[Vienna, September 10. Image via Getty]

A woman rests under paintings by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec's 'The White Horse 'Gazelle'' (left) and Jean Renoir's ''Sewing'' (right) in the Albertina art gallery in Vienna on September 10, 2009 during the opening of the exhibition 'Impressionnism, Painting Light'. The show, comprising 170 works, unfolds the mesmerizing world of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painting. AFP PHOTO/JOE KLAMAR (Photo credit should read JOE KLAMAR/AFP/Getty Images)

As the Washington Post's Monica Hesse tells it, the January/February "sex issue" was found to be too controversial for Jo-Ann Fabric and Crafts, which chose not to carry the magazine. And while this may seem farcical, a look at the content shows that it's indeed a far cry from the Double Wedding Ring.

Behold, seven straight pages of shocking quilts. We're talking fabric phalluses. Gun-toting Jesuses. A newborn peering out from his mother's lady parts (constructed out of lots of soft, embroidered orange cloth).Some of the images are disturbing — and moving — like quilter Gwen Magee's "Southern Heritage/Southern Shame," which depicts five lynching victims hanging in front of a Confederate flag...Others are whimsical. Consider "Helping Hands," a Charlottesville quilter's ode to Viagra. The work was inspired by a present from a friend: "A fat quarter of fabrics with all these itty-bitty penises and sperm," says Mary Beth Bellah, describing the pile of remnants with delight.

Quilters like Bellah see the traditional medium as a natural for conveying important messages: as she puts it, "People respond to quilts like nothing else." And as those who've been following the struggles of print media with increasing dismay, we can only tip our hats to any publication trying something fresh rather than running scared. In fact, this actually seems really smart: if, as we're told, the flailing economy means a return to nostalgic pursuits, now is exactly the time to intrigue a potential new readership who might be as intrigued by crafting's artistic potential as its anachronistic comfort. Frankly, we're beginning to OD on "comfort food" and same-old reassurance; if we're making lemonade, let's spike it. We're glad to see Quilter's Home agrees!

Uncovered! The Unseemly Side Of Quilts[Washington Post]

While other girls breezed through their skirts, I required as much supervision as the slowest boy, toiling over his cotton tie in the corner. I still have that tiny skirt, and with it the distinct impression that dressmaking, like pastry-making, is a skill fundamentally unsuited to my personality. Not that it's stopped me. Over the years I've turned out a few horrible-looking tunics and wrap skirts that I've sported with impunity, ready to boast about my skills - not that anyone was asking. And when one is short and poor, alteration of thrifted purchases is a reality of life. ('Alteration' in this case also applies to safety pins and double-stick tape - of which I am a mistress.)

When I got marginally-better-heeled, I became a fanatical hemmer. The cheapest skirt, the crummiest pair of pants — nothing was too lame to be spared the dry cleaner's pinking shears. The very act of customizing, no matter how superficial, made me feel well-tailored and responsible. More to the point, hemming is a kind of magic; I cringe walking down the street as I see women whose silhouettes would be improved 200% by a half-inch and $8.

I recently made my first foray into custom tailoring. I loved the idea of something unique that fit my tricky figure perfectly, and I had long been in possession of a vintage pattern for a day dress. I dreamed of it in a rich wool jersey, envisioning myself transformed into a chic Best-of-Everything martini swigger who wrapped executives around her daintily-manicured finger. Fabric is way, way more expensive than you think it will be, but by scouring the menswear stores (and 'scouring' means walking a few feet into the first one I saw) I found one I liked. The tailor was, as usual, my dry-cleaner, Helen. I was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of my new dress — which, while pricey, was still better than what I would have paid off the rack. Should I have been concerned about the language barrier? Should I have worried when she didn't seem interested in the still of Myrna Loy in The Best Years of Our Lives (in a dinner dress which has a perfect neckline) I brought her? Should I have considered whether maybe the willowy drawing on the packet's cover was not an accurate representation? Perhaps. In any event, the garment I received from Helen was not what I expected. When I put it on, I was transformed — into a Mormon fundamentalist on a really bad day.

Scarred by this experience, I have reverted to Plan A and signed up for a sewing machine-skills class offered by some local hipster at a fashion school. I am dreading it. But at the very least I'll be able to handle that 1/2" myself. And one day — one day — I will be able to say "this-old-thing-i-made-it" without, you know, having forced someone to compliment a crudely-sewn burlap sack.