Jewel of the Collection

This is the design I created to serve as the messenger for a proposed collection. My personal goal was to address several key elements of current couture with a new and unique look that could serve as a kind of signature.

Although it was submitted in the larger doll size for the Project Dollway competition, this photo is in sixth scale, my preferred size.

Again and again on the runways I was seeing a young and leggy look with black tights, and it's something I've always loved. The beret was another key piece this season, one I love to interpret in velveteen. Overlay netting had been used effectively, and I was anxious to work that intriguing look into the collection. Another key look I was drawn to this season was the strapless empire.

Mostly what I worked from was a mood, a feeling. I wanted something that took away the clear line between day and night; I wanted to create a dreamlike look, theatrical without being at all silly, and very luxurious, maybe a little haunting, like the models are heroines of a novel. I wanted something of a rumaging-through-the-costume-trunk feel, but at a couture level.

When designing, first I develop the basic ideas that will define the collection. I knew my fabrics would be essential to creating the posh Bohemian look, and as I looked for fabrics realized how powerful certain muted but still intense jewel tones could be in carrying this out against the black.

The net overlay on the skirt worked out really well for me, and I love the look. What's interesting about the black netting here is its effect on the underlying satin. It emphasizes the folds of the skirt in a very cool way (see photo). Another thing I liked was the way black netting gave a rich dimension to the skirt's color. The peacock taffeta for the bodice actually has fine black threads running through it, so the black netting on the skirt helped the two jewel-toned fabrics click with each other.

What took the longest was probably the fabric selection. But it's something I really enjoy. That, and also feeling like I wanted to design the entire collection on the spot. I decided that even if I got eliminated (which, as always, was entirely possible), I would go ahead and do a collection based on this dress anyway, for my own enjoyment.

For the contest submission, I included an original black and gold handbag. This is really the Golden Age of the handbag, so I felt I should include a really confident-looking one.

Years ago, I heard a phrase that really stuck with me, an idea that could be applied to any number of art projects. The term is "Final Presence", and I wish I knew who coined it.

It's what I try for in an ensemble; I don't always perfectly achieve it, but sometimes I do. Something greater than the sum of its parts, something that looks meant to be.

Mattel's "Silken Flame" for the old Barbie doll had that quality. Everything clicked together in a perfect way, the red velveteen against the white satin, with just the perfect amount of gold metallic.

Designs like that have stayed with me through the decades.

Precarious

Viewers may not realize just how demanding Project Dollway was for us contestants. Arguably our world is a small one, all this fuss a mere doll-size tempest in a teapot… and of course I can’t speak for the others, but my sense is, even for designers who regularly compete and are in the public eye, it must have been a hard climb.

Overnight I went from happily making doll outfits and accessories, to dedicating months to participating in a high-profile online competition.

From the very beginning, I knew I would need to develop a thoughtful approach, and stick to it.

While we can’t control what happens in the World Out There, we can certainly control our own actions and reactions. Not only can, but should.

It’s always a good idea to know why you’re doing something, to be clear about it. That’s why I came up with a plan, a ten-item mission statement when it all began.

By the way, the photo here is one I took at a remarkable Las Vegas display in the Caesar’s shopping area.

Although I snapped the photo in 2004, and the gown itself is no longer the height of fashion, I really love the image of the precarious figure. Not only is the full-size mannequin reduced to looking small and doll-like, but in an appealing way it manages to sum up certain ideas I have about the last year of my life as a designer.

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It was really great being chosen to participate, and I hope everyone realizes I do appreciate it. We twelve (thirteen, in fact) should all be very pleased at being chosen in the first place… all of us. Of those who weren't chosen, several would have to content themselves with participating in the online at-home version of the contest... I'm sure it was fun for them, but the challenge requirements weren't anywhere near as demanding. And so, in being chosen out of over two hundred hopefuls, a handful of us beat the odds.

Anything beyond being chosen to compete, I chose to see as a kind of bonus. As I prepared for the task before me, I began to think instead about what I could accomplish within the context of the competition… no matter what happened along the way.

There was no way I could know what was happening behind closed doors in the minds of some judges I didn’t know, carrying out an evaluation process that was only partly clear, and whose artistic qualifications were nearly unknown to me. I would be agreeing to be publicly judged by these people no matter how I might come to feel about their competence, professionalism, or knowledge of design. There was always the very real possibility I’d be eliminated, even though I’m an experienced professional designer. That was possible from the very first challenge.

Given that so much was out of my control, how could I come out of this situation with an outcome I wanted? Only the most foolish of dreamers would equate knowing they’re a good designer with knowing they’ll win.

There are many ways to approach a contest like this. Although I wanted to stay in the contest as long as possible, I decided I needed to set some goals, and stay true to my own path.

And so, to insure I would succeed on my own terms no matter what, these were the goals and unbreakable rules I set for myself during Project Dollway:

1. To promote (by example) a specific option for collectors: original high fashion for dolls, designed in the same way as designers create real-world collections for the runway. This approach could help put doll design at the top of the fashion food chain instead of the middle.

2. To carefully analyze each challenge word for word and create what I’m asked to as closely as possible (while not actually possessing a crystal ball).

3. To create pieces that bear the stamp of my style… To Thine Own Self Be True, but within the challenge limits.

4. To always use only my own absolutely original pattern drafts, and then make finished patterns to archive my designs.

5. To reflect the mood of the very latest trends in fashion, but never copy or modify the work of another designer, real-world or doll-world, in the creation of an outfit.

6. To always be mindful of the limitations of manufacturing, to the best of my understanding from what I’d seen of their products. This means following Ted’s ongoing admonition to “keep it simple”. No overly elaborate construction, no obscure, vintage, or overly-expensive fabrics.

7. To take risks with each challenge, and bring something new into the world. If/when the time for elimination comes, I would prefer it not come due to timidity or undue compromise.

8. To not critique, discuss, or question in any way the entries of my fellow designers.

9. To the best of my ability, make sure my work is correctly presented to, and understood by, the public.

10. To keep a sense of perspective.


Looking back, I still respectfully submit that the contest would have had more dignity and meaning if it hadn’t relied on so closely emulating the television show.

The producers of this contest worked very hard, and with Project Dollway gave us all something new and enjoyable, and despite my take on it, I do want to thank them. We participated willingly. Any thoughts I have on how it might have been should not be taken personally. The project took an incredible amount of work to arrange and pull off, and nothing like it had ever been done before. My thanks go to all who worked on it.

My thoughts here about how it was run are idealistic, but still worth posting. First of all, having eliminations only makes logical sense if the challenges are clearly and steadily increasing in difficulty. But if anything, in this contest the harder (IE less clear) challenges came in the beginning. Regardless, it was purely the luck of the draw whether the sequence of challenges would favor any given designer’s strengths, and for purely random reasons a strong designer might well falter early on before having a chance to shine. The elimination of contestants deprived both contestant and viewer of the opportunity to see each designer tackle the full range of challenges.

It would not have been unreasonable for all twelve of us to have competed in all the challenges, then the top three point-earners would each create a collection, from which the single winner would be chosen. That would have been very fair and doable, and more in line with the stated purpose of the contest, which was to showcase the work of top doll designers and search for an overall favorite.

Instead, there was probably a kind of fear that the contest wouldn’t be dramatic or interesting enough without being more like Project Runway. I do understand this thought process. It would be a brave producer of either television or an online contest who took a chance that watching talented designers at work would be interesting enough.

I consider it a major malaise of our time that we need tearful departures, recriminations, bickering, and train wrecks to hold our interest.

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Viewers and readers, as of this writing, still await the outcome of the competition. Naturally I don’t want to give anything away. Outcome aside, as we’re nearing the end it seemed a good time to share these thoughts from behind the scenes. And it can’t be said often enough, I have the highest regard for all my fellow contestants not only for their obvious talent, but because it was never, ever easy.

It was an exciting, precarious year. Having a personal game plan was my safety net.

A Stitch in Time

A child of the times, sewing was an important part of my life from the time I was quite young.

In my mind's eye it's evening, and my mother is in front of her sturdy Kenmore. She is sewing one of the many dresses she would create for me, most of which I can still remember.

Other girls at school had dresses their mothers made, as well, because it was the late 1950s and sewing was still the norm. It’s possible that more well-to-do families didn’t bother with sewing, but as I later figured out, we were far from that category. My mother did a nicer job on her homemade clothes than other moms did, or at least that was my belief. My dresses had little touches like embroidery on the white collars.

Now it is daytime, and I am sitting cross-legged in the living room with my mother next to me; she is showing me how to thread a needle and take stitches. For this first project, I am about to make a clutch purse for my beloved ponytail Barbie doll. She has cut a rectangle of fabric, folded it in half, and showed me where to sew along the two sides, wrong side out. But why take all those little stitches when I could just take a couple of giant ones? Pretty clever, huh? The flaw in that logic soon becomes very clear, however, so I will need to start again.

For several years, I made mostly Barbie dresses. Much of the sewing was by hand, but one glorious Christmas I got a hand-crank Singer chain-stitch children’s sewing machine. I was beyond excited; I was thrilled to pieces. I also got a wonderful pink and gold sewing basket that I still use to this day. Eventually Mama let me use her big Kenmore, too, and that was a different kind of thrill.

In the 1960s here in California we had an intermediate school for grades seven and eight. The excitement of leaving grade school for this bustling new world was overwhelming, such strange new things as going from one classroom to another, and having lockers for the first time. There were vending machines with snacks in them, and organized sports, and cheerleaders who intimidated me with their poise. There was the sense that the teenage life I'd vividly imagined while watching American Bandstand was just around the corner.

Most unbelievable of all, the school had sewing classes.

It's a new school year, and now I am walking into the sewing room for the first time, seeing all the Singer machines lined up for us to use. We sit down to unthreaded machines and begin to practice sewing lines and circles on paper, a roomful of punching sounds filling the air. There is a distinctive scent of old metal as the motors run. I can't believe my good fortune.

My mother and father were both artistically gifted, and helped my sister and me pursue arts and crafts from the time we were toddlers. My glamorous but still domestic paternal grandmother taught me how to crochet, and always gave me all her old Vogue magazines. The world of high fashion and glamour came to me through magazines and old movies.

Cooking and sewing and the needle arts came under the broad category of Home Economics, a dignified and sincere focus of women at the time. The war was over, and everyone went home to enjoy the American dream they had earned. I had a Better Homes and Gardens Junior Cookbook. My bedroom was Wedgewood blue and white. My mother cooked our meals for us every night, and I drew my own paper dolls almost every day.

Whenever my mother wanted to do a new sewing project, we walked downtown to J.C. Penney to the fabric department. The little shopping center had just that one department store and not much else: a store called Grants with a hot dog counter; Chick's Donuts; a supermarket; a Chinese restaurant, and a Woolworth's. In small towns today when they don’t have the economy to justify renovation, you can occasionally still find this old style department store: the creaky stairs, the old bin-style display tables, the sound of chimes as one department calls another. The few left are fast disappearing.

Closing my eyes again, now I am sitting up on one of those tall stools at the pattern book counter, my feet not reaching the ground. A large black-and-white framed photograph of J.C. Penney himself regards us sternly from near the elevators. Together, Mama and I are looking through enormous pattern books. This is somehow magic, a suspension of time: one style after another, page after page, the immersion absolute.

From the first time I saw patterns, I adored them. I wanted to look at them, own them, dream over them. Patterns were a world of infinite possibilities. I loved the graphics, but also the whole idea that you could make anything if you just had a pattern, some fabric, and a great idea.

That the world was changing was obvious by the time I was in high school. My sister, three years my junior, took Metal Shop instead of "Home Ec" classes. And for the first time, boys could take a class if they wanted to learn to cook.

Looking back, I'm a teenager in Spanish class on a very warm spring day. Miss Galindo is reading to us from our textbook and everyone is getting sleepy. Suddenly a rubbery disc-shaped object comes flying in through the wide-slatted Venetian blinds, landing on the floor near her feet. Miss Galindo is appalled and tells us not to touch it. Within moments everyone is laughing and chattering as closer examination reveals it to be a pancake, apparently special delivery from the merry band of pranksters in the Bachelor Living cooking class.

Sewing was always the way I could have cute, fun clothes during high school without having much money. With a little sleight of hand I could put together a new A-line miniskirt for myself in an evening. During my high school years my mother worked at Macy’s in the drapery and decorating department, and brought home a lot of really great decorating fabrics for us to use for clothes. Decades later, I’m still fond of using these kinds of fabrics. My high-concept design tour-de-force was in my senior year when I got myself a Butterick pattern and made myself slim, bibbed overalls out of pale pink moire taffeta.

It was always fun putting together Halloween costumes, doll clothes, doll rooms, or making winter scarves. These things were just a natural part of my life, and I never questioned any of it. All the women in my family did these things in one form or another. In high school my best friend and I did sewing and crochet projects all the time, on into college and beyond.

Today, a mom will go online to order a poodle skirt for her daughter’s 1950s school dance, as a friend of mine recently did. Barbie doll clothes are made of polyester and Velcro, not miniature works of couture.

Crafts and sewing aren’t gone, but they have been streamlined. It’s true that craft stores like Michael’s are always busy, and I see a lot of women buying things like artificial flowers and candlemaking kits. You can buy pre-made aprons and squeeze tubes of liquid embroidery. But there’s a yarn department, and you can still buy embroidery thread, I’m glad to say. And I love things like iron-on interfacing.

She's been gone for years, but now it's autumn, and I'm in my grandmother's living room. She deftly works a miniscule metal hook as she converses, crocheting tiny medallions for a large lace tablecloth she would never finish. In thinking about those boxes of little off-white hexagons years later, I would finally understand the meaning of process, that the finished product was only half of the story.

As a child I was impressed when I watched her work, but it also seemed so incredibly, painfully Victorian. But in turn, a young person today would feel the same way if they saw me sewing beads onto a homemade evening purse or a doll jacket. Curious, admiring, but secretly a little bemused.

Decades have slipped by. Everything is different now: schools, classes, stores, sewing projects, fashions. My mother has been gone for over ten years. But I still have some of those dresses she made me, and I now have her Kenmore. Her gifts to me when I graduated high school were a typewriter and a sewing machine. She knew how excited I was to begin my apparel design studies in college.

Around that same time, that younger version of me once made—and wore—a pair of rose burgundy shorts I'd put together from some amazing upholstery velvet. I wore them with matching tights and turtleneck, and sleek knee-high boots. Sewing made possible the latest fashions on very little money, but it was more than that.

With gratitude, I realized I was becoming a designer.


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