I'm giving sleeves the cold shoulder

It all dropped into place as I was watching the film “Hidden Figures”. As Taraji P Henson’s character, real-life NASA mathematician Katherine Johnson, climbs a ladder and raises her arm to begin writing on a huge blackboard, her dress just... stays put. The hem doesn’t lift awkwardly, the fabric of the bodice doesn’t bunch around her shoulders and neck. She looks focussed and poised, her dress an eye-catching flash of bright colour amid a sea of grey as she formulates the safe return of a person from space. 

The success of a dress can hang on its sleeves, and, once again, fast fashion is letting us down. 

As a woman in my mid 30s, the perceived wisdom is that I should be desperate for clothes with sleeves (presumably to cover my unsightly upper arms and armpits in case they are *gasp* sweaty or *double gasp* hairy). In fact the exact opposite has happened, and you will rarely find me sporting a sleeve. While I may not have the perfectly toned arms of an A-List star in a red carpet gown, I see no reason why my completely average arms should be a source of shame. If you are bothered by my (mostly shaved, but sometimes stubbly) armpits, perhaps worry about something else instead of policing women’s bodies? 

But I’m not just going sleeveless as a gesture of defiance against oppressive beauty norms, I’m not wearing sleeves because they just don’t fit properly. If you’re wearing a non-stretchy fitted top or dress, lift your arms above your head. Does the whole garment follow you? Does it stay rucked up when you lower your arms? Doesn’t that annoy you? Sleeves have become a complicated part of a garment, and fast fashion just doesn’t seem to be getting them right. 

I don’t blame pattern cutters; I’ve had trouble with sleeves ever since I drafted my first (terrible) sleeve pattern in my first term at uni. I’ve had years to practice drafting sleeves of every shape and size, and my initial pattern almost always needs tweaking. The difference between my pattern cutting experience and that of someone who sends their patterns off to a factory is that I have to take into consideration any requests from actors or private customers for better freedom of movement, and I usually have the luxury of time (or at least more time than the few seconds a factory worker would be given to sew a sleeve). 

The “factory method” is to machine the armhole with the garment lying flat first, then machine the sleeve seam and side seam all in one. This means there is very little ease in the sleeve head, not so much of a problem for people with a flatter chest, but not ideal for those with a full bust. The method I use for a couture garment is very different; I machine the side seams first, place the garment on the stand and then “balance” my sleeve, pinning it in place to check that it hangs correctly. I don’t always line up my sleeve seam and my side seam; sometimes setting the sleeve seam a bit further forwards can give some extra ease for a larger bust (this ease can help to prevent gaping on a button-down shirt. So can proper button placement, but that’s a rant for another time). I sometimes add a (historically inaccurate) grown-on gusset to certain styles of historical costume (or modern clothing) to allow for more underarm movement, but there are plenty of examples of historical sleeves where this simply wasn’t a problem. 

Up until the 19th Century, men’s shirt patterns were a simple series of squares and rectangles, with a diamond shaped gusset under the arm to allow plenty of movement. The creative pattern cutting of post-war mid-century fashion revisited this idea.  Despite its ubiquity in fashion photography, many women weren’t fans of the ultra-feminine New Look. After experiencing the freedoms afforded by paid work and practical uniforms during the Second World War, they were reluctant to go back to restrictive clothing. 

I found some great examples of the compromises made by enterprising dressmakers in the ladieswear department of the costume house in London where I work. These smart dresses all have cleverly constructed sleeves or underarm gussets to allow for movement in an otherwise fitted and demure dress. Compared to my high-street fitted dress with sleeves, the waist seam on these vintage dresses barely shifts when I raise my arms and I didn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable in a 70-year-old dress as I did in a modern one. 

We look at historical clothing in museum collections and marvel at how restrictive it must have been. But unless we are wearing stretch fabrics, our modern clothing isn’t much better. As the cost-cutting measures that enable fast fashion’s artificially low prices restrict the amount of time spent adjusting patterns and stitching garments, we are literally restricting ourselves in poorly thought-out clothes.

In this day and age, we pride ourselves of finding creative solutions to improve efficiency (even when, sometimes, these solutions were there all along). Maybe we need to take a more creative approach to pattern cutting and garment construction to provide the freedom we expect (and need) from modern clothing.

5 reasons why fast fashion (probably) won't fit you

How many times have you picked up a garment from a high-street shop (which wasn’t super stretchy) that fitted you perfectly? It’s a great feeling when it does, but most of the time that’s not what happens. We’re left contorting ourselves in the changing room mirror trying to find the garment’s best angle, wondering what we can wear it with to hide the bit we don’t like or planning to cinch it in with a statement belt. 

It’s not surprising that high street clothes aren’t a perfect fit, when patterns are initially developed for a fit model (who probably has a very different body shape to the majority of people), and then graded up and down to (imperfectly) fit a range of sizes. Our dissatisfaction with these imperfect clothes increases our rate of consumption as we discard all those outfits that never really worked in a fruitless search for that elusive perfect fit. 

Understanding why our clothes might not be ideally suited to our bodies is an important step towards having a more positive self image, and reducing our consumption of clothing that makes us feel unhappy. Here are five things I’ve come to understand about the fashion industry that have helped me change my habits.

There is no standard sizing:

For gender neutral garments like jeans, there are more straightforward sizing options to give shoppers a fighting chance of finding something that fits. Measurements for the waist and inside leg length, as well as a description of the expected fit (skinny, tapered leg etc) help to narrow down your options (although I’d argue that a hip measurement would be helpful too). For women’s clothing sizes - size 10, 12, 14 etc- there are no standard measurements, brands can decide for themselves what measurements they want to allocate to each size. This might be determined by a profile of their average customer, their age and lifestyle, with the concept of “vanity sizing” - giving a garment with larger measurements a smaller-sounding size to encourage customers to buy it - complicating matters further. 

Big brands are likely to use different fit models for different ranges, and send patterns and samples to different factories, increasing the likelihood of discrepancy in sizing. When I was checking labels to find out what my clothes were made from, and where they were made, for my Wardrobe Diary, I noticed that I had clothes in a range of sizes from certain brands, even though my body shape hasn’t noticeably changed for years. Of course, clothing is designed with a specific fit in mind, and there is nothing to stop customers buying a larger size for a looser fit, but it can add to a sense of confusion about sizing, especially if the clothes aren’t shown on a model to give an idea of the intended proportions. 

All bodies are unique:

This excellent interactive size chart, What Size Am I? is a real eye-opener if you always feel disappointed that high street clothes don’t fit quite right. Enter your bust, waist and hip measurements, and you can see how your body shape corresponds to the measurements used by different high street brands for each of their sizes. 

Of course, the body is three-dimensional, so even if your measurement corresponds to the measurement given by a brand on their sizing chart, that doesn’t necessarily guarantee a good fit. If your proportions are different to those of the fit model, that can cause fit issues. My 35 inch bust measurement could easily apply to someone with a larger rib cage and smaller breasts. It could encompassa range of bra sizes from an A to an E cup, which can make a huge difference to the fit of clothes.

When standard size patterns are “graded” (converted into a range of different sizes by increasing or decreasing the proportions of the original pattern, usually designed for a size 12), this is usually done in uniform increments, which is not the way the human body develops! Anyone with a longer or shorter than average torso, a fuller bust or wider hips, can find their body shape at odds with conventional sizing. 

Clothes are designed to optimise manufacturing efficiency, not fit:

If you study a beautifully proportioned 1950s suit, a chic 1940s tea dress or a drapey 1930s gown, you’ll see that the construction of these garments is pretty complicated. Intricately shaped pattern pieces, carefully positioned darts and hidden padding or boning all contribute to a perfect fit. These features correspond to a unique body shape, and garments with many different pattern pieces and lots of detailing are time-consuming, and therefore expensive, to make. Simple, boxy shapes that need minimal machining make a more efficient use of fabric, and a loose-fitting garment is less likely to be rejected in a fitting room if it isn’t an exact fit.

People in the public eye get a helping hand:

Whether we’re looking at a celebrity at a red carpet event or the host of a TV show, if they are looking flawlessly dressed it’s probably because they have had behind-the-scenes help from more than just a stylist. As well as having clothing selected for them to ensure that they look perfect, whatever the occasion, anyone with a role in front of the camera is probably having their outfits altered by skilled seamstresses like my friend and former colleague  who runs Grace Lane Studio. Brands want their clothes to be seen in the best light for any sort of advertising campaign, and altering the garment itself is less noticeable in a world which is becoming ever more savvy to airbrushing or digital manipulation. 

It was never intended to.

From the simple shape of a 1960s A-Line mini dress to the snug embrace of a body-con “bandage” dress, the styles that have transferred most efficiently from high fashion to fast fashion rely on a cut that skims over the exact shape of the body, or a fabric that stretches and moulds to the body. Our most comfortable mass-produced purchases are probably either loose or stretchy (or both) because it’s impossible for fast fashion to perfectly fit every one of its millions of customers.

I’m not suggesting that we should all ditch factory-made clothing entirely and only wear couture or clothes we’ve made ourselves; factories have the advantages of economies of scale, bringing prices down to an affordable level, and specialist hardware, software and expertise that have been used to create clothing we’d struggle to duplicate at home. We do need to remember, though, that we can’t expect perfection from fast fashion, and it would be great to start normalising altering clothes to get the exact fit or style we want.

I’m going to put some tips and ideas up on the blog in the near future, so keep checking back, but if you know you’re unlikely to do the alterations yourself it’s worth doing some quick calculations to see how paying for alterations could actually save you money when you’re shopping on the high street. If you buy a pair of trousers for £30, but only wear them three times because you’re unhappy with the fit, they have cost you £10 per wear. If you spend an extra £30 on getting them professionally altered to fit perfectly, and you wear them thirty times (the ethical fashion community’s baseline for a garment to be worth buying), they have only cost you £2 per wear! Saving money in the long run and saving the planet seems like a win-win to me.

Our fashion choices can speak volumes about us, but we all need to be part of the conversation

Our clothing is a powerful method of non-verbal communication, and can have a really positive impact if we are able to make it work for us. But what do we do if the fashion industry isn't giving us the chance to say what we want to say? 

I've written about about the limitations of fast fashion when it comes to fitting or flattering our bodies, but I've also written about the fun we can have with our clothes, even indulging in some closet cosplay to give us the confidence of our favourite fictional characters when the going gets tough. I strongly believe that clothes should make you feel comfortable, both physically and psychologically, but I also think clothing works well as armour, equipping us to deal with challenging situations by projecting an image of strength, competence or resilience that perhaps we need a bit of help to feel authentically. 

I've been dealing with both physical and mental health issues recently, and sometimes the thought of everything I need to do in a day makes it almost impossible to get out of bed. But I know that flopping around in my pyjamas will only make me feel worse, so every evening before I go to bed I lay out a nice outfit, and every morning I force myself to put it on, to brush my hair, apply some make-up. Seeing the person I want to be looking back at me in the mirror reminds me that I am more than my problems, I have the strength to cope with difficult situations and work towards the goals I have set for myself. It might sound shallow, but looking good makes me feel much better about myself; it makes me feel like I should be out and about in the world, rather than huddling at home. 

My relationship with my clothes has changed and evolved since I became a more conscious consumer; taking part in Labour behind the Label's Six Items Challenge cemented my view of my favourite clothes as valuable and versatile rather than disposable, and while I'm thinking much more carefully about the clothes I buy new now, I also apply the same scrutiny to the clothes I already own. If my clothes aren't looking their best, or making me look my best, I alter them, mend them, or decide they weren't really meant for me and take them to a clothes swap or charity shop. I remember my dad making fun of the designer logo trend that was popular in the 90s ("they should be paying me if they want me to advertise their brand!"); it wasn't a fad I ever bought into, but I do want to be a good advert now for ethical and sustainable fashion. I want people to see that alternatives to fast fashion are smart and stylish, and to dispel the outdated and inaccurate stereotypes that occasionally still linger around eco-friendly or second-hand clothes. All the outfits I've worn this week feature clothes from swaps, second-hand shops, or are rejected manufacturing samples or things I have made myself! 

The fact that the clothes I am now choosing to buy are manufactured in ways that align with my personal values adds another feel-good factor to my wardrobe. I know I'm trying my hardest to have the smallest possible negative impact on other people and the environment; my values are lived, not performative. Ethical fashion blogger Tolly Dolly Posh makes a strong case for ethical and sustainable fashion as a feminist movement, and points out "FEMINIST" t-shirts need to be more than just a slogan stamped on a shirt that has been made in a sweat shop. This was certainly a concern for my friends at The Suffragette City, who didn't want their "Same Shit, Different Century" fundraising t-shirts and bags (created to raise money for Abortion Rights) to be asking for a better world through their slogan only. They chose to partner with Rapanui (through Teemill) a company who make their clothes and bags from organic cotton in an ethically accredited wind-powered factory.

There is an element of privilege here, because ethical products are often more expensive than their fast fashion equivalents, but there are also vast, global issues under the surface: if the average consumer's wages are so low that we are unable to clothe ourselves or our families without buying items made in sweatshops, should we be clamouring for more sweatshop-made clothing, or for global change that results in less wage inequality so that we can all have nice things? Ethical and sustainable brands are usually run by young entrepreneurs, keen to make a difference but aware that they have bills to pay. High street fast fashion brands are run by some of the richest people on the planet, who somehow still can't afford to pay their workers a fair wage. I know who I would rather give my money to! 

Ethical and sustainable fashion can be inaccessible for reasons other than cost; this Refinery 29 article features plus-size fashion bloggers discussing the problems they have faced trying to find clothes that fit their values and their bodies. I received a detailed and thoughtful email from my aunt, a savvy charity shop bargain finder (it must run in the family, my sister and cousin have a talent for it too!) who wants to find ethical fashion for older women at a price point she can afford on a pension. Although the new brands I have been looking at definitely seem to have more diverse models, it’s important for all customers to see themselves represented, so that ethical and sustainable fashion will be seen as the norm, as something for everyone, rather than as a niche purchase for people with money and the time to go searching online for the perfect piece of clothing. 

So what can we do to get the clothes we want, in a way that is good for everyone? We can ask for what we want! Contact small brands and ask if they can make something in your size (some of these brands work on a bespoke model in the first place to avoid the wastage of unwanted stock, so it might be possible without a large increase in price), or ask what their plans are for including your size in their range in the future. Sometimes a brand has to start with a capsule collection in limited sizes in order to fund a roll-out of a variety of sizes and styles later on. We should also contact bigger brands and ask them to increase workers' wages, or to use sustainable materials. We tend to demand more of smaller brands with accessible customer service when we have spent more (which is absolutely our right as consumers), but blame ourselves for buying cheap clothes that don't fit or are poorly made, and are more likely to give or throw away the offending item rather than complaining. Multinationals need to be made aware of their mistakes too; they are not going to change unless they think customers won't buy their products any more. 

It used to be normal to be demanding when it came to our clothes: if we were having an outfit made by a dressmaker or tailor we would select specific fabric, fastenings and trims, have our measurements taken, come back for fittings, and insist on quality materials and finish. The price we pay for low cost fast fashion isn't just the damage to the environment or the exploitation of workers, it's that, unless we are very lucky and exactly the same size and proportions as a shop's fit model, nothing will ever fit us perfectly. Fast and cheap also has an impact on innovation and vision; it's hard for designers to produce unique and inspiring work that pushes the world of fashion forward when they are being asked for eight collections per year instead of two, with high street brands following suit and cutting down on design details to save time and money.

We can support the brands that help us to look and feel like the best versions of ourselves, and ask the brands that are letting us down to do better. I'll leave you with this quote from author and sustainable living advocate Anne Lappe:

“Every time you spend money, you’re casting a vote for the kind of world you want”

Around six months ago I wrote this article for The Boomerang Press, and with their permission I'm reposting it here, as an introduction to why I wanted to start up a style blog that rejects 'fast fashion' and aims to find the ways in which clothes can be expressive, exciting and non-exploitative.

Are we being assimilated by fast fashion?

Fashion has never been more affordable or more accessible, but as it becomes more generic and disposable, are we losing touch with one of the most enjoyable aspects of clothing; its ability to help us express our identity? Whether we like it or not, the clothing we choose to wear (or have to wear) on a day to day basis says a lot about our identity. Even if we don’t have to wear an official uniform for work, we often end up choosing an unofficial uniform; expressing our affiliation with a sports team, a band or a subculture group. We can express a complete indifference to, or an in-depth knowledge of the latest trends with our fashion choices. For me, this performative aspect is one of the most enjoyable things about clothing; being able to choose who I want to be in the morning and dressing accordingly.

When a t-shirt costs the same as a coffee, it would seem that our options for self-expression through fashion were limitless, but I’m not sure this is the case. I’ve compiled my ridiculous dressing-up box of a wardrobe over 20 years (a velvet blazer, bought with my first clothing allowance at 14, has somehow survived numerous wardrobe culls; some undertaken for reasons of space and some out of sheer embarrassment), and for me the thrill of the chase goes hand in hand with my love of clothing. I’ve saved up for party dresses, scoured charity shops and thrift stores, swapped items with friends and made my own dresses and accessories. I loved the idea of fast fashion, and I still have plenty of items from the cheaper end of the high street that have washed and worn well.

But I’ve recently fallen out of love with fashion, and fast fashion in particular, as I’ve seen the imagination and creativity that is so vital to good design edged out in favour of quick turnover and profit. Intricate detailing, pattern matching or good pattern placement takes up time during the making process and uses up more fabric, and good quality, durable fabrics and fastenings are more expensive to produce. All these things seem to have gone missing from the high street recently, replaced by vast numbers of simple-shaped garments, made to increasingly arbitrary sizes.

Fast fashion feels like a placebo; the one thing we can afford in great quantities when larger long-lasting purchases are almost laughably out of our reach. But it’s doing an increasingly bad job of keeping us happy; we may be able to fill our wardrobes with clothes but none of them were designed with us in mind, and none of them really fit. Sizing for women’s clothing in particular varies from shop to shop, and leaves a lot of shoppers feeling miserable; either because they weren’t the size they were expecting to be, or because there was nothing suitable for their body shape at all. We end up feeling that there is something wrong with our bodies because they aren’t the right shape for the clothes; it takes courage to argue that there is something wrong with the clothes because they do not fit our bodies.

While fast fashion may have created the illusion of making clothes shopping more democratic, at least in the West, cheap clothing comes at great cost to the environment and to the wellbeing of garment workers abroad. Throwing garments into landfill after only a couple of wears, or buying something and never wearing it at all has become normalised, and it’s no longer possible to turn a blind eye to this. If what we wear is part of our identity, should we be so keen to shrug it off and dispose of it every time something new comes along? And as the exploitation of garment workers garners more media attention, we have to accept that if we buy in to fast fashion we are condoning this; our privileged position as first world consumers is also part of our identity.

I don’t think it’s shallow to enjoy expressing ourselves through our clothes; our fashion choices enable us to find common ground and strike up conversation. I love seeing someone wearing an obscure fandom t-shirt and thinking “I understood that reference!” At a time when we’re encouraged to present ourselves as a bland, palatable ‘personal brand’, being outrageous or unpredictable in our clothing choices is almost a subversive statement. I enjoy flouting ‘style rules’ and encourage everyone else to do the same; ignoring attempts to homogenise consumers by dictating what is or isn’t ‘appropriate’ for people of a particular size, age or gender is, in my opinion, a much better way to make clothing more democratic.