Burnt out by fast fashion, Madeleine Crutchley took the sewing machine into her own hands. The self-confessed ‘total sewing novice’ tries to make clothes using patterns from local brands, with various degrees of difficulty.
Two distinct locations host my tween-age fashion memories.
One.
Matching Old Skool Vans carry me and
Two.
I perch on Nana’s couch, watching her wooden needles crisscross steadily. Awkwardly, I echo her movements. My stitches are too tight and then too loose. She soothes as my frustration grows. But then, all at once, I’m holding a few wonky rows of woven yarn. She pats me on the back. I bubble with quiet pride.
They’re both treasured memories. However, as I’ve become more aware of fast fashion’s eroding effects, the first has become increasingly muddied. Like many other fashion lovers, I’ve looked to other sources to reduce my impacts when I do shop: buying second-hand, repairing worn clothing and choosing local brands and makers.
There’s another option I haven’t dared to broach — making my own clothing.
Several New Zealand labels stock patterns with instructional guides, inviting fashion fans to try their hands at construction. It’s an option I’ve been wary of, due to my utter lack of sewing and knitting skills.
Lately, I’ve begun to think of construction as a crucial point of understanding. As a consumer of clothing and, more specifically, someone who writes about fashion, I feel I should have some basic knowledge about how my garments are put together.
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Advertise with NZME.Propelled by this curiosity, I decide to test out some of the options offered locally. How approachable are New Zealand-made patterns to someone with little sewing and knitting experience? How hard is it to make something I want to wear? And, most importantly, will my mum let me camp out with her sewing machine for a couple of weeks?
The preparation
I start bold, acquiring a pattern to make a pair of trousers. When I open it, I’m floored. If this is how you make one pair of trousers, how did we ever make it to the moon?
Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the process (and having no room to back out having already pitched this story), I seek expert advice.
At the 2023 Mindful Fashion Circular Design Awards, Olivia Schaw of Palmerston North-based brand Griv took home the award for Innovation Showing Exciting Commercial Potential Award. The designer’s inventive dress was made using a vintage bed sheet. It was also submitted with a functional pattern so others could emulate the final garment at home.
The designer is a professional patternmaker and a sewing and fashion tutor (and very quickly recognises my nerves).
“It can be really daunting to read a sewing pattern, but I think it’s just practice.”
Olivia emphasises a few key things I need to know: checking the grainline, starting with a sturdy fabric and reading the instructions until they’re clear. Most importantly, she says not to let worry overwhelm me.
“Once, you’re all cut out, I don’t think people need to stress the small things. I’ve had students who are like, ‘This is a couple millimetres off!’ That’s not going to destroy the garment.”
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Level 1: A scrunchie
To begin, I turn to Ruby’s extensive collection of patterns, crafted by Liam designer Emily Miller-Sharma. The brand stocks patterns for shirts, pants, dresses and scrunchies, made with end-of-mill NZME newspapers.
The Liam patterns are graded in three levels: beginner, intermediate and advanced. The scrunchie is among a few free patterns in the beginner section, so I pick that as an approachable starting point (as per Olivia’s advice, it’s essentially a small rectangle).
I source my fabric from one of the Ruby scrap bins — the brand keeps offcuts in store for aspiring makers to take home and craft from. It’s a satin purple, slightly slippery, but certainly scrunchie-appropriate.
This pattern, in contrast to those dizzying pants, is an ideal pick for a first attempt.
It involves making a few simple folds and stitches with a small rectangle, threading a short piece of elastic through the opening, before securing with an invisible stitch.
While the invisibility of my stitch leaves something to be desired, I’m pleasantly surprised at the finished result. The fabric has a pleasant sheen and the hair tie feels sturdy. It also comes together in under an hour — it’s an approachable and encouraging start.
Level 2: A button-up shirt
This shirt is a more challenging task.
The pattern for the Sparrow Shirt comes from Make By TFS, the in-house pattern brand from The Fabric Store. The breezy shirt is made of eight different pieces and includes the complication of attaching a collar (it also comes with matching shorts).
To give myself the best chance of success, I choose a sturdy cotton poplin from The Fabric Store’s extensive collection of deadstock rolls. I also decide to sew with white thread, so I can see my stitches, should I need to unpick.
I trip up early. My version of the pattern comes formatted for printing on A4 paper. As a total novice, I struggle to put it together correctly for about half an hour. However, once I realise that the pages match up by numbers (cue toddler-ish glee), the pattern makes a lot more sense.
Though my mum, a seasoned sewer, is slightly horrified with my choice of kitchen scissors, I make it to the construction quickly. The pocket, a rectangle, is easy. The “plackets”, where the buttons are placed, less so.
I have to unpick the section twice — I do so swearing. I also prick my finger a few times on poorly placed pins.
Thankfully, the pages of instructions are very helpful in getting through my confusion, with big diagrams that point me in the right direction. I’m back on track after a minor tantrum, attaching the collar and sleeves with relative ease.
Mostly due to my construction, the shirt has a few flaws. The stitches at the collar are messy, the (***king!) top placket is slightly loose and the right shoulder seam gathers in strange places. But, as my colleagues later point out, it definitely looks like a shirt. I count it as a victory.
Level 3: A knitted vest
With those lovely knitting lessons from my nana, in my 25 years of life I’ve managed to knit about three scarves — all of which were way too short and, oddly, too wide.
Previously, I’ve struggled with the patience and intricacies required to knit something well. It’s never seemed appealing to give away hours of time to a practice that moves so slowly.
For my vest pattern, I turn to Monday Journal by Phoebe Paterson. The Wānaka-based label is known for its soft mohair knits (I’ve been crushing on one since the beginning of last winter). The local brand stocks patterns and knitting kits, for those interested in constructing their own version of the coveted vests, cardigans and jumpers.
For my project, I choose the chunky and cosy-looking Boyfriend Vest.
The pattern, rendered with a bit of colour and personality, is mostly written. I wonder if I’m more likely to get stuck. The pictures included in the instructions for my shirt were crucial for avoiding (or addressing) my mistakes.
Upon starting, I discover that Nana’s long-ago instructions have stuck with me.
I pick up each stitch relatively quickly, and I’m away knitting and purling with a good rhythm. The lack of pictures, replaced by simple mathematics makes more sense as I progress — I can simply zone out and focus on counting.
The pattern instructs me to use a much thicker wool than I have in the past, but it makes a major difference to my crafting. I get to see the results much faster, which pushes me to knit more. I switch it out for my usual evenings spent watching films. My mum is keen to get involved too, fondly remembering my nana’s dexterous technique as she weaves the yarn together.
The final product (after about 15 hours of construction) has 12 holes and an uneven collar. But I love it.
The thick wool is forgiving, the cut feels contemporary and I can see myself reaching for the vest through the winter. Most of all, I love the tracings of my mum’s stitching through it, steady and even, right next to my own frantic knots.
Throughout this (long) process, I’ve found the sense of closeness to clothing overwhelming.
Yes, in the moments where I’m utterly confused, but also in the moments where it just clicks; when I work out how a rounded rectangle becomes a collar or how to pick up a stitch that I’ve dropped. And, of course, in the memories that the making has nourished, including Nana’s much-missed lessons and Mum’s fixing of my school uniform.
In attempting to create my own pieces, I’ve been made aware of a production process that has been moved so far away. It’s made the hands that created my other pieces of clothing more tangible — brought into focus an expert skill that’s often not properly appreciated or compensated.
Feeling confident after the completion of my knitted vest, I reopened Ruby’s Lafayette Pants.
The pattern for the cult-favourite trousers is printed with diagrams, precise measurements and a long list of instructions.
I shake off the insistent nerves and begin to cut.
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