Centuries ago in Japan, at the peak of the dynamic Momoyama period depicted in Shogun, when a patron ordered a kimono, he had the satisfaction of knowing there was no other garment like it in the world. It was indisputably chic. The robes were so admired by their owners that special display racks of ebony, polished bamboo, lac- querwork, or ivory were made to exhibit the kimonos in their open-arm position.
I concur with those patrons, and I view the garment as an art form. Attention to detail within a format of apparent simplicity provides the delight and surprise with which we respond to Japanese culture. A stripped-down lifestyle featuring a pair of chopsticks rather than an array of eating utensils underscores the notion that harmony, balance, and clarity can be integrated into simple everyday experiences such as eating, bathing, and dressing.
At first, I sewed because I could make my clothes more cheaply than I could buy them. But then I discovered I could make things that weren't available in local stores, and I began experimenting with high-fashion apparel and unusual fabric and style combinations, such as a red plastic suit and a rabbit-fur skirt. Later on, I started making garments on consignment for local boutiques. I incorporated paint, papier mache, and ceramic bits into the clothing and even used D rings to create a suit of chain mail. My art education taught me to problem-solve, and I use this approach in garment making.
The functional geometry of the traditional Japanese hippari robe has become, for me, a vehicle for artistic considerations of line, form, and texture. The fabrics provide my palette; the stitching and details, the lines. Building up areas with padding and piping gives form to the flat T-shape.
A workable design format—I wanted to create a highly flexible garment. Because of the liberal specifications of dropped shoulder and loose drape, a hippari-style robe may fit a size 8 as comfortably as a size 14 and may be worn by a man or a woman, over sportswear or formal clothes, as a jacket, coat, or shirt.
I began by purchasing pattern #112, Japanese Field Clothing, from Folkwear (Box 3798, San Raphael, CA 94902), and a combination of printed-cotton upholstery fabrics and raw silk, intending to make a short, loose jacket that could be worn over bulky winter sweaters. I wanted the jacket to be light, yet warm, and easy to launder. I chose upholstery fabrics because they are available in a broad range of colors, patterns, and weights and are washable, preshrunk, colorfast, and fade-resistant. In addition, their generous widths allow for garments to be cut in many ways.
In one day I made an elegant top I could wear with pants or skirts, in summer or winter, for casual or formal events. After washing it, I wantonly cast it into the dryer. Both the silk and cotton wrinkled, but a hot iron restored them. The raw edges frayed, so from then on I either fit a lining or made French seams.
During the first few months of making prototypes, I became familiar with the pattern and learned how it could be applied to various fabrics and lengths. When I could make a robe in 5V2 hours flat, I began to alter the look, experimenting with longer robes that could serve as evening wear for women or loungewear for men.
By incorporating a variety of prints into the same piece, I learned that the result would appear more complex than it was. For example, I might cut the body of the kimono from a multi-colored fabric with a dominant green hue, the sleeves from a patterned fabric that picks up the green tones, and the tie bands at the waist from yet another green-dominated print. Then a neutral or contrasting solid fabric for the neckband would unify the piece.
Following the pattern directions, I start by cutting both the front and back on the fold of the fabric so that the body of the garment is one piece, without shoulder seams or a center-back seam. This lessens bulk and cuts down on sewing time. It won’t work, though, with patterned fabrics that have a definite up-and-down design; birds on the front, for example, would be flying upside down on the back. I attach the sleeves first, then stitch up the underarms and sides. Now I have a garment I can try on and adjust.
If the fabric is fairly heavy or rough textured, I sometimes attach the neckband by “sewing in the ditch” (see drawing, facing page). I sew the band to the front, right sides together; turn it back flat, and iron it. Then I pin the other edge in place, raw edge ironed under and just covering the row of stitches on the inside. I turn the piece right side up in my machine and sew in the groove between the band and the front, catching the edge of the band underneath. The stitches won't be visible; they'll be hidden “in the ditch.” But it's tricky, and the band must be well pressed and pinned or basted in advance. The alterna-tive is to blindstitch the inner band by hand to give a softer, less obtrusive edge.
The bottom of the neckband should be turned inside and blindstitched, then the hem and sleeve cuffs ironed and handsewn or machine-stitched down. All that remains are the four ties, which are constructed and stitched in place. The garment can be made from start to finish in one day so long as the fabric decisions have been made first.
Evaluating the garments—I asked friends to try on my firstjackets and robes and be critical. They thought that the longer versions looked too much like lingerie, that the shoulders were too soft and made the wearer look stooped, and that the fall of the fabric over the hips and at the hemline was too restricting.
With the short jackets, my critics could use the pockets in the pants or skirts they were wearing. If the garments were long, however, they searched for the place to put tissues, keys, or notes. I had to think about how to add pockets.
Playing with the shape—Faced with de¬sign problems, I began to experiment. More freedom at the hem could be achieved in the Oriental way with side slits, but I didn't want to evoke The World of Suzie Wong, so I made a robe with a kick pleat of contrasting fabric instead. It looked fine, but it took too long to make and was difficult to sew and finish without raw edges. I discontinued that approach and just added more volume by cutting the body wider from the shoulder to the hem. Then I tucked in the extra fullness from the shoulder to the bust or waist and be¬gan adding decorative pipings at the tucks.
One of the criticisms had been the tie closures, so I experimented with belts and Velcro. At first, the belts were simple one- color ties, but they became more decorative, and with Velcro the belt was a useful design element, a horizontal band that could be adjusted for size.
Many of my robes are reversible. This construction is a challenge because there can be no hidden framework. All the details on one side will have consequences on the other. Although my approach to sewing tends to be spontaneous and quixotic, reversible items demand care and planning. How can I conceal a pocket on the reverse side? How can I stitch multilayered borders on one side without de-stroying the look on the other? What about shoulder pads and closings?
Reversible pockets are difficult. For one jacket, I made the pocket with a French seam and used a bias band to conceal the raw edges along the side seam from which the pocket emerged. This worked but was bulky. On single-layer reversible jackets of heavyweight fabric, the additional bulk is more acceptable. Another interesting way to solve the problem is to make two entirely different jacket bodies, each having a pocket or pockets, and then to stitch them together at the neckband and sleeves. All raw edges and the underside of decorative stitching are hidden between the bodies of the jacket (see drawing below). While this technique alleviates worry about how one side will look from the other, it obviously takes a lot longer to construct and requires much more fabric. There is also the issue of additional bulk inherent when two jackets act as one.
A design problem I feel is not yet fully resolved is the sleeve. Emerging from a dropped shoulder, it is by nature wide and rectangular. A tightly fitted or eased sleeve wouldn't be right. My first tack was to eliminate the sleeve. I used a sensual, papery Thai silk of pink warp and blue weft and added a lightweight challis neckband and set-in pockets. The resulting capped shoulders and the daring, deep-cut under-arms weren't flexible enough to be considered a final solution, especially for New England winters. I played with various sleeve shapes and began adding bands of color to the outside and inside of the lower part of the sleeve to suggest the appearance of a cuff. With the sleeves rolled up, revealing the inner bands, the jacket has another look. Although I'm still exploring, I feel I'm heading in the right direction.
After viewing the jewelry of Hopi craftsman Charles Loloma, I began to consider making a garment with a unique and beautiful hidden area that would be for the private pleasure of the wearer and would contrast with, yet complement, the public face of the piece. The tucks, which open to afford fullness, provide a place to hide special fabrics that can be glimpsed only during a fleeting movement (center photo, facing page).
The importance of fabric—Fabric usually dictates the direction of the garment. The texture, color, and weight of one fabric lead me to use other fabrics in combination. 1 prefers fine silks, French cotton, Italian wools, and Irish linens, but I also enjoy using vinyl, nylon, and Velcro.
My first prototype, now well-worn, reminds me that I have not strayed far from my initial fabric choices. I still search for outstanding upholstery fabrics, which I purchase at large outlets specializing in end bolts. Occasionally they have printing flaws, which I cut around. Many of the best fabric designers, among them Otto Nielsen, Katsuji Wakisaka for Marimekko, Jay Yang, Jack Prince, and John Kaloor, produce superior yardage at a reasonable cost.
For silks, linens, and wools, I patronize local fabric stores. Fabrics used in Geoffrey Beene or Antonio Fezza fashions, for example, often find their way to these places, where they can be bought at a fraction of their original cost, and with no flaws.
Frequently I go into New York to shop in the garment district. The array of exceptional fashion fabrics always staggers me and leaves me excited and overspent. I usually get more ideas for garments than I have time to produce.
Often a problem with the fabric will generate a different way to look at the garment. Recently I cut a robe, using all the available yardage. Then I discovered a weaving irregularity. I couldn't reduce the length of the piece by the necessary 16 in. The balance would be out of kilter. I couldn't piece another scrap of the fabric on top. It would look too obvious and contrived, as if I were camouflaging a mistake. I considered running vertical bands down the robe to conceal the flaw, but the additional weight and firmness would stiffen the robe and inhibit the flow around the knees. Finally, I ran asymmetrical staccato bands of gold around the kimono, which not only covered the problem area but also added verve and light to the hemline. It looked like some sort' of secret code of marks, related to, yet different from, the rest of the robe (right-hand photo, facing page.) I plan to use this element again; this time, I will prepare for it.
Now that I have logged more miles of sewing on my Pfaff 122 than on my Subaru, I can no longer make a kimono in a day. My ideas have grown and my goals are higher, so I usually spend from 25 to 50 hours on a garment.
The critical step, I feel, is having a fundamental concept and attacking it with the initial layout and cut of the body, neck, and sleeves of the robe. This is a sweet moment for me because it gives the major thrust to the hours yet to come. If I want a particular part of the design to run down the center of the kimono, I do it regardless of how much material is “wasted.” Even if the fabric costs me $15 per yard, the cost of design and labor will surely outstrip the expenditure. It just isn't worth it to cut corners. Good craftsmanship is not an antiquated concept; for the most part, it just isn't cost effective today.
I purchase fabrics in small amounts so that I will never have enough to make a reproduction. I have no interest in cloning a garment once it is finished. I am already preparing myself for the next challenge.
