Patching

The shoe, just like the wheels, has almost become the emblem of the museum. Found near Bobbio (PC) in a dilapidated house, it has been mended, its sole replaced, and the fabric resewn with iron wire.

My father’s patching jobs would thicken shirts so much that they would hold themselves together. And my aunt was such a patching expert, no hole could ever best her.

We didn’t even always have trousers, as the poor Sartoretto (seamster) could not come each time to make us some. Mother would wrap us in a rag made of flannel, spun and woven by herself. We did not wear undergarments and our thighs would chafe tremendously. (Ettore Guatelli)

These items are witnesses to the general conditions, common and at the same time natural, even though occasionally brought to their extremes. (Ettore Guatelli)

In the Shoe Room, the socks reveal years of patching. Nothing was ever thrown away!

The memories of a multitude of uses justify the existence of those rusted tin sheets or trimmings, kept by those who knew how or had to make do. But to list them all would not only be boring, but also impossible. (Ettore Guatelli)

There were travelers who, passing by their city quarters, would shout and offer to do “sewing” jobs, fixing up earthenware. (Ettore Guatelli)