Pretty often when I’m sorting through old textiles, I’ll pull out a piece; a doily with a tear, a towel with a stain that didn’t quite come out, a pillowcase that’s yellowed with time, and I can almost hear the default reaction: this is probably done for.
But then I think… maybe not?
That’s where ReFabrics come in.
At Remnants, we use the term ReFabrics to describe second-life household textiles—doilies, table runners, curtains, sheets, towels, linens—that are no longer “perfect,” but very much still usable. These are pieces that may carry stains, wear, or small flaws, the kind of things that usually disqualify them from being used as-is.
But for the right person, those aren’t disqualifiers. They’re starting points.
Because when you stop looking at a textile as something that needs to be preserved whole, and start seeing it as material, everything shifts.
One of the clearest examples of this for me has been these Sunbonnet Sue pillowcase pieces.
At first glance, they’re hard to categorize. The fabric is discolored, clearly worn from years, maybe decades, of storage. It’s not something most people would reach for if they were looking for a clean, ready-to-use textile.
But the embroidery is still there.
And it’s good.
There’s personality in those stitches. Care in the way each figure was made. And once you focus on that, the rest becomes flexible. The surrounding fabric doesn’t have to stay intact. It can be cut away, dyed, reworked, reframed. The goal shifts from preserving the object to preserving the part that matters.
Suddenly, what looked like something to discard becomes something worth designing around.
I’ve noticed the same thing with smaller crochet pieces.
On their own, they’re lovely. You could absolutely use them as-is. But they really come to life when they’re placed into something else. Centered on a bag. Stitched onto a jacket. Layered into a garment where that texture becomes the focal point instead of the whole story.
There’s a unique joy in giving these smaller pieces a new context, especially when they might otherwise be overlooked for being too small or too specific.
They don’t need to be the entire project. They just need the right place to land.
And then there are the embroidered linens.
These are the ones that tend to stop people mid-scroll.
Dainty florals, careful stitches, soft color palettes that somehow still hold their own decades later. Pieces like the oval floral linen or the butterfly centerpiece feel almost complete already, like they’ve done their job and deserve to be left alone.
But even these can shift.
An embroidered panel can become the center of a tote. A section can be framed within a garment. It can be layered into something larger where it continues to be the star, just in a different setting.
It’s less about changing it, and more about continuing it.
The smaller, more worn pieces might be my favorite, though.
A torn doily is a perfect example.
On its own, it’s easy to dismiss. The tear feels like the end of its usefulness. But if you stop expecting it to function as a whole object, it opens up completely. Sections can be cut and appliquéd. The strongest parts can be preserved. It can be layered, stitched down, incorporated into something where the flaw either disappears or becomes part of the story.
It doesn’t have to go back to being a doily.
It just has to be used.
Even something as straightforward as a vintage towel can surprise you.
There’s a texture to older terrycloth that’s hard to replicate. A softness, but also a structure. Towels like the daisy print or the embroidered tea towels carry both function and personality. You can feel how they were used, but you can also see how they might be used again.
Cut down into smaller pieces. Turned into something wearable. Used in projects where that thickness and absorbency actually add something.
They don’t need to return to their original purpose to be useful.
I think that’s the throughline with all of this.
ReFabrics ask you to let go of the idea that a textile has one life.
They’re not about restoring things to their original state. They’re about continuing them in a new direction. Sometimes that means cutting into something that feels “too nice” to cut. Sometimes it means working around a stain instead of trying to remove it. Sometimes it means using just a small piece of something and letting the rest go.
It’s not always intuitive at first.
But once you start seeing textiles this way, it becomes hard to unsee.
What used to feel like damage starts to feel like flexibility.
What used to feel like the end starts to feel like the beginning of a project you haven’t quite figured out yet.
And for some that’s where some of the best making happens.
