The Sublime Pfaff 130 Sewing Machine

There's a problem in producing a blog about a vintage sewing machine - the danger of being recognised as a nerdy sad old bastard.  Well, I'm no such thing: I'm simply an old bastard with 'enthusiasms'.

This new 'enthusiasm' came about because I wanted (you'll notice I don't say 'needed') to renovate my superannuated racing yacht cockpit cover.  I could have ordered a new one, or paid the local tradesman to do the work, but I thought it would be better for my bank account and for my soul if I did it myself.  I used to have a wife who was really good at doing all my practical sewing.  Having changed to a wife who is pretty hopeless sewer (but WONDERFUL at everything else) I discovered that in this matter I was expected to fend for myself, and for all the rest of the combined family. Thank goodness for You Tube.  Now I can stitch and sew anything.

What husbands who have capable sewing wives don't quite get, is that this is an arena crammed with brilliant 'toys.'  I'm not talking about the latest all-singing-all-dancing computer-controlled plastic wonders.  I've got an expensive one of those, and it's just too boring, with its five-hundred stitch selection, and a screen that tells me when to make a cup of coffee.  What I'm really blown away by is the sheer wonder of all the brilliant vintage sewing machines.

You would think that most of the old mechanical machines would be rusting away in landfill sites, but you would be dead wrong.  They're out there in their thousands, refusing to die, and often as capable as the day they were made. Folks who know about them and who enthuse (folks like me) speak in reverential tones about their own machines.  Unable to pass up an opportunity to rescue a vintage wonder from a charity shop (a thrift store) really sad types have dozens of machines in their basement rooms and lofts, awaiting loving hands.  I haven't got to that stage. As I acquire a machine I make plans to sell one, or I give one away.

There's a serious pecking order in these old machines. You'll be told all sorts of tales about this or that make, but a few float up regularly as true mechanical wonder-kit.  In search of a machine that will sew through several layers of sailcloth or Sunbrella cover material I've done the rounds now. Last year I fell upon a 1960's Read's Sailmaker, and I can tell you from experience, that little machine would probably stitch through sheets of stainless steel. But, a word came down on the ether that even greater machines existed, with names only known to masters of the art. One name was uttered with such reverence that I had to find out more about it - the Pfaff 130.

Most sewing machines manufactured between, say, 1910 and 1960 are very well made, and built to last for centuries. They range from good, through excellent, to superb, and on to wonderful.  It's been claimed, not least of all by Singer themselves, that the Singer 201 is the best sewing machine ever made.  Bernina mechanical machines are excellent, and the Italian firm of Necchi made some beautifully precise creations. But there are a few machines, perhaps only three in number, that crown this pyramid: machines that might reasonably be described as sublime, and for me the the Pfaff 130 defines the state of the art.

But here's the rub: so far as  can tell the Pfaff 130 was never sold in any quantity in England. Here, they are as rare as balls on a chicken. There are plenty of Pfaff 30 straight stitch machines around, and very fine they are too, but the super precision whispering 130 with its zig-zag abilities is hardly ever seen. The itch to acquire one of these legendary machines became overwhelming, and after many false leads I finally tracked down not just one, but two: a phenomenon known jokingly as London bus arrival.

I can report to you that every peon of praise that has been heaped upon the 130 is completely true:  it is magnificent.

The first arrival was 3614291.  I discovered through web records that this machine had been made in 1939. Well, that's a year to conjure with. Hitler was about to turn Europe into a charnel house, and this lovely machine was being lovingly assembled.  The irony is clear enough. If the machine could speak it would be able to tell the story of its war years, and its survival since that time. It can't, so we can only guess.  It is now seventy-four years old, and it still sounds like a turbine, and sews beautifully - REALLY beautifully.

You will need photographs, and you will need to see samples.  I'll see what I can do.