I've always loved making things. When I was a kid, my paternal grandmother would buy me crafts from stores so I could paint sculptures, or make fun decorative objects. My mother taught me to hand-stitch when I was still in elementary school, and I found a fun and rewarding past time in crafting crude stuffed animals and dolls out of old clothing, which I would then give to my friends as gifts. Admittedly, they were ugly creatures. I had no sense of depth--I would simply draw a cat shape or a dog shape in a continuous line on two pieces of fabric, cut, and sew them together. Mismatched and chipped buttons served as eyes. I didn't even turn the animals inside out after stitching them together (and had no concept of right-side vs. wrong side), so the bunched stitches outlined the bodies, and blue marker lines were visible beneath the threads.
I would cut pieces of old t-shirts and jeans and used them for blankets for my dolls and Littlest Petshop toys (the old cool ones that actually looked like animals, not these stupid ass bobble-heads that they sell today).
I learned to crochet in sixth grade, a friend of the family teaching me the various loops that make the stitches; she taught me to read the strange abbreviated language of patterns.
In seventh grade I found instructions in a magazine on how to make a denim skirt. I made one out of a pair of jeans, and wore it to school. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but I was proud to have made something I could wear. Of course, the cruelty of kids is an opportunistic dagger, and soon after I proudly strode into school to show off my handiwork to my friends, other students were laughing, asking if my family was too poor to buy me clothes. I was embarrassed and crushed. It was then that I realized that being poor, or at least seeming poor, was cause for ridicule in the kid-world. I became ashamed of the skills I was trying to enhance.
I still crocheted and sewed, but I didn't attempt larger projects that would make people assume my family was poor.
And then in my junior year of college I took an art class involving dying fabrics. After each unit, we were to create a project utilizing the dying methods. For my screen-printing project, I decided to dye pieces of denim and print a motif on each section, creating a denim jacket. But I had never operated a sewing machine before. So my art teacher showed me how to read a
sewing pattern and use the machine in the classroom. She was amazed by my aptitude, since no other student could sew a seam as straight as I could on the first try. And thus, my China Mieville King Rat-inspired denim jacket was born (see right--note the red rat with a crown. This was taken last year when my hair was still red. It's back to blonde now--too many creepy dudes demanding to know if it was real). There are also rats on the front, but I couldn't get a good picture of that.
After that class, I asked for a sewing machine for xmas from my dad, and I kept at it. I bought dozens of clothing patterns. I made blouses and skirts. I am at the point now where I refuse to buy anything I'm capable of making myself. Just yesterday I converted a pair of jeans into a skirt (I've much improved since I was in middle school, thanks to my skills with the machine).
When I got engaged back in January, I decided to make my own wedding dress (which is almost at completion now--I actually finished it within two weeks, but I still need to add some decorative stuff to it, and some more "umph" in the bust). I also plan on making jewelry for myself and my bridesmaids to wear, which they will be allowed to keep as gifts afterward.
Anyway, since the incident in seventh grade I had not experienced the shame of crafting my own clothes as a poor person's act; at least until my fiance's father kindly offered to buy me a wedding dress--after finding out I had already made one.
I was listening to my fiance assure his father that I do, in fact, love my wedding dress, and really want to wear it. When I asked my fiance why his dad wanted to be certain I wanted to wear the dress (since I'm not of a mind to waste my time, money, and energy on an unnecessary project) he told me that his dad wanted to make sure I made my wedding dress because I wanted to, not because I had to.
Well, both are valid reasons to make my own wedding dress. I liked the idea of making something for my wedding--why not the dress? That way, when my friends and family see me in it and admire it, it will be something crafted by my own hands (this is where I get poetic with my needlework). But I'm also broke too. Before I had decided to make my wedding dress, I scouted around for possible pre-made dresses. The ones that fell in my price range did not leap out at me as something I would want to wear. Making the dress myself ensured I would a) have a dress made specifically for my body shape, that b). fits me perfectly and is c). cost effective. I think I only spent $120 dollars on all the materials including the pattern, the satin, the lining, the overdress of lace, the zipper, thread, extra needles, ribbon, breast padding, and plastic pearls.
I'm very pleased with it so far, and can't wait for it to be finished (as of right now it's still full of potential as an artwork in progress), but I can't help but feel there's a stigma attached to my hand-crafting abilities as an act of the poor. I can't say if I'd have had a propensity for making things if my family had been as rich as my fiance's, but it's something that I love. It's more than a hobby for me because, like writing, it's creation--and it impresses people when it's executed well. I love the hard work. I love how it takes up space. I love the sound of my machine driving the needle through the fabric, creating seams out of loops of thread. I love that my hands created something useful, and I find it absolutely insulting that this creation is seen as less-than by those without the skills to create. So when did people decide that making things by hand is shameful?
Certainly this is associated with class. Rich people have no need to learn to sew or crochet--they have money to pay other people to do it. Though it is a skill, and not an easy one, it is a skill of lower class people. It is a symbol of poverty, and so in a way it is looked down on. Don't get me wrong; I acknowledge that there are upper class people who enjoy sewing; but this isn't the first time where I've been made aware that my family is not as well off as others. This is why I was laughed at in school for wearing a skirt I had made from an old pair of jeans. This is why my fiance's father offered to buy me an honest-to-God made-by-someone-else's-hands dress. Because "hand-made" and "home-made" are synonymous with "poor," and we all know that people are poor by choice, right? Ugh.
I'll probably post pictures of it on me once the pearls are attached and the bust completed.
If you have love for hand-making items yourself, share it in the comments.
I would cut pieces of old t-shirts and jeans and used them for blankets for my dolls and Littlest Petshop toys (the old cool ones that actually looked like animals, not these stupid ass bobble-heads that they sell today).
I learned to crochet in sixth grade, a friend of the family teaching me the various loops that make the stitches; she taught me to read the strange abbreviated language of patterns.
In seventh grade I found instructions in a magazine on how to make a denim skirt. I made one out of a pair of jeans, and wore it to school. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but I was proud to have made something I could wear. Of course, the cruelty of kids is an opportunistic dagger, and soon after I proudly strode into school to show off my handiwork to my friends, other students were laughing, asking if my family was too poor to buy me clothes. I was embarrassed and crushed. It was then that I realized that being poor, or at least seeming poor, was cause for ridicule in the kid-world. I became ashamed of the skills I was trying to enhance.
I still crocheted and sewed, but I didn't attempt larger projects that would make people assume my family was poor.
And then in my junior year of college I took an art class involving dying fabrics. After each unit, we were to create a project utilizing the dying methods. For my screen-printing project, I decided to dye pieces of denim and print a motif on each section, creating a denim jacket. But I had never operated a sewing machine before. So my art teacher showed me how to read a
sewing pattern and use the machine in the classroom. She was amazed by my aptitude, since no other student could sew a seam as straight as I could on the first try. And thus, my China Mieville King Rat-inspired denim jacket was born (see right--note the red rat with a crown. This was taken last year when my hair was still red. It's back to blonde now--too many creepy dudes demanding to know if it was real). There are also rats on the front, but I couldn't get a good picture of that.After that class, I asked for a sewing machine for xmas from my dad, and I kept at it. I bought dozens of clothing patterns. I made blouses and skirts. I am at the point now where I refuse to buy anything I'm capable of making myself. Just yesterday I converted a pair of jeans into a skirt (I've much improved since I was in middle school, thanks to my skills with the machine).
When I got engaged back in January, I decided to make my own wedding dress (which is almost at completion now--I actually finished it within two weeks, but I still need to add some decorative stuff to it, and some more "umph" in the bust). I also plan on making jewelry for myself and my bridesmaids to wear, which they will be allowed to keep as gifts afterward.
Anyway, since the incident in seventh grade I had not experienced the shame of crafting my own clothes as a poor person's act; at least until my fiance's father kindly offered to buy me a wedding dress--after finding out I had already made one.
I was listening to my fiance assure his father that I do, in fact, love my wedding dress, and really want to wear it. When I asked my fiance why his dad wanted to be certain I wanted to wear the dress (since I'm not of a mind to waste my time, money, and energy on an unnecessary project) he told me that his dad wanted to make sure I made my wedding dress because I wanted to, not because I had to.
Well, both are valid reasons to make my own wedding dress. I liked the idea of making something for my wedding--why not the dress? That way, when my friends and family see me in it and admire it, it will be something crafted by my own hands (this is where I get poetic with my needlework). But I'm also broke too. Before I had decided to make my wedding dress, I scouted around for possible pre-made dresses. The ones that fell in my price range did not leap out at me as something I would want to wear. Making the dress myself ensured I would a) have a dress made specifically for my body shape, that b). fits me perfectly and is c). cost effective. I think I only spent $120 dollars on all the materials including the pattern, the satin, the lining, the overdress of lace, the zipper, thread, extra needles, ribbon, breast padding, and plastic pearls.
I'm very pleased with it so far, and can't wait for it to be finished (as of right now it's still full of potential as an artwork in progress), but I can't help but feel there's a stigma attached to my hand-crafting abilities as an act of the poor. I can't say if I'd have had a propensity for making things if my family had been as rich as my fiance's, but it's something that I love. It's more than a hobby for me because, like writing, it's creation--and it impresses people when it's executed well. I love the hard work. I love how it takes up space. I love the sound of my machine driving the needle through the fabric, creating seams out of loops of thread. I love that my hands created something useful, and I find it absolutely insulting that this creation is seen as less-than by those without the skills to create. So when did people decide that making things by hand is shameful?
Certainly this is associated with class. Rich people have no need to learn to sew or crochet--they have money to pay other people to do it. Though it is a skill, and not an easy one, it is a skill of lower class people. It is a symbol of poverty, and so in a way it is looked down on. Don't get me wrong; I acknowledge that there are upper class people who enjoy sewing; but this isn't the first time where I've been made aware that my family is not as well off as others. This is why I was laughed at in school for wearing a skirt I had made from an old pair of jeans. This is why my fiance's father offered to buy me an honest-to-God made-by-someone-else's-hands dress. Because "hand-made" and "home-made" are synonymous with "poor," and we all know that people are poor by choice, right? Ugh.
I'll probably post pictures of it on me once the pearls are attached and the bust completed.
If you have love for hand-making items yourself, share it in the comments.
Comments
Post a Comment