Two years ago, before I started my brand, I was cutting out a new outfit in the co-working space of the DU Garage. Earlier, in a stress frenzy, aggressively sifting through closet, I became frustrated. Nothing sparked my interest. But then, I remembered that there was a nice blank canvas of fabric in my studio—bundled up and ready to turn into an outfit. As a junkie for the arts, designing an occasion outfit was my equivalent of doping.
Back in the Garage, I was snipping away at that thrifted piece of fabric. My mind was entranced. The fabric shimmered, flush pink and iridescent—quite possibly a retired curtain from a chic granny’s house. The plan was to throw together a ruffled blouse in under two hours—to breathe new life into the fabric.
The challenge was set in my head, and I was determined. As I cut out the piece, I grandly envisioned pairing it with my favorite Levi’s, a block sandal, some hair clips, and a matching pink lip—the perfect concoction for cocktail night with the girls.
Between the snip, snip of the blade against the fabric, I heard Colette shuffle into the room.
“Hey Annika, how’s it going?” She asked while holding a heavy five-pound bucket to her chest. I suspected the Lowe’s bucket was filled with meal worms, the next source of protein for her entomophagy granola.
Colette was another entrepreneur in residence at the space. Her office was next to mine. I saw her often, but we hardly spoke. From what I gathered, she was a practical woman, driven by her goals of developing a sustainable and delicious granola with a twist—insects. I tried it before, and it was pretty good. No wavering taste of bugs to detect.
I briefly looked up from the fabric, “Oh, I’m doing good,” I said.
I thought she was going to head downstairs but she lingered and asked what I was working on.
“Oh, you know, I’m just making a new outfit for tonight. I couldn’t find anything to wear. But I found this curtain and thought, why not make it into a little top? It’s better than buying something new for the occasion,” I chuckled . . .
Startled by the long pause, I looked up from my cutting. She starred at me quizzically and unmoved, still holding up that five-pound bucket of wriggling worms. She blinked.
“That’s not very sustainable,” Colette finally spoke. “I’d just wear something I already have. After all, it doesn’t really matter.”
The “it” she was referring to was fashion. Fashion didn’t matter. Putting something on your body, just didn’t matter. And to my elbow deep in fabric self, scissors poised in hand, neck craned over pattern, her assertion made me panic. Maybe Colette was right. Maybe I was killing the environment for my own fleeting pleasure. Maybe my sustainable fashion vision wasn’t so sustainable after all.
Two years later, I was standing up in front of an audience of 100, trying to convince a panel of judges that clothes are important, and that they are tools for confidence, inclusion, and happiness. It was the 3rd annual DU Pitch Competition, and I was in it for the big money.
My sustainable outdoor apparel brand was making waves. I had revenue. I had product market fit. And above all, I had a slew of hell-bent customers following this dream of outdoor clothing on the sunny side. I was ready to bring my brand Helio to the stage.
One judge, a pretty woman sporting pumps and a tailored jumpsuit, quizzed me. “So, I understand you are trying to minimize textile waste by using Zero Waste Patterning. But most of textile waste comes from people throwing out clothes that they don’t like anymore. Like, what if my pants go out of style,” the judge motioned towards her khakis, “and I just don’t like them anymore? How would you solve that problem?”
This question was not unlike that of Colette. In that moment, I could see them both, standing side by side, quizzically drawn lips, strong hands-on hips. Colette and the judge both alluded to the habits of fashionistas, consuming relentlessly in the landscape of a dying planet infused with poverty and unprotected labor. And who was I, but one of those fashionistas? As a textile passionary, questions like these make me hate my inclination towards obsessing over textiles. Can I still get dressed in the morning and create my brand without being a villain?
The term sustainable and it’s partnering culture have become an increasingly confusing spectrum. A way of life or a system of practice, seemingly fit for the off-grid homesteaders living in dusty potato sacks. The expectations are suffocating, but the action we need to take for our earth is sorely apparent.
In a world of Madonnas and gold searching pirates, we disappear in the mirage of the rainbow that promises a pot of gold at the end. Material. Glinting riches. And we lose ourselves. The solution to this materialism runs deeper than conscious shopping or buying only when we need. It's a balance. You cannot dress to define yourself. You cannot dress to flatter yourself.
The root of our fast fashion problem is embedded in our own self-worth. Our inability to find ourselves through consuming pound after pound of cliché trends is truly the grand reveal of our lack of self-esteem. When you finally find you; your depth of understanding transcends into how you present yourself. It’s true acceptance and celebration of you. And that’s what makes real style real.
Good style is not bound by materialism. It challenges you to look within yourself and pick pieces of longevity. Style is not just dressing to adorn our bodies, it’s a 4-dimensional expression that resounds space. “It’s a never-ending dialogue and a celebration of human beauty and dignity.” Like a mirror, fashion showcases our internal spirit within hues, shapes, and textures.
No one’s perfect, I can tell you that much. I attempt a sustainable life every day. But sometimes it’s just easier to drive to the grocery store than bike. Sometimes it’s easier to press buy on a full online shopping cart of once-over-mod. Sometimes it’s easier to eat on paper plates instead of doing the dishes. And what’s more, sustainability seems as if it’s a game of privilege.
We must acknowledge the luxury of our choices and the inability of choice for others. We also must acknowledge ourselves and where we stand. The world can feel heavy on our backs as if we are Atlas. But instead, we should live fully and intentionally. For the case of the fashionista, make a choice to choose better for ourselves and for the people who can’t choose at all.
Now, I’m thumbing through my closet, sliding hanger upon hanger of color across the rack. The crisp scrape of the metal hook sliding across the cold metal bar is electric. I see that pink blouse, crafted from a granny’s curtain. That top was never in style, and it will never be out of style. Instead, it holds a story. The piece of fabric is me and I treasure it.
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