mendication corporation

From a customer base never lightly offended, The Mendication Corporation solicits old sweaters: begging for the bare-threads, writhing in the mud for rags. These may not seem much like archetypal corporate approaches, but we revel in the potential for rebel-headed supplication to engender innovation and invest accordingly, inordinately, in entreaties. These novel financial instruments (akin to futures, options and other derivatives) the FT has dubbed solicitations.

If whirling dervishes and sadhus, or other mendicating monks, formed ever a trade union, we would be it — the not so high priests of not-so-high-fashion.

Rips and tears, fraying edges, and the random gaping hole right in the middle of it all, or a stain, entirely sans raison d’être: such are the textile afflictions that plague today the ageing sweater. All are maladies that we resolve to remedy in our sartorial surgery by reimagining, reshaping, and rebranding. We use a proprietary process called CRISPR-for-clothes to pathologically proliferate logos, appliqués, and suchlike, so as to highlight and (obs)cure the offending lesions. Needless to say, garments in impossibly elliptical conditions, displaying memory gaps, gulfs in understanding, knowledge lacunae and the occasional lapse in good taste, are, alas, irredeemable.

We pride ourselves on having durably established a purely pragmatic ploy for the signalling of knitting virtue. MOHAIR IS MORE! So if you damn right are a fastidious dresser, or a pedant with a penchant for subtly détourned classics, now is the time to crave quality without cringing at the ostentation. Consider a commission, afforded you in actionable ease: simply send us an email, then expedite to us your sullied sweater, which pray that we deliver back to you — abysmally absolved of snags/sins/punctures as a public service indulgence (while delivering landfills from perfectly fine fabrics).

As regards the power of recycled labelwear to assist in the salvation of the polar bear, we hold out only the forlornest hope. But we should certainly like to imagine biodegradedness be next to godlessness… And as the planet’s first supremely ethical conglomerate, we strive to situate skilled seamstresses from across the Global South, North, East, and West within a schema of social entrepreneurship whose scope for growth shall be sustainable and unsurpassed. Not to mention unreal.

If you do not own a favourite or sentimentally laden sweater,  you may still be able to get some of the therapeutic benefits of tailored darning by purchasing pullovers not merely pre-owned but verily pre-darned — from our set of identikit unikats — all thoroughly dry cleaned, defuzzed and bobble-free. Our partners at Toxic Dry Cleaning Local do not discriminate against germophobes of any denomination, whilst catering profusely to the loosely bohemian lot. Material is 100% alpaca, merino, and misanthropy (for good measure).

into the false consciousness that there is nothing mendacious about the Mendication Corporation. We may be talking the babble-blather of reconstituted blandness, but we are, in fact, a bona fide enterprise providing tangible goods in a ruefully abstracted economy. The global village punches holes in everybody’s moral fabric, yet few among us have the global grandmas handy for the mending of the damage. To submit your sweaters to the svelte caresses of a seamstress in a jumped-up sweatshop someplace might seem extravagant to some. Initiates though know that there is no taking too much care of one’s cashmeres. Save the planet and the purl stitch!

Darning is a delicate and daring, intense procedure of precision… carried out entirely by hand… with considered alterations adroitly effected in a minimally invasive manner… via site-specific, individual attentions. No finishes are ever frivolous, the flourishes — always contained. As a matter of principle, we advocate for the non-proliferation of pinpricks among the general population. To which effect, if you are quite incapable, or simply disinclined to darn, entrust us with this civic duty. Give us your tired, shrunken sweaters, your huddled masses, the wretched refuse of a laundry cycle gone a-wry. This company was founded on faith and fluff.

And a little lint. 

Tza Va is a Thracian thinker and designer, who takes tremendous pride in the traditions of her homeland (much as it is merely mythological). Tza Va’s erstwhile ancestors, the dearly departed Lju Ka, Je Ka, Do Ra, and Di Mana, aid the artist in her enterprise continuously and in manners more than multiple. Tza Va’s dear mother, conversely, condemns association of her daughter’s occupation to the trifles of domestic labour — emancipated comrade that she is.

Having honed her skills at London’s AA School of Architecture, Tza Va steels her needle now confecting edificial garb in the place of habitable buildings. This vocation, she perjures — with a wistless pout whilst watching her creations on the catwalk — is a welcome devolution and the only honourable one for a fabricator of artefacts for generations to come. Though the generations aren’t coming, seeing as she is a committed bachelor of some renown, who resides with her 2.3 imaginary children (and a timeshare pet) in a riotously retrograde suburban mansion flat.