 This summer I had the privilege of working on a vintage wedding gown. This wouldn’t be unusual if you knew I'd spent 9 of my 12 years in the clothing industry making and designing wedding gowns in the late ’80’s and ’90’s in Canada and the Lower 48. If you knew I’d constructed everything from family-gathering-at-the-farm shifts to custom froth for penthouse-bound adult film stars (okay, only one adult film star, but it was kind of a big deal in 2000). It wouldn't be unusual if you knew I’d once wrangled jealous bridesmaids, estranged mothers, best friends who felt left out, grandmothers arriving from the Old Country demanding silk gowns be remade “more white” a week before the wedding, crying brides who would be divorced in 4-6 months and my own insecurities as a 20-something with a whole lot of something to prove. It wouldn’t be unusual, my taking on this project, except that 17 years ago I said I’d never work on a wedding gown again. Like, ever.  Repositioning lace panels by hand.  Mending a rip in the armhole. There are many reasons why a bride chooses a certain dress. Some of it is based on myth, or emotion, or the search for perfection. If she has the stamina, she will travel from city to city “looking for THE dress.” She will question herself. She will ask for advice. She will count her pennies, she will break the bank. She will present a designer with a black and white magazine photograph of a bride wearing floppy rubber boots, bareback on a horse, gown wadded up in one hand and field flowers in the other and say, “I want this dress.” Not because of the way it looks (who can figure that out?), but because of the mood. Because she wants to feel a certain way. Often, the challenge isn't how well you fit a dress to a body, it's how well you fit the mind.   New loops and buttons.  Mending ripped lace. Robin, the bride, was referred by a friend in a I-think-you’re-maybe-the-only-one-who-can-take-this-on kind of way. The bride’s mother wore the dress in the ’80’s, but someone had worn it before. There is mystery around the provenance — maybe it came from an antique store, maybe from an aunt — but the bride’s mother isn’t here to tell the full story, which is why Robin wanted to wear the dress, the closest she could be to her mother on the day she married her partner, Jess.  Indiana, early 1980's. The sheer cotton batiste and eyelet lace dress had been home made, perhaps in rural Indiana, with stitches so small I couldn’t get the tip of my seam ripper beneath, with areas so fragile they blew apart in my hands. I saw the dress in February, before it was sent away for cleaning and restoration* — it was yellowed, stained and had been suspended on a wire hanger for decades, partially covered in plastic. I worked with the dress after it returned to Alaska from a cleaner in California. According to the bride, the professionals began with dry cleaning, then a wet cleaning process with Orvus paste, then a gentle bleach soak over several days, checking at critical points to ensure the fibers weren’t stretching or tearing. The transformation was stunning, but it took time. My part of the project required properly fitting the dress, textile stabilization and updated finishing. Gathers at the waist became pleats. Metal hooks and eyes at the center back became hand made loops and silk covered buttons. I replaced the skirt lining. I repaired areas of stretched or ripped lace by hand. I trimmed away excess. I steamed, I pressed, and thought about the woman who first made this dress, the women who had worn it since, the woman who would wear it again. Connected, I became another link in a line of of makers and women crossing thresholds.  Jess and Robin, Summer, 2017. Photography, Madeline Wilson. And this is the difference between working on wedding gowns in your 20’s as a seamstress/sewer/pattern maker/shopgirl/designer/assistant/or whatever else I was referred to, and working on a wedding gown as a mid-40’s artist and mother. My energy and intent had nothing to do with proving myself, and everything to do with respect, curiosity and creating the most supportive, most nurturing experience I could for another woman — for 2 women, actually — during a life moment when the experience should be beautiful and easy for a couple, but often feels overwhelming. It’s also the difference between choosing to work with a vintage gown or making all new. Old cloth holds stories, secrets. It’s always my preference.  Photography, Madeline Wilson. During the process, I was able to share discoveries about Robin’s mother -- she had a 24-inch waist when she got married, and had likely been losing weight since the seams at the hip had been taken in 3 times…the final time by hand, maybe stitched at the last minute, maybe the morning of the wedding. These are small things, small curiosities. But I wanted Robin to know that part of the story. The rest of the dance belongs to her and Jess.  Photography, Madeline Wilson. *ResourcesIf you are interested in having a vintage wedding gown cleaned and/or restored, here are some resources: National Gown — www.nationalgown.com American Institute for Conservation -- www.conservation-us.org See pdf: "Guide to Caring for Your Treasures" List of Conservators (this list was originally provided by the Anchorage Museum, although they don't endorse anyone in particular. Refer to the above website to find a conservator near you):
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I'm honored to be included in such company, some of whom I've followed for years, such as Sue Stone, and others whose names have more recently been appearing in various publications, such as Richard McVetis, or illustrator Manica Musil, who will soon publish her textile illustrated children's book with Oxford University Press, Pakistan in English and Urdu because of this opportunity. Other contributing artists have reached out to me, across oceans, across cultures, and now we're connected in this small way.
During a time of global uncertainty, this exhibition has a fitting title -- when caring for cloth, you often need to unravel the damage before any mending can begin. I know Samina Islam worked incredibly hard to bring all of us together, and she didn't have to.
But she did.
I sent the first "Girl Story" piece. It's won two awards and exhibited widely, so if she gets lost coming back to me, then that's part of the story.
But she won't.
Work by Amy Meissner and Sue Stone (and this may be the closest to Sue Stone I ever get to be...), courtesy of VM Art Gallery.
I couldn't attend the opening, so Samina asked for a video. I think I was more nervous about making this than sending work overseas. So here's what I sent, shaky voice and all. Many thanks to my sister, Erica, for putting this one together.
Here is a list of the other contributing artists with links to their sites. I hope you'll seek them out. I hope you'll cross that bridge.
Rosie James (UK)
Richard McVetis (UK)
Sue Stone (UK)
Lyndsey McDougall (Ireland)
Manica Musil (Slovenia)
Samina Islam (Pakistan)
Numair Abbasi (Pakistan)
Roohi Ahmed (Pakistan)
Asad Hussain (Pakistan)
Masuma Halai Khwaja (Pakistan)
You can read critic Rabia S. Akhtar's review of the exhibition in Art Now: Contemporary Art of Pakistan.
*And back to my friend Shehla Anjum -- she was one of the contributors to the Inheritance Project, and you can read about the cloth I inherited from her in the post The 12th boxes of mystery. She is a writer, question asker, world traveler and generous human, and despite calling the US home for decades, she is also feeling the emotional effects of being born in a Muslim country. Connecting Samina and I has become a glimmer of silver, which she recently wrote about in an opinion piece for the Alaska Dispatch News.
If you are interested in other exhibitions, click on the sidebar category Gallery Shows and scroll down since this post will come up first.
Maybe you remember a post from last summer, a sun-drenched afternoon on the deck with my girl, a mystery box from a friend in Upstate New York, a bunch of pointy bras, seamed vintage stockings and a couple of spying boys?
It is mid fall now and another box has come.
This time, from Sweden.
It is mid fall now and another box has come.
This time, from Sweden.
My friend Boel sent it after contacting me to ask if I'd be interested in embroideries and handmade linens from the local Pentecostal church's second-hand shop. I'm always game for this so I sent a list of ideas and colors, she responded with photos. On the day Boel visited the church (her name is pronounced BOO-elle), she said the place was filled with refugees shopping for their new homes.
Of course, old Swedish handwork is not useful for these families. They have no connection to this history; their own wounded history is as young as yesterday. They need shoes and pots and winter coats. They need space and shelters that angry people won't set on fire.
In the aisles of that church shop roamed the convergence of so many things:
Lives lived and histories abandoned.
The humanity of making and saving and surviving.
The hoarding, the discarding.
Rescue.
Rebirth.
When Boel told the church volunteers she was shipping linens to an Alaskan artist of Swedish descent, they gave her an enormous discount. These ladies had taken the time to remove crocheted edging from worn bedding because this part was still good. The handwork was still beautiful and valued.
In the aisles of that church shop roamed the convergence of so many things:
Lives lived and histories abandoned.
The humanity of making and saving and surviving.
The hoarding, the discarding.
Rescue.
Rebirth.
When Boel told the church volunteers she was shipping linens to an Alaskan artist of Swedish descent, they gave her an enormous discount. These ladies had taken the time to remove crocheted edging from worn bedding because this part was still good. The handwork was still beautiful and valued.
It's been raining here and all the trees have lost their leaves. The mornings are dark when the children go to school. My son slipped on black ice in the driveway not 20 minutes ago and hurt his hand. Anchorage is the same latitude as Stockholm, so I can imagine what it is like in Sweden right now; the darkness and the cold inhospitable to people not used to that northern climate. This week I listened to a Syrian doctor burst into tears in an interview on the radio. The man hadn't slept in four days and kept apologizing for weeping. I was in my studio stitching by hand and didn't realized how hard I was crying until the cat came meowing down the stairs to check on me. This doctor said all he could think about were the people he couldn't help if he took time to rest. He said his country was disappearing.
Sometimes we find rusted needles still embedded in old embroideries. Like someone put the work down and just walked away. At one point, the maker had hope and inspiration and will.
But there are a million things that dissolve hope.
80-year-old Greek grandmothers meet boats on the beaches of Lesvos, offering to hold babies and sit for hours with bewildered mothers, purchasing fruit every day for displaced children, and there are days when Alaska feels far away already, but standing in my doorway, signing for a blue box from Sweden, I feel removed and guilty for having so much.
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I'm not going to create art about the world's refugees. I'm not going to pretend I have any answers or throw money in a direction that isn't helpful. But I am going to worry for them and continue telling my children stories about what is happening in the world so they understand that having to go to school or to swimming lessons is a privilege, not a torture, and certainly not everyone's right. That somewhere, somebody's art supplies and books and special clothes and animals all got left behind because their family's wellbeing was more important.
And because we can't directly rescue people today, we will rescue some unwanted things -- items that are the remnants of humanity's need to make and do and mark, remnants of resilience and will.
And we'll hold stories in our hearts. And we'll revere history. And mend what we can.
We'll work hard to be kind in this world.
* * *
My friend, Boel Werner, is an artist and a writer. We met in Los Angeles in 2004 at the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators' annual summer conference and somehow never disappeared from one another's lives. We have one of her books about a pair of red pants that comes to life one night, escapes out the window and flies into the world to have an adventure. Flygarbyxorna is one of our family favorites. I'd hate to ever leave it behind.
But I would.
I would grab my children and I would flee.
My friend, Boel Werner, is an artist and a writer. We met in Los Angeles in 2004 at the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators' annual summer conference and somehow never disappeared from one another's lives. We have one of her books about a pair of red pants that comes to life one night, escapes out the window and flies into the world to have an adventure. Flygarbyxorna is one of our family favorites. I'd hate to ever leave it behind.
But I would.
I would grab my children and I would flee.
My mother was raised by her grandparents in Sweden, surrounded by old things. On a farm, you will always need a blade, a cloth, a jar, a bag. You repair, wash, save. You honor the time it takes for someone to make something, anything, because it's time away from harvest or animal care. My mother's most memorable clothes had once been an aunt's or a cousin's, remade to fit. She helped weave rag rugs on a Glimakra loom, shuttling strips of clothing into the next phase of usefulness. A favorite breakfast was a slice of the previous morning's congealed porridge, fried in butter.
This is in me. This I have been taught. So I save.
This is in me. This I have been taught. So I save.
It's a form of highly organized hoarding.
And I think the reason why I'm having a difficult time starting the next project is because I'm looking at this:
And I think the reason why I'm having a difficult time starting the next project is because I'm looking at this:
Highly organized hoard of mending.
And I can't help but feel like not getting through this chore is somehow not tending my family. I think, "If I can just patch the holes, just stretch the life a little more, then .... what?" Does a 5-year old appreciate a knee patch? Does an 8-year old even notice? Can I make them notice? Can I make up for working, head down, palm extended towards them, all summer and asking them to make their own snacks, or to play outside for another 10 minutes, to accept pancakes for dinner, again? (Despite my son's, "This is the best dinner of my entire life!" and the fact that it may have been the best summer of their lives, too, in that free-wheeling-1976-golden-toned-first-glimpse-of-independence kind of way, I still feel guilty for being so distracted).
The artist and sculptor, Louse Bourgeois (1911-2010), said "You repair the thing until you remake it completely," and, "The spider is a repairer. If you bash into the web of a spider, she doesn't get mad. She weaves and repairs it." Mending this pile feels like emotional mending, and while I tell myself I'm tending my family, I know I'm tending myself. Something needs repairing. I feel it. Winter is coming.
If we can teach our children this, that mending and saving are acts of honoring, that old things, even some old ways, should often be revered, not shunned or tossed out, then maybe they'll consume less later. Maybe they'll re-think longevity and usefulness in their own lives. Maybe they will be useful people with useful ideas. Maybe I will still be useful to them as they grow older. Maybe they'll figure out how best to tend their own spirits and know exactly when this work needs to happen.
The artist and sculptor, Louse Bourgeois (1911-2010), said "You repair the thing until you remake it completely," and, "The spider is a repairer. If you bash into the web of a spider, she doesn't get mad. She weaves and repairs it." Mending this pile feels like emotional mending, and while I tell myself I'm tending my family, I know I'm tending myself. Something needs repairing. I feel it. Winter is coming.
If we can teach our children this, that mending and saving are acts of honoring, that old things, even some old ways, should often be revered, not shunned or tossed out, then maybe they'll consume less later. Maybe they'll re-think longevity and usefulness in their own lives. Maybe they will be useful people with useful ideas. Maybe I will still be useful to them as they grow older. Maybe they'll figure out how best to tend their own spirits and know exactly when this work needs to happen.
Maybe they'll spend their 20's and 30's hauling around old textiles and doilies out of a sense of guilt or responsibility to family history, grumbling the entire time about how no one uses these things anymore, wondering why it was all created in the first place, mad because they've been saddled with the burden of all this "stuff," wondering what to do with it.
And then maybe one day, they'll get through the mending pile, put all the clothes away neatly, brush the threads from their thighs, turn to the next task ahead and say, "Oh. Of course. Now I know what to do with this."
And then maybe one day, they'll get through the mending pile, put all the clothes away neatly, brush the threads from their thighs, turn to the next task ahead and say, "Oh. Of course. Now I know what to do with this."
Because it will be in them to know.
Amy Meissner
Artist in Anchorage, Alaska, sometimes blogging about the collision of history, family & art, with the understanding that none exists without the other.
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