Costumes

“Dad I’m bored.”

“Oh? Maybe you should practice some drafting.”

He gave me a piece of 8 ½” x 11” paper, a pencil, and a ruler, and wrote down a list of shapes and dimensions for me to draft. Afterwards he checked my work and pointed out all my imprecisions. I went to my room and cried a little while wishing I could just go to the community pool like every other kid during the summer. Years after he passed away, I found myself doing the exact same thing to my patternmaking students in a Saturday morning continuing education class; adjusting their measurements by eighths, sometimes sixteenths of inches so they could cut a precise pattern. I heard his voice again and smiled.

*

“As you can see on our scissor wall, we have them separated into Paper and Fabric.” The students shifted their gaze with mild interest. “Paper dulls the scissors more quickly, and it’s important to have sharp scissors, because what you cut informs what you sew. It’s important to be precise, because if it isn’t, it could affect the fit.” That was usually the first moment the students started to realize that this might be a difficult hobby. I quickly moved on to discussing types of thread.

*

I talked to my aunt and uncle on the phone once a week. They were often the people I turned to for financial or career advice, or sometimes just to have a pleasant conversation with. I told them about the costumes I was making for a modern dance project my friends had initiated.

“Are they paying you?” My aunt asked. I was shocked at the question, which in hindsight I understood was a strange reaction, but I truly hadn’t even considered it.

“No! Definitely not!”

“What? Why not?”

I didn’t even know where to begin with her. Because they were my friends. Because they weren’t making any money off of this either, it was just something to keep our minds alive. Because it was a relief to have a creative project to work on outside of my routine of teaching beginners how to sew during the day, and tending bar at night. Because I couldn’t wait to sink my shears into some gleaming gold charmeuse, or the hazy grey crepe de chine I had been holding onto for something special, and watch a flowing dress emerge that would eventually shimmer across a screen on my friends’ dancing figures and make me feel like I had helped make something beautiful happen. Because not getting paid for this project meant I had full freedom to decide how expensive the fabric could be, and how long I could draw out the decadent process of making each costume. It meant working late into the night, hour-counting be damned, with a glass of wine next to my cutting table, that would eventually make the movement of the needle even more mesmerizing. I could lazily drag my pencil along the edges of the rulers and curves, coaxing the delicate shapes of the pattern onto the paper, loving every tactile minute of it.

I don’t remember what my response to my aunt ended up being.

*

I sat on the floor at my friend’s apartment while they tried on the costumes. Pincushion on my wrist, measuring tape around my neck, and my notebook and scissors at my side, I held my breath as the fitting began. They slipped the silk shapes on and each took a turn tentatively twisting, bending, crouching, feeling the fabric slide along their skin, encouraging each movement. Their faces started to break into smiles of delight, and giggles of surprise, catching a glimpse of their transformations in the mirror. I felt like I was watching a modern version of Botticelli’s Primavera come to life right there in a Brooklyn apartment. I laughed too.