Slow Fashion

There is a movement on for Slow Fashion, like Slow Food. And Slow Life. Slow Fashion primarily originated in Japan, one of the fastest-paced countries on this planet. I recall once in the late 1960s going from Tokyo, where I was living, to visit New York City; I found the pace in New York slower than in Tokyo. So it’s not surprising to me that some folks in Japan want to slow things down.

There is also a phenomenon of Fast Fashion. This refers to designers turning out more frequent collections for those who want to change their high-style clothing faster. Since I am a person who has been slow to move beyond LL Bean comfort jeans for the last two decades), and since shopping for anything, but especially clothing, is unpleasant for me, I am barely a candidate for Slow Fashion and am completely unsuited for Fast Fashion.

Slow Fashion offers a more leisurely approach to style “built on lasting quality and an aesthetic which endures beyond one season,” according to an article in the current Selvedge magazine (Issue 11). “This form of fashion exists in direct contrast to both fast fashion and major designer brands: the creation of apparently simple yet sophisticated clothes which utilise textiles of the purest form, capitalising on the skills and knowledge of traditional weavers, embroiderers and hand workers across many Asian countries.” In other words, good style that lasts.

I have some pieces my mother made that have never gone out of style. I wish I had more, in particular a brown and gold sun dress with stuffed appliqued flowers and some subtle beading. The ones I do have are well-constructed and made of sturdy wool; only the linings need attention. They suited her perfectly. She may have tired of them after several decades, but I feel confident they would draw interest if worn by her small body type in the coming winter season.

As you might guess, these slow fashion items don’t come cheap. A Jurgen Lehl indigo dyed sleeveless top is about US$165. Considering the work that goes into dyeing, weaving, and constructing, this seems to me a fair price. My mother’s wool was pricey for the day and there were hours of making patterns, constructing, and beading.

Too, there is something lively about natural dyes and natural yarns. It’s a different brilliance than synthetics, almost as if the light of plant or the animal is within and still shining. It is true that synthetics are of the same stardust that all life forms arise from, but it’s like the difference between a plastic rose and the real thing.

I figure I’ve got a good ten years left of making things. Even if I beat the odds in my family and live longer than anyone in recent generations has, functioning is likely to diminish. Curiously, this recognition doesn’t stimulate pressure. I read recently of an artist who goes on retreat each year and then comes back with the intention to make one thing. Her one thing is larger than pieces I am drawn to make, but there is something superbly and invitingly slow about the notion of making only one thing a year.

It is very good luck that I have come to see this before I turn sixty. How much more enjoyable my days are when I go slow, when I am more deliberate in making choices of how to spend time. I want, simply, to make a few things I consider beautiful, whether it’s for viewing on a wall or viewing on a chair or viewing on a body. I want to learn a few more things about dyeing and weaving and sewing, but I don’t want to learn it all.

I am reminded of a Deena Metzger poem:

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There are those who are trying to set fire to the world,
we are in danger,
there is time only to work slowly,
there is no time not to love.