atelier reverie larke
the fantasy world of haute couture meets the sixth scale fashion doll
Monday, June 25, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
melissa windham
Your work was beautiful, and you inspired so many people. God have mercy on your soul and help you find peace.
Monday, August 15, 2011
less is more, more often lately than not
The other day I stood in my local Michaels in the candlemaking aisle, not for the first time, pondering the supplies I would need to begin making some large, fancy candles for my home. I had fond memories of making candles in school many years ago, and at all once it just seemed like such a fun thing to do. Gazing at the blocks of wax, packages of wick, scents, tints, molds, mold releases...
And suddenly I remembered what I already knew: I have enough hobbies already. Enough. No more room, no more time for this when I already know what I really love to do.
Narrowing down.
When I was younger, it was all about MORE. More stuff, more activities, what more could I take on, the gathering of options in an endless life adventure. Grow my own herbs, speak a half dozen languages, learn Irish dance, sing the Hallelujah Chorus... the grand and limitless adventure of life.
While I'm not sealing off all such doors forever, as I approach age 60 its best that I focus most of my energy on certain things: my home and friends, and my community and spiritual pursuits, and my fiction writing and my doll designs, and my online groups, and my artwork and and reading and gardening. This is more than enough, and as it is, I'll never have the time to finish everything that interests me in these areas.
It can, truth be known, be a bit sad to realize we can't do everything in our overstuffed bag of dreams. But it's good to remind ourselves that more often than not, less really is more-- that is, fewer scattered interests make it more feasible for us to actually reach some cherished goals. Then we can have a different kind of joy-- the joy of excellence of accomplishment that only comes from focusing our energies like a laser beam.
It makes no sense for me to take on a big new hobby or project, particularly when it takes up time, space, and money I need for my more cherished pursuits. We live finite lives. New pursuits can be a kind of self-sabotage. It makes no sense for me to learn to, say, throw pots when I have a workshop full of fabric for doll designs just waiting to come to life... my real passion. It's crazy to spend hours fussing with my vintage clothing collection when I have a book nearly finished. I can't be the next J. K. Rowling if I get bogged down trying to be Martha Stewart.
Sure, it's fun to occasionally play at the many things that interest us. I might still indulge in a Learn to Speak Japanese CD one rainy morning, or play around with some yarn and a crochet hook for a relaxing hour in front of the television. But more and more often, I'm learning just what areas should get most of my efforts... those pursuits that mean the most in the Big Picture.
Choices. Funneling down. Simplifying. Focusing.
Maybe it's an age thing.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Monday, May 02, 2011
new dress form - excitement in the atelier
Details tomorrow on my trip to Baldwin Park with J. to buy dress forms. A longtime dream come true-- a professional dress form for my studio!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Saturday, April 02, 2011
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Friday, July 02, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
hats
Years ago when I did far more costuming than I now do, I would loved having a source like this site: the Village Hat Shop. I found it when looking for pith helmets while watching Passage to India. One thing leads to another, you know.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Bradbury Building
As I write this, I live roughly two hours from Los Angeles. I've worked on commercial motion picture projects in the L.A. area many times. Visited that area on vacations. Passed through on road trips. Somehow I've never managed to see the Bradbury Building for myself, but it always felt like I could, at any time.
* * *
I'm writing this purely from memory, now, a love letter to a beautiful and special place that has captured the imaginations of film directors, production designers, and writers for decades.
Ornate iron railings, walkways, balconies, labyrinthine floors, and somehow curious open design. The past dreaming of the future.
I recall it as a location for Outer Limits episodes, and various other television adventures requiring its unique atmopshere.
Perhaps its most famous appearance of all was in Ridley Scott's game-changing science fiction masterwork, Blade Runner, as the location of the hapless J.F. Sebastien's toy and doll-automata-filled apartment.
Seen through more recent eyes, it occurs to me the feel is what people are now calling steampunk. You would probably choose to spray everything down with water, shooting in the early morning hours. If you're using 35mm film, you could employ the laborious but effective bleach bypass process during post production to impart a steely and mysterious indigo blue.
As a potential location, it looms large in my cinematic imagination. From the very first time the idea crossed my mind even briefly, I've wondered from time to time what it might be like to direct a film there, create a project around it.
This morning, the Bradbury Building came to mind unexpectedly when I gave myself a thought-experiment to find a unique location for a couture fashion show. Once that particular mental lightbulb came on, the project designed itself. Before I'd taken the last sips of my first cup of coffee, I'd fully envisioned it. Who needs a runway?
First, there would be music: haunting, evocative in and of itself, but also offering accoustical description of the space to be revealed.
Instead of models coming down an illuminated runway, this couture show would feature a series of scenes, illuminated in turn, models doll-like and waiting on the several floors' various balconies and walkways. The concept is part movie still, part store window, part Cornell assemblage, and pure poetry.
* * *
This is a brief excerpt from the lovely website of USC Geography:
The Bradbury Building, built in 1893, is one of Southern California's most remarkable architectural achievements. Its plan was commissioned by real estate and mining entrepreneur Louis L. Bradbury who decided to build it just a few blocks from his home on fashionable Bunker Hill and not far from the base of Angels Flight. After rejecting a plan submitted by Sumner P. Hunt, Bradbury approached junior draftsman George Wyman. Wyman is said to have accepted the commission after consulting a ouija board. Wyman was influenced by Edward Bellamy's 1887 book that described a utopian civilization in the year 2000. The typical office building was described as being a "vast hall of light received not alone by the windows, but from a dome overhead." The interior of the court is flooded with natural light. In the true spirit of Los Angeles, it has been featured in many movies, from DOA in 1946 to Blade Runner in 1982.
Why has it taken me this long to check on the details? Why have I never seen this location for myself? My theory around this has to do with forestalling the end of the dream and the beginning of reality: for instance, I just learned there is a Subway sandwich place on the building's main floor, not exactly consistent with my fantasies. But there's something else, too, at work here. We save certain things as an exercise in immortality. There will always be more time, there will always be a chance. Considering this: the longer I go between phone calls to my father, the longer he'll be around, a finger on the pause button.
Knowing I will someday see the Bradbury Building for myself gives me a reassuring sense of endless time. I've driven past it on countless occasions. For now, it is vivid in my mind, a done deal, a set of ideas, an evocation, a sense of possibility and potential and future memories that exist deep within my aesthetic psyche.
Having envisioned the space I can even see the couture itself. Magical and haunting, heroines of great dreams and stories half-remembered upon awakening. A mashup of dreams of a suburban girl growing up in the late fifties and early sixties. A subject for another day.
Best regards,
* * *
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Where I would hold a couture runway event
Karl Lagerfeld, in my opinion, came up with the ne plus ultra of idiosyncratic and stunning fashion show locations when in 2007 created a collection and staged it along the Great Wall of China. That would be pretty hard to top for sheer drama.
And now, It's been done.
My first choice would be the central fountained courtyard area of Francis Ford Coppola's Rutherford winery property, just outside the main building, beginning in late afternoon, through twilight, and on into the night. More about that later.
Other ideas include my old high school gymnasium. Everyone who knocked my schoolbooks out of my skinny arms or rolled their eyes at my own original-design shell-pink moire-taffeta overalls would be courier-delivered a gold-engraved linen invitation and a limo at their door.
Kidding. (Mostly).
Ohhh, the Paramount Theater in Oakland is art deco splendor at its best... but I wonder if it wouldn't outshine any mere clothing. Or maybe it could work, if the fashions were strong enough.
The gardens of Ninfa in Italy- fabulous, mythical.
The British Museum? Louvre?
Somewhere in Sedona...
A factory floor? Bowling alley?
Maybe a lobby of a Silicon Valley company-- some of those are just terrific with huge austere spaces just waiting for a little glamour.
* * *
With thanks to Mike over at Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society for this idea, I'd like to propose a Song of the Day suitable for a runway:
Human, by The Killers
(Day and Age)
Respectfully submitted,
bg
* * *
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Job of a Critic, Part 1
In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations; the new needs friends.
Anton Ego, "Ratatouille" (2007)
Brad Bird
Jan Pinkava
Jim Capobianco
Monday, August 04, 2008
Dare to be Fabulous: the Life of a Fictional Muse
Being young, thin, rich, brilliant, and glamorous hasn’t gone to her head because I haven’t let it.
Too bad I can’t so easily wield similar transformational power over my own life… but I’m getting ahead of myself.
As a fashion designer, it’s good to have a muse. As a novelist, it’s good to have a main character.
Several years ago I turned my sixth-scale, glamorous fashion doll muse into a fictional story character… or maybe I turned my novel-in-progress’ character into a fashion doll? I'm not sure which way it happened, but never mind; what’s interesting is the vividness of this persona in my imagination, and her role in my creative life.
Even more personally intriguing are the ways she reflects parts of myself (as so many muses—and main characters—do, if we’re truly honest), yet the ways she is different than I am, and any possible relevance this has to my so-called Real Life. Could I be more like her? Should I be more like her? What about her do I envy and admire? Does her imagined life contain any cautionary anecdotes?
Would it ever be worth my asking in a challenging situation: What would Reverie Larke do… and what would she wear while doing it?
* * *
A few years ago, I began writing an elaborate work of fiction, escapist fun yet also serious. This was roughly around the time I was first taking fashion doll couture seriously, but at that time the two activities were separate.
There are few things quite as fun as creating a character.
The man who recently repainted my deck has a bumper sticker on his truck: The older I get, the better I was. Too true! Although I'd never want to go back again, certain aspects of youth have grown better with time. Making my novel’s main character in her mid-thirties was an appealing choice, a no-brainer for me as a fiftysomething dreamer. And one of the story’s themes is that being rich doesn’t equate with being evil, although it does have its own set of challenges. As the old joke goes, it’s tough having a personal crisis, but less tough if you’re going through it in the South of France. Considering all these things it's small wonder that I made Ms. Larke in her mid-thirties, and bestowed on her an enormous and unexpected inheritance while I was at it.
Because she is a travel writer, with a stroke of my virtual pen she lives in New York City, all the better for wearing basic black and dropping by to see her editor. Here in my Real Life San Diego, by way of contrast, there is very little hustle, let alone bustle. It would be a lot harder for me to present Reverie as a so-called serious businessperson if I had her living in a beach city embellished with palm trees, where everyone is either at a Pilates class, or sipping on a fruit smoothie while getting a pedicure. So Manhattan it was. And since the cost was only time and research, off we flew (in a private jet, of course) to many exotic points beyond, when her adventures really began.
Doll-wise, it’s great fun having my muse be a wealthy, sophisticated young New Yorker who never changes her dress size and always—always looks fabulous and intriguing. She can have a thousand gowns, suits, coats, and shoes, all of the world’s finest fabrics, in any imaginable style. This combination of looks, money, persona, and residence makes her the sort of woman Hermes designs handbags for, those iconic bags that eventually end up with waiting lists even though they retail for as much as a small family car.
The clothes, the handbags, the custom-made luggage… the multiple homes, the endless boxes of outrageous jewelry, the room-size closet filled with the latest in glorious runway fashions… If I don’t insist on these things belonging to me personally at 1:1 scale, it’s all very attainable.
And it’s not just the clothes, either. In sixth scale, as in novels, endless bright and dark dreams are waiting to come true.
It’s obvious this is part of why we read, or write, or dream through fashion dolls. We give ourselves over to the magic, suspend our disbelief, touch our most luxurious dreams, and embrace the unknown. We can play endlessly with impossible options, none the worse—and possibly enriched—by our elaborate flights of fancy.
Yes, I enjoy the idea that Reverie Larke still works hard at her chosen profession, even when her significant wealth would make this unnecessary. Whether it’s the clothes or the intrigue, I love putting myself in her situation. Her lapses and mistakes seem oddly familiar, even though the scenarios themselves are not.
Guilt free, I can put her in danger… and put her in couture while I’m at it.
What I’ve probably known all along is my muse, my heroine, really does hold up a mirror... and not just while primping for opening night at the Met. Through her, I’ve exaggerated some of my imagined attributes and several flaws (best left unsaid), and I’ve placed her where I probably will never be (a palatial Art Deco townhouse). I sit at my computer in worn jeans and a baggy sweater, writing about spy gadgets and Prada shoes.
If Reverie Larke were real, she might actually envy me my calico cat, my devoted husband, and something that approaches wisdom of my years. She might even envy me my dreams, or at the very least, my fashion dolls.
Do I wish I were her? Well, I guess I don’t really want to be kidnapped by a sociopath, get exploited by tabloids, or have perplexing memory gaps.
If I want some of her luxury, I can remind myself to squeeze fresh orange juice and drink it from a champagne glass while listening to Vivaldi instead of grabbing a Diet Pepsi and watching another Law and Order rerun. And instead of doing another load of laundry, I can (finally) write the last few chapters of my heroine’s adventures and lose myself in them, or get to work pulling out fabrics for my next sixth-scale collection.
Life and art: Viva la difference; viva la fantaisie.
Labels: Design theory, Fiction
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Why I Dream in Sixth Scale
The year is 1961, and the first Barbie doll that comes into my home belongs to my mother. It is a blonde ponytail, and Mama has dressed her in Sheath Sensation, that terrific red cotton dress with the gold buttons, white straw hat, white wrist gloves, and black open-toe heels. The doll stood on her dresser in front of a tray of fragrance bottles, looking like she’d stepped out of VOGUE. I stared at it every day.
Another year or two of my childhood has passed, and I now have my own brunette bubble cut Barbie doll. In a witty twist, my mother has given me the brunette doll, and my raven-haired sister the blonde version. I’m hard at work making clothes (or is it ‘hard at play’? With dolls it’s the same thing). At first my skills are a little shaky, but with practice the whole thing starts to feel somehow right.
Those early Barbie doll Made in Japan outfits blew me away with their dressmaker detailing. I’m not the first to say this, but these were not doll clothes: they were miniature couture. It set the standard in my imagination, a benchmark. Every time a new pattern came out to make my own fashions, I was thrilled. As a ten year old on a toy sewing machine I couldn’t approach that level of quality and detail, but I certainly tried.
One of my favorite recurring childhood dreams was of finding amazing doll clothes. I still have such dreams. In the most recent of these, about a month ago, I dreamt some unnamed person willed a remote country house to me, and in the supposedly empty house I found fabulous displays of the most amazing doll fashions in clear boxes. By this time, I’d figured out it was a dream, and was excitedly committing what I was seeing to memory so I could record it in my journal when I woke up.
From the very start, it always felt like the perfect size for me. My sister and I could spread out in the living room and create entire rooms: shoe box beds, cardboard art galleries with magazine cutouts or our own artwork, beauty salons with egg carton cups as hood hair dryers, fashion shows on makeshift runways. I could make a dress on the barest scrap of leftover fabric.
With this scale, you could hold the doll in your hand, a precious object, and it was yours.
Later I would learn to create my own designs, and this was a tremendous thrill. After decades of this, I think I can draft a Barbie size pattern freehand in my sleep. I liked—and still like—that a complete pattern for this doll can be drafted on a sheet of typing paper, even on a tiny airline table.
A row of sixth scale girls looks unobtrusive, and at home, on a bookshelf. One of them can travel with me with ease for unique photo-ops.
Years later, there is yet another dimension to my appreciation. At this scale, a doll lover can reasonably have dozens, or hundreds, in their collection. Like countless other enthusiasts, I have a closet full, some just waiting for outfits and transformations, and others waiting for their turn to be on display.
Because they are not large, I feel a bit freer with them: a haircut here, a crazy outfit there.
Of course the sixth-scale (playscale) shoes aren’t nearly as cool and detailed as those of the big gals. Sleeves are harder to set in. Fabric scale is more of an issue. Linings can add too much thickness. All but the tiniest beads and buttons look wrong. Sometimes when I see those big, gorgeous dolls, I do have a wave of interest, but in the end my heart goes back to a foot-tall icon in a red sheath, and the countless other chic and glamorous vixens who have followed in her tiny footsteps.
Maybe it’s as much nostalgia as aesthetics, but when sixth scale is done right, for me there is nothing quite as magical.
* * *
Labels: Design theory, Nostalgia
Friday, February 29, 2008
Leaping into an Uncommon Year
Thank you for visiting, and please feel free to come by again.
b
Labels: Policy and memos
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
First notes about Fall / Winter 08
Yes, these clothes are a little bit unusual for doll clothes. No, it's not an accident; I design them like I'm doing real runway clothing and not so-called doll clothes.
Yes, I sometimes design and enjoy a bit more conventionally glamorous and pretty clothes. No, for this particular collection I wasn’t trying to design clothes merely to be traditionally pretty, as such.
Yes, I drew upon my artistic and theatrical sensibilities with this collection… the goal was designing striking, mysterious, haunting couture-type fashions that tell a story and describe a set of emotions, memories, and aesthetics. No, these aren’t for everyone and they’re not meant to be.
Yes, I am truly happy with them. No, these particular designs will not be for sale, although I may eventually create some related pieces in ultra-limited editions.
Yes, doll fashions can be as intriguing as human fashions, and I want to help make that happen. No, I probably won't sell doll fashions in the immediate future because I want to get back to writing for a while.
Yes, I have specific plans for more doll couture, and will be happily attending the International Fashion Doll Convention this July in Las Vegas. No, I certainly don’t mind if people contact me. Yes, all of my contact information is on my main website. No, it’s not a sales site.
Yes, I believe doll fashion can be as original, exciting, and varied as true haute couture when doll fashion designers take it seriously. What a grand time we could have...
Thank you for stopping by.
* * *
P.S. Clicking on "View my complete profile", on the menu to the right, brings up links to my website, and also my email address.
Labels: Design theory, Trends
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Jewel of the Collection
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.
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.
Designs like that have stayed with me through the decades.
Labels: Design theory, Project Dollway, Trends
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Precarious
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.
Labels: Project Dollway
Saturday, January 05, 2008
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.
* * *
Monday, December 31, 2007
To another New Year
What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?
The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.
We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.
We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings...
We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead.
We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of a year.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Labels: Holidays
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Power of the Collection
More often than not, I'm the first to awaken in my household. I love the quiet time alone while it’s still dark out. With a cup of steaming coffee in my Cafe du Monde mug, I check my calendar, read my email, and come up with a To-Do list for the day.
Then, it’s time to look at fashion. Creativity coach Julia Cameron calls this kind of thing “filling the well”.
Since I don’t live in New York or Paris or Milan, or dress in anything resembling couture, a big part of how I enjoy the world of fashion is to view the couture and RTW collections online and in glossy magazines.
Now more than ever, since Project Dollway, I think of myself as a designer who happens to be working in sixth scale.
When I create doll fashion I never copy or adapt the designs of others, but I do enjoy the way the art form of fashion collectively explores an array of ideas and directions at any given time. Seeing the work of other designers (both well-known and obscure) is entertaining, educational, and inspirational. I believe it helps us find our way to our own personal visions.
Once I began really studying high fashion, and not just doll fashion or that of everyday people, it changed my vision of doll fashion—and its potential—forever. I do realize this isn’t the way most doll collectors look at doll fashion, for various reasons.
Since a picture is worth at least a thousand words (and after all, fashion is supposed to be art and not literature), I’ve devised a simple exercise.
This little exercise will have more impact on those who don't spend much time around couture but instead spend more time around doll fashion. You hard-core Fashionistas, on the other hand, probably already get the message. Either way, I think it’s worthwhile.
The more unusual, dramatic, or unexpected someone’s design ideas are, the more important it becomes to present those ideas as fully as possible. This is an idea that’s more familiar in the world of science: the more unusual the claim, the greater the burden of proof.
To help me make my point, I’ve shamelessly pulled an image off of Style.com. Style.com is my favorite Go-To site for all the couture and RTW seasonal collections. Any of several collections could have worked here to illustrate my ideas.
What you’re viewing (see photo above) is an ensemble from the Fall 2007 Ready-to-Wear collection designed by Nicholas Ghesquière for the house of Balenciaga.
Not something you see every day, is it? So, what was the designer thinking about; what ideas was he exploring? Viewing a single outfit, it’s not always easy to say.
All alone or in the wrong company swims an awkward and unhappy swan.
With such an outfit as this one, even if the designer satisfied the requirements of a contest challenge ‘on paper’, he might well have been eliminated from a doll fashion competition for such an offbeat offering.
Imagine this outfit next to, say, a series of clean and simple dresses, or everyday street-wear. Hmm.
But wait; there’s more… an entire runway show, in fact. Now, to put the duckling where it belongs, please look at the entire slideshow, and let it sink in. Balenciaga, Fall 2007 Ready-to-Wear. It can be easily viewed at the Style.com website.
Aha.
Even if it’s not to your taste, a well-designed innovative collection can be surprisingly fresh and powerful. You might still decide you don’t personally care for an outfit after seeing it as part of a collection… fair enough. But personal taste aside, it becomes much harder to dismiss it (or diss it) as a failed design.
It’s the nature of fashion, as other art forms, to change, and in changing further define itself.
Careful observation of a well-conceived collection reveals a point of view, a set of ideas, a story.
You may or may not like an outfit even after seeing the whole collection, but at least after learning more about it, your thought process changes: How well did the designer execute what they seemed to be saying? Is it interesting, is it appealing? Does it somehow still satisfy basic aesthetics, but perhaps in a new way? What was their story?
The colors, cultural and historical references, textures, silhouettes, details, wit, and everything else that might be explored in a high fashion collection is there for us to see. When it works, it can be grasped without necessarily being understood or articulated verbally.
Not all innovative ideas succeed... whatever that means. But when they do, they’re often the most memorable designs of all.
Labels: Design theory, Project Dollway, Trends
Thursday, November 15, 2007
The Ink Dark Moon
Where are you hurrying to? You will see the same moon tonight wherever you go.
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Ono no Komachi
Heian era poet, Japan
AD 850
(trans. by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani)
Labels: Design theory
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Beyond the Ordinary
Participating in a doll fashion contest is the perfect opportunity to examine one's outlook on art, design, and fashion.
The 1:1 world of couture directly serves only a few thousand people worldwide, but it exists to drive the dream machine.
How could things be in our little world?
A fashion doll doesn't always have to look sexy. Sometimes she can look like a work of art.
A fashion doll doesn't have to grocery shop or run out to the post office.
A fashion doll can inspire and be memorable.
It might sound like a paradox, but I'd be thrilled if doll fashion could be both lot more serious,
Labels: Design theory, Project Dollway
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Little Black Dress: my sketch and brief notes
Labels: Design theory, Project Dollway
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Silhouettes in Black, continued
On my way to creating a little black dress for a doll design challenge, I made a brief mental stop at a Barbiedoll ensemble I designed seven or eight years ago.
In those days I paid only passing attention to the world of couture when thinking about doll design. Instead, I mostly ruminated on certain long-standing personal design themes, more focused on the world of doll clothing than taking any inspiration from the spirit of runway fashion and the latest collections.
There's nothing really wrong with that, of course-- you could make the argument it would serve someone better in this competition. But it's a design approach that no longer gives me a lot of satisfaction.
This ensemble is called Brunch at the Del, named for the famous old Hotel Del Coronado here in San Diego. If the Del could talk, it would rattle off many dishy stories of the rich and infamous. Much of Billy Wilder's Some Like it Hot was filmed there (Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon, et al). I didn't design it to be specifically vintage, but the outfit still has that feel, in a doll-ish sort of way.
It's a fun outfit, but a similar look would not have been a good choice for the contest I was in. The color being included within the dress itself, especially to that degree, means it wouldn't fit the criteria, having been cautioned by the head office against making that choice... and rightly so. And while I still like the ensemble, it is almost too Barbie-esque and somehow familiar, even though it was a completely original design. That kind of look is admittedly a good fit with the doll's image, but I was committed to designing a new and interesting silhouette from scratch.
What pleases me about this ensemble is how well yellow goes with black. I also feel a successful element was the band on the bodice that echoes the curved band on the hat.
The design phase is often what takes me the longest... not because I struggle for ideas, but because I struggle with having too many of them. I'm sure many of you are like this, too.
The world of fashion is as wide as it is deep, and I would visit many intriguing possibilities along the way to my design solution. In doll design, the journey is as interesting as the destination.
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Labels: Design theory, Project Dollway
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Hildegarde: joie de vivre with long gloves and a rose
The "Incomparable Hildegarde" was a beloved singer and pianist in the classic supper club tradition. She came from the Midwest to New York via Paris, and her trademarks were ultra long gloves nearly to her shoulders, and a long-stemmed rose. She even wore the gloves while playing the piano, a feat I found impressive as a child watching her on television.
Before leaving behind the topic of gloves, I wanted to include this fond postscript mention of Hildegarde, and post an old publicity still. Besides the gloves, not to mention her obvious exuberance, we can appreciate the silhouette of her classic 1950s gown.
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Labels: Vintage
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Ah, for the Glove of Fashion
An ultra-long black glove turns a graceful arm into a calligraphic brushstroke. It eroticizes the bare shoulder and evokes vintage glamour. In black, it gives unexpected edge and intrigue to any color palette.
A contrasting glove in unexpected color is a bit of theater, sleight of hand, whimsical chic and fashion bravado.
My sister and I had demure white wrist gloves for Easter every year in the late Fifties and early Sixties.
During those same years, my mother explained that a well-dressed woman would never appear on city streets without gloves and a hat. Even as she was explaining this to us, we all knew that was changing.
When I was a young teenager I was desperate for a pair of red leather racing gloves with cutouts. I never got them, maybe because I didn’t even have a driver’s license, and anyway, all the racing I would do was in my mind.
Gloves have come and gone from the fashion scene. I picked up some great day-gloves during the Eighties when women were interested in glamour again. You could put a chartreuse leather glove with a wool jacket of plum or teal without apology.
From decades of haunting thrift stores, I have a wonderful collection of vintage gloves, and I do mean vintage: ultra-long buttoned silk gloves from the Teens, thin chamois leather gloves from the Thirties, and soft cotton gloves from the Forties and Fifties.
The little space where we hide our car registration, outdated maps, and dusty tissues is still called a glove compartment.
Recently I saw a publicity portrait of the perennially glamorous Ann-Margret, and noticed she was wearing gloves. It reminded me that gloves are kind to us Women of a Certain Age, an artful concealment of our less than perfect hands.
Young women enjoy gloves as well, although the look is sometimes more tongue-in-cheek, worn with a vampy attitude that comes from the self-conscious appropriation of another generation’s fashions and sentiments. It’s the attitude a twenty year-old with multiple face piercings might have when wearing a Fifties prom dress. We see the wearer’s quotation marks around the item in question.
From what I remember, gloves started showing up on the Runway again in about 2003, a couple of years after design houses like Yves Saint Laurent began suggesting we should all wear Corsets as Fashion (presumably to acknowledge our Inner S&M Goddess). The black-laced look may or may not have made its way into our wardrobes, but the glove did start to become worthy of consideration. When taken in context with the corset, we’re reminded of the darker side of gloves. Like fashion as a whole, gloves can go to the opera, or star in a burlesque show.
For the last few months I’ve been noticing gloves on the runway again, and I’m truly enjoying it. Designers want glamour again. Like today’s glamour, the gloves of today are more dreamlike in their effect than we remember. They seem to combine the many sides and evocations of gloves.
Of late, it's almost harder to find fashion photography without gloves than with them.
My award for the Most Overtly Glamorous Recent Exhibition of Gloves goes to British VOGUE magazine (Oct. 2007) for their cover photo of Keira Knightley in sequined over-the-elbow tulle gloves to match the sequined dress (Chanel). That entire issue, in fact, is a veritable celebration of the glove. Trust me on this.
One page into the magazine’s glossy pages, we see a long black leather glove accenting a belted wool coat, then again on the next page with a jacket and pants (Gucci).
With one more turn of the page, we see a strapless black cocktail dress worn with over-the-elbow black gloves (Yves Saint Laurent).
Two more pages, and we see scrunched leather gloves in odd quasi-jellybean colors worn as luxurious daywear accents with both matching and contrasting leather handbags (Prada).
Three more pages, and we see long black patent leather gloves looking more like boots with their zippers and flare-shaped cuffs (Burberry). Six more pages, and we’re told by enthusiastic editors we should grab ourselves those same amazing patent leather gloves.
Just six more pages, and we see black wrist gloves worn with a black beret and a knitted gold dress, and appearing again on the next page with a crisp white blouse (Ralph Lauren).
One more page, and we see long silver tricot gloves worn with another crisp white blouse, this time with a gray knit pullover (Luisa Cerano).
Five more pages in, and Versace has gotten into the act with black leather gloves accenting pure white wool in two ensembles.
Just two more pages ahead and British VOGUE is recommending hot new looks for the season, including a long black leather glove by Georges Morand. Continuing this enthusiasm, more gloves are recommended just five pages later: all long, all in colors, all fabulous.
On and on it goes. That issue had over 400 pages, but you get the idea.
I’d say the glove has returned. But then again, did it ever truly leave?
Labels: Trends
Friday, November 02, 2007
Porter Wagoner and the Splendid Dazzling Designs of Nudie Cohn
My parents were enthusiastic about all kinds of music, everything from pop to jazz to country to classical. In the pre-satellite days of only a mere handful of television channels, sooner or later most baby-boomers would see, as I did, Tennessee’s Grand Ole Opry come into the living room on the Porter Wagoner Show. I would later learn that Mr. Wagoner had a long performing association with Dolly Parton, helping launch her career.
And so... thank you, Mr. Cohn, for your unique sartorial gifts. And happy trails to you, Mr. Wagoner, on your final journey to the Green, Green Grass of Home.