I’ve been thinking a lot about clothes, and more specifically, about what I wear. I’ve been putting work together for a booth at Mother Lode — a warehouse turned antique, vintage, and maker space in Avondale Estates for my Atlanta folks.
I originally thought my space was going to be all the new stuff I make — tees and prints and quilts. But the whole of my process comes from their partnership with old things. The tees are inspired by vintage quality and shape while my quilts are comprised of found materials. The entirety of my work is melded from past and present experiences of mine and of others I meet along the way.
The process has me reflecting heavily on my journey with clothes. I’ve grown accustomed to wearing a lot of the same looks like a cartoon character — it’s always been a sweatsuit for me. I owe a lot of my styling to the uniform I grew up wearing from first to seventh grade. The merit of my character had very little to do with the sweater vest and khakis I wore alongside every other person in my school.
I transferred schools in 8th grade and found that it was a super unfortunate time to try and figure out styling. Middle school bullies are real and my hair was far too curly to ever be considered cool. I followed the book of what I was supposed to be wearing for the first few months of my transition until I didn’t.
This was around the time I resorted to digging in my brother’s closet and stealing his band tees. I felt good wearing that perfectly worn-in Widespread Panic tee next to the skate kids that met next to my locker before gym.
Although I never understood how popularity could be assigned to best dressed, this transition gave me so much to explore for my own authenticity. It was the first lens I had for freedom of expression as it relates to clothing.
When my brother went to college, the door to thrifting opened. Vintage created a safe space for me to explore fashion not assigned to my gendered section at the major department stores I had access to as a kid. All of a sudden I had shapes and fits from trends spanning a hundred years ago.
This orientation to vintage lead me to Coco + Mischa (RIP) in my early 20s as I began freelancing. Melissa offered me a place to cultivate autonomy with my art in her vintage and slow-fashion space. It allowed me to see the tethers between the conscious curation of garments, regardless of it was old or new.
I questioned so many of the brands we brought into the shop — unknowing that my access to these garments would completely alter the way I came to understand fashion altogether. I learned about the difference in quality and the impact that textile production has on the environment. I learned about child labor and the very small percentage of production that was paying its staff livable wages.
There’s something that the vintage and slow-fashion movement have in common — reciprocity. There’s an intentionality required when shopping slow. The process requires a budgeting of time and/or money to purchase that one thing. It allows me to allot patience in building a wardrobe I’m proud of.
I’ve found that when I buy the cheaper version of the piece I really want, the reality of that piece falls flat. Perhaps this is because I know somewhere along the supply chain someone is being exploited. Perhaps it’s because when I look at the tag and read the list of materials, I know what sits in the landfill long after I’ve passed on from this life. I also understand that this knowledge and shopping comes with a great deal of privilege.
I was not raised around these shopping practices and it’s something I’ve been working towards over the last 15 years. I’ve learned the skill of closing my eyes and touching a garment to understand its worth. I’ve learned what fabrics I like touching my body and what ones I don’t. So when I find that piece that my wardrobe is missing, I have to have it.
Because the way I feel in the chosen garment impacts the way I feel in my body.
As I orient back towards building out this booth space, I’m reminded of the reciprocity in finding an item, wearing it for some time, then relinquishing that piece in order to make space for something new to take its place. The art of styling reminds me to be open to letting go of what no longer feels resonant for who I am in this moment in time. There’s something so beautiful about the curation of vintage and slow-fashion because it reminds me to take just what I need.
I’m better understanding that my relationship with clothes is multifaceted. I’m reminded that the way I choose to dress changes as I navigate new obstacles. I’m reminded that dressing up allows me to feel more embodied to take on the world on any given day. I’m reminded that making clothes is inherently a huge passion of mine and that sustainability is at the core of my ethos in this production.
I’m reminded that seeing y’all in the clothes I make brings me far greater joy than most things in life.
With a body that continues to explore alongside the garments I wear and make,