been named “5″; why not name the tissue sections 5A, 5B, 5C, 5D?

Vogue calls the reverse, solid, side of the coat “Contrast 1″.  Why not call it “reverse”, or, if they must, “reverse contrast”?  If you’re using different fabrics for each section, surely simplifying the process would be a boon.  I ended up photocopying the relevant illustration (above), and making my own road map, which was a bit of a pain that could have been avoided with a little more thoughtful editing.

Although I wasn’t using contrasting fabrics for each section, I did still have to keep the individual pieces in mind as I cut and sewed, so calling each by a single, consistent, number was far more useful than trying to deal with two different designations.

I did want something of the Koos crazy-quilt, wonky-contrast appearance, but didn’t  trust myself to choose fabrics.  I’m seriously design-challenged, and Mr. Noile would tell you that I’m not very good at color selection, either.  However, I had this in my stash:

I fell in love with the colors (no knowledge required!), at least partly because it’s like nothing I’ve ever worn.  There’s a lot of textural variation woven into the fabric, which is impossible to see here. It’s “Richloom Studio Valliant Spice”, from JoAnn.  Yes, “valiant” with two lls. Classy.  Incidentally, I see that the price on the website is over 10% higher than the store’s regular price.  Plus shipping, of course.  Don’t do buy it online; it only encourages them.

It’s 58% polyester, 42% rayon (no label in the store, naturally, so I found this information on the website), and washes, gently, in cold water, just fine.  I dried it in the dryer, too, being careful not to over-heat or over-dry.

Washing created a bit of puckering in a few (consistent) spots, which just added to the interesting texture, of which there’s a lot already.  The price is JoAnn ridiculous, even in the store, but that’s why the deities invented coupons.  And remnant bins.

I didn’t have enough to make the coat face entirely in that material, though, and, in a stroke of amazing luck found this:

It’s also upholstery fabric, with a light backing, from Jomar.  JoMar is a Philadelphia-area institution; bargain prices, and often, fantastic finds, but the stores are filled with junk.  Lots and lots of junk.  Did I mention that you’ll score fabrics, even luxury fabrics, at JoMar that you can’t find anywhere else?  For pennies?

JoMar’s best for stash-building, though, since you can never know what you’ll find. This was a JoMar miracle, as I walked in desperately needing a second contrast for my coat, and didn’t want to resort to corduroy.  On this particular day, I found exactly what I needed, immediately.

I never let the fact that something’s technically “upholstery” worry me.  I tossed both fabrics into the washing machine to soften them up (and make them less sensitive to liquid in the future), and they were set to go.

Vogue calls the reverse side of the coat Contrast 1; I think it would have been better to call it “reverse” since there’s already so much “contrast” to track here.  Mine is a luscious rust from Kashi at the wonderful Metro Textiles; it has a burgundy note which isn’t at all obvious here, but works perfectly with the my main fabrics.

There’s nothing really to fear when approaching this pattern.  (At least not once you’ve made your fabric selection.)  You do end up sewing miles and miles of seams that involve attaching inside curves to outside curves, but a little diligence and care (and some careful basting or pinning) will make short work of that.

The reverse side couldn’t be simpler, and this coat would look wonderful made with two solid sides, as well as work up very quickly.  Since I made the two sides separately, I started with the reverse, just to be sure there weren’t any basic construction challenges.  There weren’t; it went together quickly and easily.

However, there are some unusual challenges to the overall project.  Assembling the pattern is a whole step of its own; you’ll need space and a fair amount of time.

The sleeves have a wonderful bias seam, so shortening them requires some creativity.  I shortened the sleeves by about an inch (I like my sleeves quite long, but I have short arms) by  pinning the pattern together, drawing a horizontal line at the lower bicep (JillyBe did hers at the wrist), cutting, slashing, adjusting, and  redrawing the side seam.

Laying out and cutting the material requires a huge flat space.  You’ll need to clear the floor in a large room, unless you have an amazing sewing studio.  (Alternatively, borrow a conference room from your workplace or the local library; you’re going to need the space.)  In my case, I also had to wait until  it was naptime for all five cats.  Need I mention that they were all exceptionally alert on the day I’d chosen for the big event?  Naptime is 2 PM; they finally crashed at nearly 4.  How did they know?  I might as well be herding toddlers here.

Then things get complicated, if you’re following the Vogue directions and going Koos all the way.  His design is fabulous, and will yield a result that is much grander than my coat, so I recommend it highly.  But, for those who, like me, follow the virtuous programmer* approach to life, this was too much.

Instead of quilting both sides of the coat together, I constructed them separately, sleeves and all, and joined them all around the hem, sides and neck, leaving an opening at the side hem to turn it.

Since I wasn’t using bias trim, I simply sewed each section together, right side to right side.

I trimmed and hand-tacked every single seam allowance.  I thought this was a good idea for two reasons:  one, because the bias tape would have supplied some (possibly quite necessary) support for all those bias sections, and two, because that helped to keep the seamlines smooth, and reduced bulk inside the coat.

Then I finished the sleeves by turning the hems in along a stitching line I’d previously made, and carefully hand stitching them closed.  With practice, this can be done invisibly by catching the machine-sewn stitches.  Top-stitching ensures that everything stays in place.

One last tip:  Buy the giant spool of thread.  I didn’t do any quilting, and this was still a five-bobbin project.  Admittedly, my Pfaff has smaller-than-some bobbin capacity, but you’ve been warned.

Jilly Be and Jan are in the middle of constructing this coat, as it’s meant to be constructed, and their coats look as if they’re both going to be beautiful.  Check them out for a different take on making this marvelous jacket.

*The three great virtues of a programmer, as described by Larry Wall, are laziness, impatience, and hubris.  I’ve incorporated these into this project in this way:  Laziness — I wanted the best result with the least effort; Impatience — I wanted it done in three days; Hubris — I determined to do this my way, no matter what those silly Vogue instructions said.

Needless to say, you can get into a lot of trouble following this credo, but it will be fun trouble.

In the Noile family we have one programmer, and one cat, who believe absolutely in this credo.  It’s rubbed off.  Literally, in the case of the cat.

Then, a lot of us saw this photo, and took a second look:

Much better, isn’t it?  When I looked at the actual pattern, I loved the sleeve shaping, which follows the shoulder curve.  The side seams also provide some extra, flattering, shaping.  I saw this as my chance to make a jacket that offered some of the geometric edginess of a Marcy Tilton pattern, but without the boxy, unfriendly-to-humans shape that Tilton’s jacket patterns almost always feature.

Did I get my wish?  Well, kind of:

I originally made view B, the long version, with pockets.  Vogue says I’m a size 14, so I cut a size 10, which fit perfectly, except that view B was way, way too long for my 5′2.5″ height.  I was drowning in this thing!  (Vogue’s sizing chart is a joke, but that’s another post.)  I ended up cutting about 3 inches off the length — not quite enough to make it as short as view A, which looks awfully boxy in the line drawings.  My sleeves are also 4 cm shorter than Vogue’s.

My pockets are larger than Vogue’s — that might not have been the best choice, but since they’re hardly visible in this print, it’s not much of an issue.  I don’t know why anyone uses a 5/8ths inch seam on patch pockets, but that’s because I always line (and usually interface) mine.  Then I use a much smaller seam and turn the pocket.  This gives me better control on a curved edge, and a neater result.

I used a completely unnecessary Hong Kong seam finish because I just love it, and, since this jacket is unlined, I wanted to see more than a raw edge every time I wore it.

Because I was seduced by the photo of the coat closed with a pin, I added a jumbo button with an extra-large snap underneath, to give the effect of a pin without the fuss.

This was a “wearable muslin”, so I used a stable knit that I had around.  (The pattern calls for a lightweight woven.)  I knew that if I didn’t make another one, I’d still probably like using this on a plane, where I often want a blanket, but need to bring wear my own.  This could be a perfect “carry-on” coat/sweater.  Wearable on a trip, but cozy like a blanket on planes.

The knit actually worked very well, except that mitering the two angled corners at the hem was a bit iffy.  I think using a lighter woven would give a better drape, too, although this fabric actually falls nicely on my body.  The knit fronts cling a bit to each other, which turned out to be an asset when the jacket is closed; the under layer of a tighter woven would likely need some kind of anchor (a tie or snap or something of the sort) to keep it in place if the jacket were fastened closed.

Because I didn’t want to do any hand-stitching on this project, I used this accessory foot to “stitch in the ditch” to attach the neck facing to the shoulder dart:

This is the first time I’ve used this foot, and it worked amazingly well.  The blade separates the sides of the seam just enough to hide the stitching perfectly.

Vogue’s directions were simple and clear; the pattern pieces look wonky, but go together perfectly.  Was it a success?  Well, I think so — I do get some of the geometric flair from the angled hem, and the cut of the jacket is much more flattering to a real human shape than that of most unfitted jackets.  But it’s probably time for me to face the fact that over-sized garments, however well-cut, are just not flattering on someone of my size and height.  This jacket is perfect for tall, willowy Auntie Allyn.  It’s merely OK on short, petite Noile.  Sigh.

I’ve wanted to make this parka for decades. Two years ago, I found a lightweight upholstery tapestry fabric that seemed just right for it. The primary colors are a muted olive green, a dark gold, and a muted rust. I wanted a serious winter pullover, so I also bought rust microfleece for the lining.

Last year, I finally put it together. The essential design is very simple; it’s really just a batch of geometric lines. For my version, I eliminated the yoke seams closest to the center line, partly because my fabric was relatively thick, and partly because of the complications of matching the pattern. I also combined the two pattern pieces for each sleeve, eliminating the lower seam, for the same reasons.

I made a size small. It was the right choice, since I added an almost-bulky lining. If I make a single-layer version in the future, I’ll make an extra-small. Other reviews I’ve read pointed out that the sizing tends toward the huge; I agree!

For cutting I had to lay the fabric flat. Matching the fabric motifs was time-consuming, and adding the lining contributed to making this project much bigger than necessary. There’s nothing complicated about the essential construction, though, and this coat could probably be made up in a couple of hours with a different fabric choice and no lining. Above is the back view, showing the hood, and, below, a detail view of the front where the hood is attached to the yoke.

The pockets are the only real challenge; it’s critical to mark them carefully on the front before you stitch. The instructions call for only one line of stitching, which doesn’t offer much security if you plan to use them vigorously. I didn’t like the look of a double row of stitches, so I took advantage of the slight pile of my material and just sewed over my original line of stitches a second time.

I added small hooks and D rings on thin webbing straps inside the pockets; I don’t carry a bag or purse when wearing this parka, and like to secure my belongings when using large pockets.

The lines of the hood were a fabulous surprise — the curve around the face is beautiful, and the neckline looks great whether the hood is up or down. (Sorry, no face shot to show that curve, but take a look at the pattern; you’ll see how nicely it works.)

Here’s the back view with the hood up:

My photos make my coat look a little limp; with me inside, it’s got a lot more flair (literally) — much like the Folkwear photo below. This is one of my all-time favorite coats, and I’m really eager to make it again (and again and again!). It’s amazingly easy to wear while running around town, and there’s nothing better for riding the subway in deep

It’s not exactly easy to remove, and, made of my heavy-duty fabric and lining, it can be very warm if you’re spending more than a few minutes indoors.

I could see this in melton wool, polarfleece, a corduroy or even a sweatshirt fleece. Folkwear shows it in this plaid; very sophisticated!

Folkwear Patterns can be difficult to find. I own several boxes of them, bought many years ago, but ordered this one from Ursula’s Alcove, and was very pleased with the pleasant help and fast shipping. It’s worth shopping around; some sites charge ridiculously high prices for Folkwear; comparing prices can save you lots.

When the fabric arrived, I was surprised to discover that it was coated on the wrong side (hence, I suppose, the “rainwear” designation). (I was happy with Denver Fabrics’ service, but do wish their descriptions were a little more complete.) The urethane-like coating was a bit ’sticky’ and wasn’t going to be nice to wear, so I was going to have to line the coat.

The whole point of using silk was to keep the coat as filmy and light as possible. When my mother-in-law and I went on an excursion to Field’s Fabrics, I found a delicate, light polyester called (I think) “crepe de silk”. I took it back to my in-laws, and encamped in my mother-in-law’s sewing room for nearly a week, during which I produced this:

The pattern was easy to cut, and the directions were very clear. I made life much more complicated by lining the coat, and it took at least twice as long to make because of it, but the result was excellent just the same. I love, love, love the lines of this coat, and that fabulous hem. It looks wonderful on, and feels marvelous to wear. On my body, it looks exactly like the sketch on the pattern envelope.

These photos don’t do it justice, but I’m not ready to appear in person, so we’ll just have to make do with these. Here’s the back:

The hood is cut all-in-one with the body (fun construction!), and forms that wonderful collar in the front. It lies nice and flat in the back (at least when it’s not wrinkled from a recent trip to the city), looking great when you’re walking away, too.

Naturally, I goofed up a couple of things. I altered the length above and below the belt, and in the process got the pockets slightly misplaced. There’s nothing particularly wrong with that; they just don’t look exactly as they do on the pattern envelope. In the end, I think I placed the belt a little low. When I make it again (and I will!), I’ll raise it a little.

Because I could, I added two pockets inside the coat, in the lining, and gave them zipper closures. (I do like me a couple of security pockets!)

The lining fabric turned out to be exactly what I needed (thank you, great Field’s consultants!). It’s so lightweight that the ’silk-ness’ of the coat doesn’t seem much compromised. Lined, my coat is reversible, unless you mind seeing my ‘mark’ on the outside (that yellow tag).

The silk is interesting; when it gets wet, huge, terrible blotches break out all over, as if I’ve spilled my lunch everywhere. Then they dry almost instantly. A peculiar effect, but not at all bothersome once you’re used to it. And, oh, yes, it wrinkles like crazy where I sit on the skirt (or lean on the hood). This doesn’t bother me a bit; I rather like the wrinkly mess natural fabrics become. They look real!