Unearthing a Vision
Some people wake up one day and have a vision for what they want to do in life. Not so me. I’m pretty good at saying what I don’t want to do. Less good at figuring out what I do want to do. For example, I love historical costuming. I have since I was little. At least, I love seeing historical costuming. I love seeing costumes in movies and then heading to my favorite fashion historians on YouTube to find out just how accurate (or terrible) the costuming was. I enjoy seeing the care and detail that historical costumers put into each item of clothing, from the hand-sewn chemise underneath to the antique lace on the bodice. I am not, however, a historical costumer. I don’t really have an interest in actually reproducing a Victorian corset or an 1820s dress. I don’t know if I would ever have the energy to determine exactly how big a sleeve shape was in 1892 vs. 1895. I don’t have enough ambition to spend 77 hours hand-sewing an 1880s gown for myself. I love that there are people out there doing that. I especially enjoy watching them share their adventures on YouTube. It just isn’t my thing.
For me, finding a vision is more like excavating an archeological dig: tedious and time-consuming. For example, as I’ve been spending ridiculous amounts of time discovering the online vintage sewing world, I recently stumbled on a social media post (which I do not want to link because I’m not trying to be critical) that said something along the lines of “Stop using paper patterns! You can learn pattern drafting and it’s so much better!” Here’s the thing: pattern drafting is super cool. Being able to design a garment and then draft a pattern and make a thousand adjustments so it fits you perfectly and looks precisely how you imagined? Wow! That’s amazing! But it’s also not for everyone. I think one of the true gifts of commercial sewing patterns is that they brought fashion to everyone. They are accessible, inexpensive, and moderately easy to use (some more than others!). They take far less time to learn than pattern drafting, far less skill than true tailoring, and are simply more relatable. Not many of us have known someone who could self-draft and tailor things, but I bet most people know someone who could sew. It doesn’t seem far-fetched for anyone to think: “Hey. Just maybe I could sew…” Maybe I could help them do that. Maybe that’s a piece of a vision?
I’m a very slow processor sometimes. As I incrementally understand what I don’t like and what I don’t want, I also incrementally understand what I do like, what I do want. I don’t want to digitize and sell copies of patterns on Etsy. I don’t want to hoard anything in a vast personal collection. I do want to encourage community and learning. I do want to promote sustainability and upcycling. I do want to encourage the beginner and cheer on the intermediate and gratefully applaud the expert. I do want to showcase tips and tricks and patterns and books and photographs and inspirational projects. I do want to champion embracing the bodies we have, the styles we love, and the skills we want to grow. I do want to learn from the past and adapt it to the future. In fact, my ultimate goal would be somehow to turn this into a self-sustaining non-profit. Is that possible? God only knows.
I’m making steady progress on my metaphorical archeology dig. I know I’m not a historical costumer, a reenactor, or a professional fashion historian. I know I’m not a museum curator or a great salesperson who wants to make her fortune. I know I am a life-long student and natural teacher who desires to be a good ancestor. How will I leave the world of vintage sewing a better, more welcoming, more healing, more uplifting place? I don’t know yet—but I’m going to find out.
My Sewing Cabinet
