Clothing, Memory, & Consumerism

On Wardrobe Cleansing, Buying Vintage Clothing & Memory

Removing excess: The Stash

Last year I embarked on the laborious task of making almost all of my clothing and I actually succeeded six months ahead of schedule. I measured, cut, learned a thing or two about drafting, and sewed a variety of garments in a range of styles. I made Victorian costumes with historically accurate patterns, 1940’s day dresses, low-waste or no-waste kaftans, blouses, pants, and the list just keeps on going. I was swimming in fabric and patterns and yet the truth is, I can’t stand a stash! You read that right, I strongly, strongly, strongly, dislike having a stash.

Whether it’s fabric or yarn or even patterns, the idea of hoarding materials that have no assigned purpose yet makes my skin crawl. I generally keep my unused fabric or yarn in one large plastic tub (and even that bugs me) and I start to get itchy just looking at it. It’s just the way my brain works, materials without purpose overwhelm me and spending most of 2024 making my own clothes, well, I’ve had enough of it.

One of the things I learned making most of my own clothing is how much time, labor and money it takes with the possible chance that the item doesn’t fit exactly how I hoped (remember, I’m not an actual trained seamstress but a “learned-at-home” sewist). Even though I was making my own clothes, participating in “slow fashion,” I was still consuming a lot of newly produced material. I wasn’t feeling too great about this whole thing and I remember looking at my closet and thinking, “gosh, I made a lot, and honestly, I’m not super keen on a lot of it.” I needed a fresh start and a new playbook. 

Clothing & Memory

I chose the pieces I absolutely adored from my wardrobe. A 1933 skirt pattern from vintage feedsack fabric  (of which I have 2 skirts from this beloved pattern), a kaftan style dress in a black linen, 2 hand-knit sweaters, 2 handmade dresses and 1 walking skirt in a linen/hemp that I redyed from green to brown for versatility.  The rest? I sold about 3/4 of the lot and the rest I gifted to friends (side note: it has been so fun seeing my friends wear my garments around me! It brings me more joy to see that than when I was wearing the garments themselves).

Now, this wasn’t my entire wardrobe. I had quite a few vintage pieces that I loved and continue to wear pretty regularly. Those all stayed and as I looked at them mixed in with my handmade pieces, a lightbulb went off: “maybe I focus most of my wardrobe on vintage pieces and for new pieces, I purchase vintage fabric and make only the patterns I truly love and know I will wear?”  This simplification suddenly made total sense to me. Most of my vintage clothes are 10 years or older. I love the stories, the history and the designs behind them. Whenever I wear them, I often ask myself:

Who wore this?

Where did they wear this?

What significant event took place in this dress?

Was it a gift?

In Emma Windsor-Liscombe’s article, Fabrics of Memory*, the author writes, “Clothing, worn on our physical bodies, selected by the psychological ‘body,’ has memory pressed into its very substance or, as Ellen Sampson writes, “garment and person are cleaved” adding “[a garment is] simultaneously part of the self and materially not of itself.”

Each of these vintage garments I own has someone else’s lived experience literally pressed into the shape of the garment’s fibers. To further Windsor-Liscombe’s citation of Ellen Sampson, not only the garment and the original wearer of the item are joined together, but also the fabric memory of the original wearer encases the lived experience of the next wearer, who then will offer new bodily memory to the garment (literally and via their personal narrative); new stories lived out. 

That’s what vintage clothing has always given me: an opportunity to not just study the past, but to relive the past, to try and understand it beyond reading or going to a museum, but actually physically embodying history’s memorial form through textile. Clothing is a different type of primary source than documents precisely because it can be utilized again within a new context.  It’s an ideal bridge allowing for the intersection of the past, present and future in a way that other items cannot.

Why I enjoy buying vintage

I love the thrill of going to the thrift store or vintage shop, hunting through all of the styles seeing if I can guess which time period. This little jeopardy game I have made for myself is just delightful (cue dopamine hit here) and a great learning experience (sometimes I’m wrong like the best of them too!) I can’t describe to you what a joy it is whenever I discover a homemade vintage cold rayon 40’s dress or an International Ladies Garment Workers Union tag (LOVE this). Purchasing already made clothing, but from the past, seems to lessen my fear of accumulating a stash. It is the same with pattern hoarding too. Recently,  I went through my patterns and chose the ones I loved and how the finished garment fit. It left me with 5 patterns that I cherish: a 1933 skirt pattern, a McCall’s 70’s Victorian revival shirt pattern, a Simplicity vintage 1940’s dress, and three folkwear patterns: their walking skirt, edwardian garden party dress (I made my wedding dress from this pattern), and the armistice blouse. This meant that if I was going to sew a garment, it would be one of these patterns and the fabric would be purchased with that specific goal. I’d take it one project at a time (this is how I read books too…how do you all read 3 books at once?), thereby preventing any stash buildup and while I take my time making my new garment, I have my fun vintage things to wear! 

I have also decided to take it a step further: no more new fabric (unless necessary, of course…like a couple of yards of rayon crepe I’ll need to get in order to alter 2 1940’s dresses I scored at a vintage store sale!).  But no more buying fabric from specialty designers, online stores etc for a while. If I want to make it, the fabric can be deadstock or vintage.  I really want to reduce how many new textiles are floating around in the world. Time to make do with what’s already there and eliminate the hoarding stash.

(N.B. No judgement if you do have a stash! It’s a personal preference and just has never really been my thing)

Now, this doesn’t mean I won’t purchase ready-to-wear items. Sometimes I just can’t find what I’m looking for in my size that is vintage or I don’t have the time to make 3 hand-knit sweaters by the time winter arrives in New England. Balance is key. For example, I do have some ready-to-wear items I have owned for the last few years and continue to wear them. It’s easy to get stuck into the rut of “fast fashion is factory-made and slow fashion is handmade,”...but this is not true. Fast fashion IS handmade. The differences are the working conditions, quality of materials provided to the workers,  the compensation, and the workers’ quality of life. Legislation needs to change. The consumer can do their part in trying to purchase as many second-hand clothing and slow-fashion items as their budget allows, and become more vocal about how the fashion industry exploits workers (and female consumers) but I think it’s important to acknowledge that not all consumers have the power to source expensive, slow-fashion garments. Expecting consumers with small budgets to only buy at second-hand shops is not taking into consideration how clothing can be a choice of agency and decision making that may not be available in other aspects of their life. Denying the comfort or confidence that comes with dressing your own body and the ability to make clothing choices due to budget constraints seems a little elitist and lacks compassion. (I could also go on-and-on about some historical examples of this, such as the Arts & Crafts movement, but perhaps I’ll leave my criticism of a major social and artistic movement aside for the moment.) I guess my point is, the geography of our wardrobes is much more nuanced and complex when it comes down to political voice, economics, labor, agriculture, individual agency and sustainability. The answer isn’t simply one or the other and it’s certainly not solely the responsibility of the consumer to carry the burden when corporations are unethical and not transparent about their practices. A little awareness, however, does go a long way to implement long-term change. We can try, we can share, and we can diversify our wardrobes so they, too, may be a small act of creative resilience.

Ok, enough of this soap box and back to clothing as memory (thanks for getting this far).

Clothing as Cherished Memory Bearer

Perhaps you may not buy vintage clothing, but you might have a sweater that belonged to a deceased parent, or a scarf that your grandmother loved to wear. Perhaps, every so often, when you miss that person or think of them, you wear it. The item’s narrative has transformed through nostalgia, longing, and your memory of a life once lived. It’s no longer just your grandmother’s favorite scarf - it’s your memory of your grandmother.  When you wear it, perhaps you feel closer to her. Maybe it’s worn on days when you need a boost, or you want to feel classically elegant. All of those feelings, memories, and then new experiences are infused into that one item. Heirlooms are born from memory. Quilts with names stitched into the fabric. Engagement rings kept in families for generations. Wedding dresses reworked and worn again by daughters and granddaughters. Cufflinks from grandparents. Engraved pocket watches. Favored shawls from great-grandparents. All of these adornments are filled with meaning. 

Additionally, garments can also act as reminders of tragedy, hardship, and profound sadness. They can be associated with both unbearable as well as beautiful memories.  In this little essay, I have focused more on my personal joy on rediscovering historic garments without really knowing their intimate narratives. However, it is possible that the vintage garments we purchase or inherit may not have positive memories attached to them; the experiences lived in them may be difficult and possibly tread the line between memory and the desire to forget. I think this is an important aspect to acknowledge when it comes to clothing as a memory-bearer. Additionally, from a scholarly standpoint, it would be remiss of me to not mention how clothing has also been used in the past to degrade and strip people of their humanity, individuality and rights. Clothing is a powerful tool and historically has been used (and continues to be used) as a way to ensure the de-individualization of people in order to attain a particular goal, exert forms of punishment, and maintain hierarchical power.  This particular aspect of clothing’s history as a way to control bodily agency and individuality is a topic for another essay, but extremely important to mention and acknowledge within this piece of writing.

Overall, I think the topic of how we can build our wardrobes to be these small acts of resilience as well as sites of memory is a fascinating subject, with these small post being really only the tip of the iceberg in my own scholarly study of this particular cultural element.

*Works Cited:

Windsor-Liscombe, E. (2024). Fabrics of Memory. Fashion Theory, 28(2), 209–229.