Stories

I threw almost everything out after I closed my sewing business. I kept one binder of photographs. It's evidence that I really made all those things. Some of the outfits I don't remember sewing, although I know I did. Some I remember all too clearly, in excruciating detail. This page is devoted to the stories, which I suppose is the entire reason I'm writing this blog. Like most writers, I just want to tell my story.

Even if I can remember the names of my clients, I won't use them, to protect their privacy. Many of the names have faded and so have the faces, where I'm lacking photos. All I have are the hazy snapshots in my brain, an unreliable source. Still, except for using full names, I will do my best to tell the truth as I recollect it. I make no guarantees of accuracy, though! The memory grows feeble.

The first section in my binder comprises the minor celebrities and wannabe stars whose bodies I had the privilege of clothing. But I'll save this section for last and start at the beginning, where it all began.

1979

I mentioned that I got a Singer 503-A slant machine for high school graduation. I lugged it off to Los Angeles when I was 20, heading for sunshine and blue skies. I was hired in 1978 to work in the fabric department at May Company at Wilshire and Fairfax. I was fired in 1979. I applied and was accepted to FIDM when it was in the Barker Brothers Furniture building. I lasted for half of a two-year fashion design program. Then I went to work as a salesperson for Henry and his wife Zina at S&S Fabrics on the corner of 7th and Los Angeles Street in the downtown garment district. The pithole of LA. 

Henry was old when I met him. He was a small man, hunched, always wringing his hands. No, I mean, really, he wrung his hands any time he wasn't carrying rolls of fabric, tearing fabric, or ringing up sales on the ancient cash register. He had a huge lower lip and an condescending smile. I'm sure he pitied me because I wasn't Jewish. (Hey, some of my best friends are Jewish.) Henry trusted me enough to let me write out his checks for him. I remember sitting at an old wooden desk in a tiny office wallpapered in paper-wrapped rolls of organza, taffeta, and chiffon. I wrote out checks for four-digit amounts to textile brokers back East, and then Henry would sign them. I was college-educated, after all. Even though I had spiked hair and wore strange clothes, he trusted me not to steal from him.

My compadres at the fabric store were: (1) Jack, an old Jewish man with deep roots in textile sales; (2) Margarita, a 20-something Latina with sparking black eyes and acned skin; (3) Michael, a Latino from Baja with liquid brown eyes, to this day easily the most handsome young man I've seen; and on Saturdays (4) Marsha, an exotic new wave vocal stylist with spiked hair, a honking voice, buck teeth, and a penchant for jumpsuits. Marsha was a few years older than me and a lot more confident. I found her both annoying and intriguing. She told me she would pay me $15 per pair to sew pants. I said OK. This is where my sewing career began. Thanks a lot, Marsha. 

Henry had an attic of amazing vintage fabric. Marsha had already scoped out the best of the old rayons and silks from the 1940s and 1950s, some so delicate they tore with a breath, but others plenty sturdy enough for pants. So, she bought the fabric from Henry, and I made pants. Lots of pants. I Googled her new wave band and found a photo of her band. I had forgotten so much.. her goofy outfits, her skinny boyfriend, pretty much everything except her manic intensity and buck teeth.

We called this one The Body Bag

My partner Kate and I started Spiderwear, a costume/clothing company in Kate's loft space where she lived with an artist named David, a dog named Willie, and a cat named Bip. Spiderwear was really Kate's company. I had the pattern-making brawn, I guess, but she had the brains. Googling Spiderwear gets you nothing, so no privacy problem there. I've never posted anything, and I doubt Kate has either. We had some minor successes peddling our vinyl jumpsuits to boutiques on Melrose and Sunset Blvd. We were always on the cutting edge of starvation. 

I think we met Marianne, a Los Angeles bohemian/artist/fashionista through Neo 80, a clothing boutique owned by Klaus Wille and Lisa Elliot. Neo 80 was the absolute coolest shop, back before Melrose turned trendy, long before yuppies swept through with their Gaps and Eddie Bauers. Back when every clothing designer had a unique style and a low-rent shop on Melrose Ave, we sold our vinyl clutch bags (sewed on my little Singer) to Lisa and Klaus. I did some inexpert sewing for Lisa for some cash. And we got to tag along—with our costumes, of course: It was always about the clothes. 

Marianne produced a fashion show in a hot warehouse somewhere in LA. I don't remember what we showed, but I'm sure it had three qualities: you couldn't breathe in it, you couldn't sit down in it, and you sure better pee before you put it on! But you looked like a new wave dream. In 1996, long after I lost track of her, Marianne died of breast cancer, and Lisa Elliot died of cancer in 2009. Who knew fashion was such a dangerous business? 

I was making clothes for friends of friends to pay for the studio space I rented from Bob, an artist with a wide grin and thick glasses. The loft was next door to Kate and David, with a connecting door that they wisely kept locked. I think they considered me their sad adult child. Kate and I struggled, but we were artists, not business people. We refused to compromise our artistic values: What do you mean you want to be able to sit down in it!? Go away, you poser, you. 

Then I met Roger and moved out to Santa Monica.

1980

The story continues. I don't have pictures from 1980-1986. From 1980 to 1984 I lived at Roger's apartment in Santa Monica, using his hardwood floor as my cutting table, and setting up my sewing machine in his breakfast nook. I met some great clients during that time. My favorite was an old director named Elbert Budin, famous for his table top food shots. He was a grizzle-bearded guy with a fondness for kimonos. Wrapped jackets made of fabric he collected in the far corners of the globe. He's dead now, I guess. I Googled him and found some tributes. I had no idea he was so well known in his field. To me he was just the nice old guy who liked to wear kimonos.

1986

Do you remember life before digital cameras? I dug around in my piles of junk and found a thick dusty binder full of Polaroids from the late 1980s. These old photos are faded and crusty, and stuck permanently three or four to a cardboard page with some unknown glue. I can't peel them off so I scanned the entire page and separated them out one by one. 

This was a bride and her anxiety ridden bridesmaid. Saralyn had someone else make her wedding gown, but somehow her best friend Louise found me to make her special bridesmaid outfit. I'm guessing other dressmakers saw her sketches and politely turned her away. Not me. Nobody got turned away at my place! All wackjobs welcome.

The challenge with Louise wasn't so much what she wanted me to make for her, or even how little she wanted to spend. Her issue was her lack of self-confidence. She designed a bold capri-length jumpsuit of lavender polyester satin, edged with purple, and a lavender tulle overskirt with a matching hat and veil. It was a provocative outfit, requiring some courage to wear, and when Louise saw herself in the mirror at her first fitting, she... well, let me be blunt: she freaked.

Eventually she stopped crying long enough to hear my calm reassuring voice. Everything will be ok. You look marvelous. Saralyn loves you no matter what you wear. No, you're not fat. This is a totally cool design. I just kept mumbling platitudes, hoping she wouldn't decide that she couldn't do it after all. My fear that my rent money would walk out the door in a storm of tears.

But Louise took possession of her unusual outfit and paid with a check that cleared. I don't know what happened at the wedding, if people praised her sense of adventurous design or snickered behind their champagne glasses. If they found her comical and pathetic, I hope she was drunk enough not to care.


Back in 1987, we were all into Talking Heads. David Byrne's wide-shouldered suit spawned numerous knockoffs, one of which was this cheery suit I made for comedian, magician, and juggler Daniel Rosen. The shoulder pads were the size of small turkeys. Not being a tailor really didn't matter all that much when you are shaping wads of foam into huge shoulder pads.

Daniel was a friend of my boyfriend. I recognize my boyfriend's living room in the background of this picture. We lived in a small apartment in apartment row on Detroit Street, just off La Brea somewhere near Wilshire. I'm sure I couldn't find it again, even if it still exists. I'm sure this nutty blue suit no longer exists, either.

I'm not blacking out Daniel's face because he is a famous person who probably would be happy to be remembered for his fabulous suit. I have no idea what he is doing now. I haven't seen him on Letterman, that's for sure. I hope this suit didn't ruin his career.

1987

Yep, I'm afraid it's true. I made black leather pants with a red Defender codpiece for Alice Cooper. I also made a black leather vest with monkey fur hanging off the shoulders, but I don't have a picture of that. I have since heard that it is illegal to own monkey fur. Ugh. Where did they get it? I don't know. I bought the leather, but Alice Cooper's assistant provided the codpiece (pre-painted) and the monkey fur.

Alice came to my shop once for a fitting. Nice man, as I recall. Skinny legs. I guess the codpiece fit. I don't remember. I think I've blanked it all out of my memory.

I didn't much care for working with leather, but I got pretty good at it, considering I didn't know what I was doing. I remember making a straight dress of shiny cowhide for a fashion-conscious client. It was the color of a number 2 pencil. I remember some pigskin suede jackets. I remember a pieced dress of turquoise lambskin, so soft.

1988

I bartered a couple jackets for accounting services with a gal who had just graduated from college with an accounting degree. She is the one who gave me the sad news that I was going to owe a lot of money to the IRS. Well, a lot of money for me.

Check out the wide sharp shoulderline and the cute little collar. She designed it, not me, in case you think it's lame. But considering I'm not a tailor, I don't think it's too bad. She liked it. Or maybe she just liked delivering the news that I owed the IRS a few thousand dollars.

All those hours spent at her house, poring over my pathetic books under the dim lamp over her kitchen table, and that is what I got.

It's interesting to see the background. Looks like I had some cinder block shelves going on, full of fabric, of course. I recognize some of the art on the wall. The blob of dark in the lower right hand corner was my tiny refrigerator.

Sequins! This was Minnie's prom dress, circa 1988. What I want to know is, did she ever try to sit down or did she spend the entire evening standing? This was crappy knit sequins, as I recall. It had to be, to plunge that deep in back and not gape if she leaned wrong. Perfect for a skin tight outfit, but probably not destined to last very long. Wear once and throw away.

Her mother was a stylist, someone I really liked a lot. I guess the design was OK with her mother. Go figure.

This is one of those gravity-defying dresses I was describing one another page. Big ruched collar and a ruched up skirt with a ridiculous bow. If one thread breaks, the thing starts dragging behind you like an old security blanket.

Louise was a stylist I worked with sometimes. Stylists are so logical and reasonable when they are designing garments for commercials and TV shows. But when it comes to designing for themselves, they go insane, choosing bizarre fabrics and impossible styles.

I never said no. Maybe in this case I should have.

I remember this one. Silk shantung with godawful ruffles at the hem and a goofy... looks like a matching hanky in a breast pocket? Not my idea. My wonderful employee Inez sewed most of this outfit. The silk raveled like crazy, so Inez decided to encase each raw edge in the green tulle. Wow. The inside was as bizarre as the outside.

I couldn't stand it, so after Inez left, I lined the darn thing in green silk, what is that thin silk called? I can't remember now. So all that work Inez did to cover the raw edges was wasted. Did I make any money on the job? I doubt it.

My friend Molly helped me with an order for Edgar Winter. He needed a costume to wear in a music video. I met him once; the rest of the time I worked with his stylist. Molly helped me glue "jewels" all over a colorful lame jacket, cape, and pants.

What you don't see in this picture is the sign on the wall to Molly's right: Due to overwhelming demand, we are unable to accept any new orders at this time. Wow. I can't believe I hung that on the wall in my shop. I guess I was desperate to quit. I kept going, though, for another year.

Molly said something I'll never forget. She said, "It's never too soon to stop doing what you hate and start doing what you love." Not long after she said that, I began seriously entertaining the idea of closing the shop. I have never regretted it. Wish I'd done it sooner.

1989

By 1989 things were going from bad to intolerable. And I don't mean fashion trends, although that was probably true. Remember these fishtail dresses? People could barely walk in them!

I was swamped with the worst kind of orders: bridesmaids and prom dresses. Here is a prom dress of some crappy taffeta. I did a little amateur photoediting so you can see the actual outline of the dress. Curvy. I don't remember who this was for, but she was young and built, that much I know.

This is one of many such dresses I made during the last couple years. My heart was never in this business, but by 1989 I was ready to stick needles in my eyes, just for it to be over. Enough taffeta, already! Enough propping giant bosoms up with boning and buckram!

Argh! The mother of the debutante! How low did I have to go before I was willing to pull the plug? Check out those shoulders, propped up with tulle, probably. I bet they wilted at the first drycleaning. I hope I was incommunicado by the time she saw the shoulders droop into a goopy mess. I'm sure I would have had to replace the tulle.

I don't remember the mother of the deb, or the deb. But I have muscle memory of sitting at my machine, coaxing chiffon to line up and behave. I still have knots in my back from all the sitting I did during those ten or so years of hell. This looks like polyester chiffon. Could have been worse, could have been silk.

It probably sounds like I am complaining. In fact, you could say this entire website/blog thing is one giant complaint, and you would be correct. But, hey, there's a bright side: I can share the whole sordid seamy experience with you. I truly hope you love to sew. Before you commit to a lifetime of sewing for others, be sure it is what you really want to do. And if it is, jump in with both feet and don't look back.

All the best,
Artemis Taft