parker + simonne designs

07/28/2026

Did you know every artist jacket begins as a collection of scraps + handwoven textiles to layout and study.

Sometimes I even have a hard time cutting it, as I don't want to let it go yet. 😬

I layer textiles, colorways, and textures until a tribe emerges, a family of fabrics that simply belongs together. From that sense of unity, I create a one-of-a-kind wearable piece.

No jacket is ever truly duplicated.

Some may share similarities, but each carries its own story, its own energy, its own path.

The process takes me somewhere deeper. It puts me in a complete ZONE where I let my instincts guide every decision. The creative choices are mine.

There is freedom in that.
There is control in that.

I also feel connected to the hands that touched these materials before me. Each fabric carries a history, a presence, a life beyond its original purpose.

To me, these jackets are more than clothing.

They are stories stitched together, transformed, and given a new life to be worn + carried forward.

07/22/2026

Look for a few new pieces coming next week!
Will update you on the exact date, soon....💜

07/10/2026

Some of the custom orders shipped off this week. 💙💙💙💙

07/07/2026

07/02/2026

😂

07/02/2026

Check out my product!
https://www.parkersimonnedesigns.com/product-page/all-tine-favorite-style-all-african-indigo-textile

06/21/2026

Father’s Day.

Feels different this year.

My dad is miles away in a care facility. His memory is fading. The conversations we used to have are not really there anymore. He does not call. Not because he doesn’t care. He just cannot remember to. I still feel a thread between us. I pray for him. I hold onto what is still there.

I keep thinking about a time in Portland. He showed up the way he always did. A last minute call saying he was nearby, asking for my address. We went to lunch. He had his old army bag with him, per usual. EVERYTHING he owned in it. 😬

Photos of me and Pete.
Letters from the 60s and 70s.
Pieces of a life that felt scattered but preserved. He was nervous.
Repeating the same stories in the same tone. I could see it.

His vulnerability.

Something opened in me that day.
I forgave him. Not halfway.
I mean, FULLY.
A clear understanding that he could have never raised us the way my mom did. No anger in that. Just truth. And a complete sense of peace.

Our story was never simple. There were many gaps. Things we did not have. Things we deserved....that my sweet mommy deserved!
My mom carried more than most people should have to carry. She still gave us such stability, such faith, such unconditional love. That became our true foundation.

Other people stepped in over the years. They quietly filled spaces I did not know how to name back then...even now, I think.

There was one moment with Parker and him.
We visited him in LA in 2020. She sat with him. It was the sweetest.
We took a picture. That was it. Not perfect...but a small, quiet kind of enough.

I do not feel sadness when I sit in all of this anymore. I feel an emotional gratitude. For what formed. For what softened in me. For what healed over a looonnnggg time. For the way something whole can come out of something that once felt incomplete and broken.

Healing truly truly takes time.
Sometimes a lifetime.

Still beautiful.

Happy Father’s Day ❤️🙏🏽

06/16/2026

Friday morning.
Coffee with someone new at a café I don’t usually go to.

I ended up sitting outside next to an older man in a bicycle helmet.

I’ve been trying to do this more. Actually talk to people instead of just being polite and moving on. So I said something.
I don’t even remember what.

We started talking.
He’s a cellist. Comes there every day. Then he tells me he’s going to Guatemala next week wth his daughter and son in law.
That caught me. Because of my work there. The textiles. The trips. It felt random but not random at the same time. Like… how does that even happen.

Two people who would've most likely never crossed paths otherwise.

After we'd talked for awhile about his former work as a musician, teaching at a one of Oregon’s prestigious universities here in the city, and wonderful stories of his time in art school, he tells me he has Alzheimer’s.

That part hit differently.

Because of the work I’ve done with people living with dementia. I’ve seen it from the outside. But sitting there with him, hearing him talk about it himself… it’s not the same.

He talked about multiple failed tests. Losing his license. What’s coming.
My heart sank for him and his loves.

And I kept thinking… if he didn’t tell me, I wouldn’t have known.
That stayed with me.

I asked if I could hold his hand. I didn’t think about it too much. It just felt right.

So we sat there like that for a minute.
I don’t know. Something about it felt really human. Simple. But not small.

I keep having these kinds of moments lately.
Or maybe they’ve always been there and I just wasn’t paying attention.

I used to think I needed big signs. Something obvious.

Now it feels more like this.
Just… showing up
Talking to someone
Letting it matter

And I know not everyone sees it the way I do. Some people might think this sounds too spiritual or “woo woo.”

That’s okay.

For me, this is where I feel most like myself. When I slow down, when I stay open, when I actually see people.

I’ve found that over time.
It’s not always easy. But it feels real.

Maybe hope isn’t found in everything changing all at once.

Maybe it’s found in trusting God right in the middle of it.

And just being willing to