The Dress Form

Working with leather is not my favorite thing to do. My hands are already sore and cracked from years of working on farms, with boats and mixing alcohol. My dad’s hands were worse than mine. I’ve never seen cracked skin like his and I’ve still never seen anyone work as hard with their hands than him.

​While I’m pushing the leather needle through the overcoat I had been meaning to work on for years, fireworks were constantly going off in every area of the neighborhood and sweat was rolling down my face and back. Nothing seemed surreal to me anymore. The overcoat was nearly done, however, and I noticed I had been subconsciously delaying finishing it because I was afraid that I had no project to continue pointing my focus to.

​I wasn’t going to wear the coat, it was ninety-five percent humidity, I just needed to see it displayed somehow. I needed to build a dress form. I’d always wanted one that was my exact dimensions, being six foot five, the ability to make clothes for myself had always been what I ultimately wanted to do. Three fireworks in a row that rattled the entire apartment sealed the deal that this would be my next focus pulling project.

​Trying to start a project from scratch when all sources of any inventory are shut down or completely wiped out of stock with no sign of replenishment was overwhelming, yet at that point, I was numb to it. I found a customizable pattern and opened a box of tired, used window curtains to find what fabric I would be using (thank you Maria von Trapp). Sourcing all the tools and materials I need from my apartment would be my new quest.

​My scissors, needles and pins have all been handed down my family and ended up with me as I’ve always inevitably found a way to either alter whatever I buy or just make it myself. The dark grey window curtain I found would literally be the perfect size for every piece of the dress form. Stuffing I would take from the mounds of spare bed pillows I had accumulated over the years. The only thing I was missing was fusible, woven interfacing. I’m not sure why this was another hoarding delight, but the country was basically out of it for a good, long while.

​I pushed forward, savoring every second that I got to zone out and really zoom in on the details of every curve of each piece that would ultimately be making me; realizing the amount of cloth it takes to cover me, and ultimately why it was so difficult to find clothes that fit me correctly.

​I was finally able to source some interlining from a small shop in Oregon that mailed it to me just in time to not miss a beat. Being able to finally sew all the pieces together was thrilling and difficult. The closer we were getting to the Fourth of July; fireworks were being shot off more frequently and seemingly closer and larger. The sewing machine was acting as a respite of white noise, but also a drum to keep moving forward.

​The next week was stuffing week, which also turned out to be one of the hottest weeks of the year. With three fans on me, I pushed and formed the fluff from the top down into “me”, making sure it wouldn’t shift and it would always keep its form.

​You (me included) read all of this and think why would someone subject themselves to all this seemingly masochistic work, when it is the exact pure form of work that I love. My dad loved the feeling of completing a project, but I believe he loved the actual work more. He loved feeling capable and of use; that he could accomplish anything he ever wanted by just working hard, and that’s exactly how this project made me feel. I’m so happy to have a dress form that is my sizing (so long as I can control the weight), but the sweating, the cutting, the sourcing, that is the process I live for, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.