Whatever happened to the girly tee? For a few years, back in the 90s and early noughties, things looked promising. Retailers, slowly realizing that women have money of our own these days and occasionally buy logo T-shirts too, introduced lady-specific blanks with scoopnecks, cap sleeves and shaped waists. I liked being able to buy a flattering, figure-hugging Elephant 6 or Trogdor tee. It said, “Yes, world! All this and great taste in pop culture too!” But lately — possibly for recession-related reasons — a lot of vendors seem to have gone back to the dark days of unisex, offering only traditional designed-for-men boxy tees, or as I call them, pajama tops. Which is fine if you only want to proclaim your love for a band on days when you’re too sick, hung over or depressed to leave the house.

I have too many T-shirts with great logos but unflattering cuts, and not enough form-fitting base layers. The next logical step was obvious.

To cut down this T-shirt into a camisole I used Jalie 2564, which like many Jalie patterns has received tons of positive reviews over at PR. The nice thing about the camisole is that it has a built-in shelf bra, and both camisole and bra can be cut from one T-shirt with a little fudging. This project was ridiculously easy even for me, with my limited experience of stretch fabrics and total lack of experience of fold-over or plush elastic. It whipped up in a little over an hour. It doesn’t even require an overlocker/serger; I could easily have used my machine’s zigzag and 3-step zigzag stitch instead.

My only quibble with this pattern is a matter of personal taste: I like my camisoles a bit sluttier. Next time I make this pattern I’ll definitely alter the design to make the straps wider-set, the scoopneck lower and the shelf bra shorter for increased balcon effect.

Obligatory Shearwater plug:

I’m loving my first tentative forays into the world of DIY lingerie! However, I am finding stretch lace and lingerie elastics (FOE, plush elastic, picot elastic etc.) difficult to source in colors other than white, black and nude. Tips on where to find these things are most welcome.

The wardrobe, reimagined asks how women in fashion eras that offered fewer wardrobe options got around the problem of style line/body shape mismatch (corsetry?), and hammers home my dilemma with this simple infographic for dummies on What the Short-Waisted Woman Should Not Wear:

I don’t know about you, but my eyes instantly gravitate to the outfit on the left. Completely scrummy, right? Only it’s completely WRONG. We short-waisted types are supposed to line up to the right, behind Bella Swan there. I have been coveting the high-waisted, figure-hugging, demurely slutty pencil-skirted secretary look for years, but apparently it and I were never meant to be. I blame you for this futile passion, Joan Holloway.

Click the image and prepare to lose hours of your life. Many, oh so many, Mad Men fashion postmortems await.

We are very lucky to be living and sewing at a time when we have a proliferation of styles to choose from, so even though it might be difficult renouncing my Mad Men dreams, I’m not condemned to wearing silhouettes that don’t suit me. Right now I’m shifting focus away from waist/hip-conscious eras (40s, 50s) and experimenting with leg-conscious ones (60s, 70s). Bonus: the UK is still somewhat stuck in the Benny Hill era sexually, so its collective leg fixation is alive and well.

I’m finding this vintage Playboy photo immensely inspiring. Talk about playing up your assets. She could have Starbucks-sized muffin top tucked inside that dress and no one would notice.

Via The Selvedge Yard.

Here’s one vintage pattern I have plans for:

Here’s another:

Still a bit of Betty Draper going on in View C's hat, and isn't that a teenage Joan in the back?

Right! I’d better get cracking before the British summer ends!

What are your thoughts on picking vintage looks or projects to suit your body type? What do you do when your taste doesn’t suit your own shape?

The lack of any bottoms in light neutral tones is a serious gap in my wardrobe, especially in summer when black just won’t cut it. As in, I have a stupid amount of stuff I like but can’t wear because I have no beige pants. Enter EvaDress 3322, a multi-sized modern reissue of a 1940 Simplicity trouser/overall pattern.

Simplicity, you say? I know, I know. Barely two months into my no-Simplicity vow and already I’m backsliding. I tried, really I did. I ordered this sweet Hollywood slacks pattern from the unimpeachable Mom’s Patterns in March and waited weeks for it to arrive, but thanks to the vagaries of the transatlantic postal service, it never showed up. Are Royal Mail in league with the devil? Who knows. The clock was ticking — it was late May and the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it English summer was due to arrive any day now. I couldn’t afford to wait for another pattern to ship from the US; I had to put shears to cloth. The Simplicity pattern was in my stash, so back to Simplicity I went.

Just to be on the safe side, I checked the measurements scrupulously to make sure there weren’t any of the wild discrepancies I’ve come to associate with Simplicity patterns and made a rare muslin before cutting into my fabric, a beige cotton/viscose twill I bought from Cloth House in Soho. It needed surprisingly little tweaking, although of course this didn’t stop me from compulsively tinkering with the fit later to the point of courting ruin. However, for my first ever pair of pants, I’m fairly happy with the result. I added big patch pockets and belt loops to soften the spartan look of the original design and give me more wearing options.

Thanks to my project dysmorphia, I could point out a whole host of problems and defects that render these pants torturously unacceptable in my eyes. BUT I WON’T, because when I debuted the pants to the two main men in my life and started to moan about all their flaws (the pants’, not the men’s), they (the men, not the pants) very sensibly told me to STFU, the pants looked great. So instead, I will tell you what I like about them and what I got right and leave my FAILs to the “Lessons Learned” section below.

I love the comfort of these pants. I cannot remember the last time I had a pair of pants that hung from my natural waist rather than from a point below it. Starting from the break at the fullest part of the hip, these pants have a lot of ease. They also have a very low crotch relative to modern pants and jeans — there’s plenty of room in there for a girdle, for instance, or a pair of old-timey French knickers. (Ooh, swishy!) These elements, combined with the drapey fabric I used, make the pants feel flowy, full and unconstricting. They churn fascinatingly along the pavement when I walk and allow a much freer range of motion in hips and legs than I’m used to after years of tight, stretch and low-rise pants. I can high-kick in these if the mood takes me (although probably not while wearing the girdle). Great for lindy hop!

I love their versatility. The high waist makes them ideal for wearing with all my 1940s blouses, and I can pair them with modern tops and sweaters to make them work- and street-appropriate, like so:

Paired with restyled thrifted Brora cashmere sweater, £12 (no coupons!)

I like the fact that I got the topstitching on the patch pockets right. “Simple” tasks like stitching a straight line are usually a minefield for me. I also like the fact that I wore these out of the house for the first time today and two people complimented me without suspecting that I’d made them.

I like the secret banjo I embroidered on the inside waistband (a detail shamelessly cribbed from the blog now known as Adventures in Couture):

I like the fact that these pants have jailbroken about half a dozen items in my wardrobe. After a year and a half of ownership, I can finally wear my vintage 1940s utility shoes!

These shoes are more than 60 years old and still going strong. They may not be dainty or elegant, but they were certainly built to last. Here’s the maker’s mark, complete with the CC41 “cheeses” to indicate that the shoes comply with British utility standards:

Like Tabby, the original owner was smart enough to have a cobbler attach protective half-soles and heels to extend the life of the the shoes themselves:

But back to my pants!

This is the most practical piece of clothing I’ve ever made, and definitely the first I’ve made with the presumption that I’d be wearing it regularly in situations requiring me to look normal and presentable. Ooh, pressure. But it is a challenge in its own way to make something that has to stand up against our RTW-trained aesthetic standards for street and workwear. I can see the appeal. Maybe Self-Stitched September isn’t out of the question after all!

I think I’m starting to understand the Simplicity problem (wacky drafting aside). As its name implies, Simplicity marketed itself in the 1940s and 1950s as the easiest and most accessible pattern company for novice seamstresses — its promotional film Pattern for Smartness, which I’ve featured before, emphasizes how easy Simplicity patterns are to use because the brainiacs at the company have done everything for you.

However, simplifying design and construction that much must involve sacrificing some quality in the finished product. Beautiful garments require finesse on the part of the maker — more finesse than can possibly be included on a single instruction sheet without printing it on monster A0-size paper. Therefore, a lot of vintage Simplicity patterns, because they favor easy-to-explain or apparently easy-to-master techniques, make it easy to sew a finished garment that looks homemade.

However, some of these “simplified” techniques actually involve false economies of effort. It’s easier to illustrate and explain how to make a “simple” straight waistband than a faced contour waistband, but I loathe and dread straight waistbands because they are never simple. The necessity of easing the garment into the waistband, for instance, often isn’t mentioned. You need to account for turn of cloth because it is physically impossible for three layers of fabric cut to the same length (waistband right and wrong sides + interfacing) to curve neatly around the waist without buckling or bulging. The traditional methods given for finishing the waistband (fold both seam allowances under and topstitch or handstitch to secure them) nearly always create too much bulk. And it is often fiendishly difficult to topstitch through multiple layers of fabric without creep, even using a walking foot. And on and on. I’m not sure this deceptive simplicity in patterns is helpful to those just learning to sew.

Anyway, despite the fact that I’m learning to understand Simplicity instead of just, you know, hating it, this will be my last. I really mean it this time!

Lessons learned:

• Apply a twill tape waistband for fitting. Any garment that hangs from the waist needs a stable waistband for accurate fitting. Sandra Betzina’s tip in Power Sewing about using twill tape for this is invaluable — I used a marker to draw the waistband “notches” on the twill tape and basted it just inside the seamline before trying on. This also gave me a better idea how much easing I’d have to do when applying the waistband to the garment (in this case, none).
• A method that looks simple on the instruction sheet may conceal hours of struggle. In this case, “topstitch waistband through all layers”.
• Avoid the Colombo Effect by resisting the temptation to tweak “just one more thing”. In my quest for the rare and novel sensation of snugly fitting trousers, I made one last impulsive fitting adjustment that nearly ruined the whole project. I took too much off the hips, distorting the fit and causing seam slippage, and had to let it out again. In the end it left permanent and visible flaws in the project. Ouch! Leave it alone!
• Use the best interfacing you can find. This may mean importing. You can have any interfacing you want in Britain as long as it’s Vilene (made with real paper!), which means I often come up empty-handed when searching for suitable interfacing for projects. So I didn’t have anything in my stash for interfacing the button and buttonhole plackets on these trousers (not mentioned in the instructions, by the way) and my buttonholes are already distorted. Waaah.
• Hemline brand anorak snaps are total crap. I had three people working on the problem and none of us could get the male half of the snaps to stay in the fabric. Avoid avoid avoid. In the end I used jeans buttons.

Coupons spent: 6 (2 less than a pair of store-bought pants!)

Coupons left: 41

The internet tells me this pattern dates from 1946. I can believe it. This is definitely a non-austerity blouse. The body is cut in three big sections: one front bodice and two back bodice with cut-on facings. I had sufficient yardage, but, you know… not all in one piece. Matters were complicated by my cutting one back bodice on the wrong side. (Oh, for basic spatial awareness!) But being the cool, collected make-do-and-mend whiz I am, I kept calm and carried on. I cut out a replacement back section in three parts (top, bottom, facing), pieced it, ran a mock seam (pintuck) across the other back section to make the two look symmetrical and proceeded as usual. The piecing is below the waist and I intend to wear this blouse with high-waisted trousers (in progress), so it won’t even show.

The sleeves were also supposed to be cut double, folded and attached, but to prevent bulk, I cut them single and hemmed them narrowly instead. I skipped shoulder pads. I put in ordinary machine buttonholes instead of bound buttonholes because life’s too short. Then I covered the buttons in the same red polycotton I used to trim the Bestway dress.

Silk headscarf (in my colors for this season!) found on the street during a night out in Soho. Coupon-free!

This pattern taught me the true worth of the fabric recommendations on pattern envelopes. The pattern came with no recommendations, so I only discovered after beginning the project that it was designed to work best with much lighter, drapier fabrics — a silk georgette or crepe would have worked wonderfully. The gathering at the neckline was far too bulky for the relatively heavy cotton pique I’d chosen. So I converted the gathering to darts using the, uh, “eyeball” method — stitching a long single dart at CF, then putting the blouse on my dress form and pinning radiating, shorter darts in more-or-less symmetrical pairs until the excess fabric had been absorbed.

The "eyeball" method is not endorsed by London College of Fashion.

It was probably also due to the fact that this pattern was meant to be made up in floaty, drapey fabric that it included so much design ease. Either that or it suffered from some seriously wacky sizing. I am a 34 bust and the pattern was marked for a 30, but when I came to measure it up I found I didn’t actually have to grade it at all — in fact, it was so roomy I had to take it in by 0.75″ at each side seam (enlarging the armholes by eye FTW). I’m trying to imagine an actual 30″ bust woman in this blouse as cut. I see her as a waif floundering helplessly in a sea of chiffon.

This is me looking wan and apprehensive because I am about to attend a beer festival and pig roast in James’s hometown and fear being glassed by an Essex girl tanked up on WKD Blue.

Lessons learned:

• Use the pattern envelope. Fabric recommendations (if there are any) are there for a reason. Pattern illustrations are not fantasy renderings but technical drawings, from which a lot of useful information about the design can be gleaned. Cutting layouts, in particular, are meticulously planned and can’t usually be improved on.
• It’s okay to be relaxed about your sewing sometimes. It’s only a top, not the mirror on the Hubble telescope. As usual, I fudged around with this top a lot during the wrong (construction) stages, but it looks okay from 3 feet away, so I’m not sweating it.
• Back button blouses rule. They give a nice clean look that invites accessorizing with brooches, scarves or jewelry. They provide back interest (rare and unusual these days). And the independent woman need not fear — they can be fastened and unfastened solo.

Tagged: 1940s, patterns, sewing ]]> http://cargocultcraft.com/2010/06/08/mccall-6569-button-back-blouse/feed/ 33 Susannah mccall 6569 http://cargocultcraft.com/2010/05/11/on-not-finding-vintage-patterns-in-london/ http://cargocultcraft.com/2010/05/11/on-not-finding-vintage-patterns-in-london/#comments Tue, 11 May 2010 11:27:46 +0000 Susannah http://cargocultcraft.com/?p=1712 ]]> Brooke writes:

I am looking for some tips. I am heading to London on Friday (it’s my first time; I live in the US) and I am wondering where you find vintage patterns there? I guarantee you I am not looking for the same size pattern, so I’m no competition.

Hi Brooke! I have some good news and some bad news.

The bad news is that London isn’t the world’s most deliriously awesome vintage shopping destination if you like the thrill of an undiscovered bargain. The supply of vintage goods here isn’t as big as in the States, and deadstock is nearly unheard-of. Because space is at a premium in the UK (many houses don’t have attics, basements or garages), there aren’t as many places where amazing stuff can languish unregarded for decades before emerging for 50p at a car boot sale. (It turns me green to read American and Aussie bloggers’ posts about the unbelievable vintage hauls they find at estate sales and op shops.) So a lot of vintage over here is in fact deliberately bought in from the States for resale, and there aren’t as many OMG amazing finds in charity shops and the like.

Also, the cost of living in the UK is relatively high — in London it’s horrific — and that cost is often reflected in vintage pricing. Add to that the sticker shock you’ll undoubtedly experience when spending US dollars in the UK, and you’ve got a recipe for disappointment.

To put the icing on the cake (of disappointment?), the craft revolution is still in its infancy here, meaning that only a few vendors seem to have woken up to the fact that there’s a demand for vintage patterns. I actually don’t recall ever having seen more than a sad handful of vintage patterns in a London shop, although Melissa of Fehr Trade recommends This Shop Rocks on Brick Lane.

Cake of Disappointment, £14.95.

The good news is that I don’t get around London shops nearly as much as I should, so what do I know? Carla of Rueby Retro recommends Camden Stables for vintage treasures, and you may have good luck there. And if you’re passing, charity shops are always worth whipping into for a quick look.

The other good news: If you’ve got time to make a day of it, there’s a vintage fashion fair seemingly every weekend in London — there’s the London Vintage Fashion, Textiles and Accessories Fair, the Vintage Fair, the Vintage Fashion Fair, the Clerkenwell Vintage Fashion Fair, Frock Me! and a bunch of others you can track down just by Googling “london vintage fashion fair”. Brooke, you’re spoiled for choice this weekend — both the LVFTA Fair in Hammersmith and the Vintage Fashion Fair at Earl’s Court fall on the 16th. Get up early, though, as I’ve heard the best pickings go before noon.

Still more good news: Once you head out of central London, the situation changes. In smaller towns and suburbs, the stuff in charity, antique and junk shops is less likely to have been picked over. The shopping also tends to get better as you travel north, and if you’re planning on going any place where the demographic is older — a seaside town with lots of retirees, say — definitely set aside some time for visiting the charity and antique shops. Probably my happiest charity-shop moment in the UK occurred when I discovered an entire suitcase full of 1950s, 60s and 70s British patterns in Lerwick, Shetland.

The best news of all: One of the best places to shop for vintage British patterns may just be the comfort of your own home. I’ve bought several off eBay — the Bestway dress in my last post cost US$8 from a Canadian eBay seller. It helps to think laterally with your keywords (“old dressmaking pattern” is a good start), as the best bargains come from sellers who are less knowledgeable about what they’re selling. You can also search by the names of British pattern companies from the era. I’ve listed a bunch here.

Best of luck to you, Brooke, and feel free to look me up for a cup of tea or a refreshing pint.

Readers! Know of any secret caches of vintage patterns in London or the UK in general? Tell us about it in the comments — inquiring minds want to know!

I’ve been stitching away at it since the 22nd. I’m making it in navy cotton pique from Fashion Fabrics Club (fabric $24, shipping to the UK $35!), and it’s all but finished — it just needs hemming and trimming.

My travails with vintage Simplicity patterns had been making me question whether I was meant to sew at all, but Bestway is restoring my badly tattered faith in my own abilities. This dress has gone together wonderfully. The softness and pliability of cotton pique is very forgiving, and because the pattern didn’t have any major design problems, I could concentrate on fitting and construction. Hey! Turns out I don’t have a freakishly deformed body! And I’m not a terrible seamstress after all! The sleeves eased in first time, the bodice met the skirt without violence and even my first bound buttonholes didn’t faze me. Bestway showed me that making a dress could actually be a pleasure.

The only snag in my plans — and it’s a pretty major one — is that I’m in Strasbourg at the moment for work and won’t be returning to London and my sewing machine until late Friday night, the day the contest closes. Which means I’ll be spending the wee hours of April 30th frantically hemming and trimming to get my dress finished before the deadline of 11:59 EST! This’ll be just like the old university days of sprinting across campus at 4:28 pm to submit my essay at the philosophy department offices before they closed.

Wish me luck!

I spent wasted most of today taking another stab at making a short-sleeved blouse out of a man’s shirt. The pattern: Simplicity 3638, view 2. The shirt: a rather nice Thin Red Line number of James’s in white with blue pinstripes. I had it all planned out — red piping along the yoke and collar edge, and facings etc. in a lovely blue and white Liberty floral remnant that toned perfectly with and softened the mannish pinstripes. I’m not sure what I was hoping to prove, except that after investing 1000+ pounds and hours, I do in fact possess basic sewing and alteration skills.

I failed spectacularly… again. The pattern seemed to be a good size and a half smaller than marked. The neckline needed cutting down by 2 inches in order not to strangle me. The bodice pulled every which way. The collar drafting was just wacky. Finally my patience ran out. I stuffed the blouse into the box with the rest of the Pile of Shame, tearfully apologized to James for the needless slaughter of an innocent shirt and fixed myself a large G&T. Why do I do these things to myself? Why??

Then, if only to persuade myself that my love of sewing wasn’t totally unrequited, I pulled myself together and decided to move on. I opened up a Bestway dress pattern I’d been meaning to start on, ironed it flat, traced it off and began to put together the bodice muslin. And then something wonderful started to happen.

The bodice fitted me nicely right away, requiring only a few minor tweaks. Bewildered, but with dawning hope, I pressed on. The armholes fitted without gaping. The back hugged my slightly rounded shoulders lovingly. And the shawl collar, the one construction feature even an overpriced London College of Fashion short course couldn’t teach me, came together just like Vogue Sewing said it would. For the first time in months, it felt like my hard-won sewing skills were actually working, rather than disappearing into a mystifying void between my intentions for a project and the finished product. Hey! Sewing was fun again!

At that moment I had a revelation as liberating as the day I decided to stop dating unsatisfactory men. Then as now, all my failures had had one thing in common. In love, it was my own lousy choices. In sewing, it was Simplicity. The “simple” dress whose bodice had to be hacked and re-hacked until it was practically shredded? Simplicity. The shirtwaist dress that came out a size and a half larger than marked? Simplicity. In fact, nearly every vintage pattern I’ve attempted has been by Simplicity. Does this explain how weirdly, inexplicably frustrating I’ve found my attempts at vintage sewing — the myriad major alterations needed, the bizarre hit-and-miss fit, the way the competent construction of even simple design features has slipped through my fingers like smoke? Maybe. I’m certainly looking forward to testing my theory.

Starting now, I’m purging my stash of Simplicity patterns and starting over with vintage patterns by other companies — any other company. I’m hoping this will make sewing a pleasure again, instead of a soul-draining struggle against an invisible enemy. I’m hoping I’ll start to see the quality of my finished products improve. And I’m hoping, one day, to be able to “throw together” a project like Mena of the Sew Weekly, whose average six-hour dress looks as impossible to me at present as a four-minute mile.

Begone, foul sewing demons, from this place of craft! I cast thee out!

Actual sewing outfit may vary.

Tagged: fail, patterns, sewing ]]> http://cargocultcraft.com/2010/04/20/confessionrevelation-my-simplicity-curse/feed/ 18 Susannah headdesk morgan