DIY Fashion by M. Lanterman

For three years in my late twenties my main creative outlet was organizing faux- fashion-shows at bars, clubs and the occasional art space. These events were sort of half-fashion-karaoke/half -grade-school talent shows and I put them on in the three cities I lived in during this time. I made costumes based on themes and had my friends, who were mostly men, come out on stage and strut around to music. Once I had my sister, who looks like Jessica Rabbit come out covered in a costume made of band stickers with eight of her “boyfriends” dressed in plaid. Then for a while I was into sandblasting portraits of rappers into denim. Then I made big piñata costumes that got bashed open by their fellow models. I really enjoyed dressing people of all shapes and having them do goofy/sexy things on stage.

The clothes I made couldn’t survive a washing cycle much less be made for a mass market but that wasn’t the point. I had well enough paying day jobs. The point was having fun and getting free drink tickets. I used recycled fabrics that I often got for free from friends who worked in vintage. So, because I incurred very little expense, I usually just gave the “models” the clothes. I also styled and made costumes for local bands and local rappers, an activity similar in craft and fun-level. As far as hobbies go I’d recommend these ones highly.

Fast-forward to age 30, employed by my husband and due to said husband’s job, living in a rural environment. The town is mainly very low-income Republicans and retirees. I haven’t pushed the issue with any wacky Priscilla Queen of the Desert escapades at the local bar. I‘ll err on the prejudiced side and guess that the town probably isn’t interested in mostly male performance loosely resembling –fashion-shows. Not that that reflects badly on them. My shows were not very good. In a big city you can find a supportive environment for even the most ridiculous projects. The city’s tolerance for irritating people was what drew me to the bright lights in the first place.

As an aside I should say that I do often see guys out here in the sticks I could have fun designing for. Not in a lecherous or exploitative way. I really think they would look cool in unusual outfits. These are guys with fifty spotty tattoos, weird beards and strange over-confidence. But I’ll leave these guys to Terry Richardson and Michael Moore. I don’t want to irritate my husband or be stabbed to death by the model’s girlfriends. I have enough trouble making friends out here.

So instead of styling my neighbors I decided to learn to sew for real. We bought a decent sewing machine, followed by another kind of more complicated machine known as a serger, which sews stretchy fabric. I read lots of books and watched many videos. I didn’t want to take a class because I didn’t want to look stupid and I thought that if goofy housewives from the 50s could sew, how hard could it be? The answer turns out to be: very difficult unless you want to look like an extra from The Life of Brian.

I tried and tried. I made many, many articles of clothing, each one uglier than the last. You-Tube is a great way to pick up information on this subject but we’re so far out in the middle of nowhere that our Internet works poorly. I read books and watched sewing videos. The best sewing books I found are by Wendy Mullen, creator of the Built By Wendy brand. She is the only person I’ve found with good taste who has written a sewing book.

I should say right now that the service I provide that entitles me to an income is doing our taxes, running errands, making traveling arrangements and cooking and cleaning. Basically being a housewife. It’s good while it lasts because we make more money as a team and the arrangement gives me more time to do whatever I want to. But maybe if I had planned it better I might have taken up something to balance out the hyper-feminine title like auto maintenance or hunting. Unfortunately neither of those things appeal to me at all. And I think it’s important to be honest with yourself before you’ve dismantled your car’s engine or you’re lost in the woods deciding whether or not to drink your own pee.

I finally started going to an open sewing class, which was indeed, humiliating. Humiliating because I had no humility and had opted for the intermediate level as opposed to the beginner. It was like a nightmare where you’ve shown up for Midterms and you never went to ay of the classes. The terminology the teacher used was completely baffling to me just to begin with. Then while old ladies were whipping out finished garments I was struggling dunce-like with the basic operations of the machine. From there I took a patternmaking class and slowly have lowered my expectations for myself to a manageable level where I can rejoice in progress. With every minor success I get wildly over-confident and then have a long series of failures that lead to listening to angry music. In spite of being neurotic and immature I’m improving at my hobby.

I tried to insulate myself against failure with over- planning and avoidance but the only thing that’s helped me improve is working and failing and starting over hundreds of times. Some of the processes have become less difficult and for long stretches of time the sewing can feel very meditative and peaceful. When I can sew a pair of jeans while smoking a joint and watching In Living Color I’ll know I’m a professional.

by guest poster Margaret Lanterman