I do not, I think it’s fair to say, present as frivolous. All those words like frothy and frilly and frou-frou, they just don’t fit me. And let us spell it out: these words are associated overwhelmingly with that other f-word, femininity, which from an early age has been a problematic space for [...]]]>

I do not, I think it’s fair to say, present as frivolous. All those words like frothy and frilly and frou-frou, they just don’t fit me. And let us spell it out: these words are associated overwhelmingly with that other f-word, femininity, which from an early age has been a problematic space for me to occupy.

I was a terribly earnest child, and now that I’m a grown woman you’ll rarely find me hanging around at the hyperfeminine end of the spectrum. I can glam up with the best of them, but when I do, the result tends to be more Lady Macbeth than Tinkerbell, if you see what I mean. (I reckon it’s a power thing.)

So let me tell you the story of my vanity case.

This is a sad little story, quite inconsequential in the grander scheme of things, but close to my heart because it features eight-year-old me.

Back in 1983, I entered an essay competition sponsored by the Irish Milk Board. In what was perhaps the first of many such feats of approval-magnetism, I based my work closely on the literature provided by the sponsor – so closely, in fact, that it felt uncomfortably like cheating. Lo and behold, my essay won a prize.

Before I went to the awards ceremony, I had to declare which of their range of prizes I wanted. I don’t recall much about the list, other than that it consisted mostly of toys. But it included one mysterious item: a “vanity case”.

A vanity case! Surely this must be a treasure beyond imagining: a magical container full of the sparkliest, froofiest, pinkest-and-purplest, glitteriest and goldest and forbiddenest of pleasures. I pictured eye-shadows, lipsticks, perfumed powders, sequins and rhinestones. (In my world, such things were the stuff of fantasy – one of my grandmothers wore a little make-up, but that was the height of it.)

So I chose the vanity case, ignoring raised eyebrows from my teacher, and went off to collect my prize. I squirmed with guilty anticipation as I stood on the stage, waiting for my coffer of delights to be bestowed on me.

You can see where this is going, right?

What they handed me that afternoon, under those dazzling stage lights, was a small, plain brown suitcase, with rounded corners and a metal clasp. Completely empty.

*pause as we contemplate with our adult ironic distance the cheesy symbolism of that*

I used the ugly vanity case for years to carry my personal things on family holidays. I knew I could never breathe a word of my bitter disappointment – because then people would know of my shameful secret yearnings, and also because I’d been wrong.

Vanity case. How much heartache could the promoters of that competition have saved if only they’d called it something else!

But let’s come back to those secret yearnings, because they are what prompted me to post about this. You see, part of me is deeply ashamed of my love of softness, shininess, luxury and froth. And I constantly have to overcome this shame in order to make the beautiful things I want to make.

The balance of the struggle has fluctuated over the years, but it’s definitely become more complicated as I’ve got older, because the Real Grown-Up Responsibilities to which I should at all times be directing my attention have become more pressing.

It occurred to me a while ago, for instance, that I have difficulty allowing myself to work on soft household items (cushions, curtains) while hard items (shelving, walls) remain unfinished.

Again, I notice that this is a gendered dichotomy (hammer drill versus sewing machine), and I wonder what effect that has had on my efforts to find a better balance. I love my power tools, but there’s a certain defiance, a certain I’m-as-good-as-the-boys-ness about my enthusiasm.

What I need is somehow to empower the tools on the other side of the fence – quilting foot, seam ripper, embroidery hoop, needle gauge – and get my inner patriarch to shut up while I create beauty all around me, for the sheer hell of it.

Feels kind of subversive, when I put it like that!

This post, incidentally, arose from a comment I left on a post at The Fluent Self wherein Havi talks about wanting a vanity table but needing to “stop getting hung up on the idea that it means [she's] vain”.

It’s always illuminating to look at how we present things to children. We tend (in the West, anyway) to portray the world to them in a kind of sanitised, round-edged, Technicolor version of how we believe it to be – or perhaps how we would like it to be – which says a [...]]]>

It’s always illuminating to look at how we present things to children. We tend (in the West, anyway) to portray the world to them in a kind of sanitised, round-edged, Technicolor version of how we believe it to be – or perhaps how we would like it to be – which says a lot about us.

I’ve been thinking recently about children’s clothes.

Clothes, of course, are practically a language all of their own: what we wear screams out information to the world (and this goes double if there are actual words on our clothes).

Do you buy children’s clothes? Have you noticed how insanely gendered they are these days? In some of the online circles where I hang out, it’s a commonplace almost no longer worth alluding to: if the fashion world had its way, girls would drown in a sparkly ocean of pink and lilac; boys would be engulfed in a tidal wave of blue, muddy shades, and military chic.

The colour thing is law, by the way, to an extent I don’t remember from when I was young. Nowadays, unless you colour-code your girl-child with pink or lilac, or other “feminine” talismans (talispersons?) (heartsflowersbutterflies), or a girly hairstyle, she will be assumed by strangers to be male. Yes, this really happens. Often.

And colour is, in many ways, the least of it. If you really want to get riled up, pause for a few moments to consider the words. Here are some real-life examples:

• On a blue top: My travel diary – African safari – Tropical island
• On a T-shirt: Little adventurer – Explorer club
• On a brick-red T-shirt: I’m travelling around the world with my friends
• On a yellow T-shirt: I’m the boss
• On a red, navy and grey top: Taxi – Police – Air Rescue
• On a grey, navy and green top: The big city – Swoosh! – Air rescue (illustration: helicopter)
• On a navy and grey top: If you think I’m cute you should see my daddy!

So far so good, right? OK, perhaps a touch of white privilege, but nothing too horrible (apart from the last one, which makes me feel queasy). Now, check these out:

• On a white top: No. 1 baby (illustration: flowers)
• On a white T-shirt with pink trim: Sunshine (embellishment: abstract flower motifs)
• On a pink T-shirt: Rosie’s secret garden (illustration: girl in a dress surrounded by floral motifs)
• On a white T-shirt: Good toes, naughty toes, good toes… (illustration: pink bow with suspended ballet pumps)
• On a navy and white top, in gold embellished script: Heritage
• On a white T-shirt: Follow the line to help baby elephant find his mummy (illustration: elephants and other animals, a dotted line)
• On a frilly turquoise T-shirt: Princess in training … almost perfect (embellishment: sequins, stars, hearts)

I take it you do not need me to explain which set goes with which gender? No? Good.

These examples are all from Mothercare in Dublin: I stopped there one afternoon a few months ago and wrote down everything I could see, because the contrast was so egregious. I haven’t shown you everything I wrote down, but this is a broadly (as opposed to statistically accurate) representative sample.

The Boy message is all about action, adventure, agency, while the Girl message is all about appearance, passivity, being the object of judgement.

The Boy tells us that he’s travelling around the world with his friends (who are African animals, as far as I remember), in a presumably carefree manner. The Girl is instructed to follow the line to help baby elephant find his mummy: to take responsibility, in other words, for minding a male child and sorting out a pretty serious, grown-up issue.

In general, the Boy gets to speak – “I’m the boss” – while the Girl is labelled – “No. 1 baby”. (Look out for that one. It’s a depressingly common distinction. I once saw a pair of gendered T-shirts reading “I’m the cutest!” (Boy) and “Cutie Pie” (Girl) – took me ages to work out why they annoyed me.)

Embellishment and illustration are ubiquitous in the Girl section, less so in the Boy section. (I didn’t note all of the illustrations in the Boy section, because they didn’t particularly strike me. Bad researcher, no biscuit.) This underlines the message that girls are decorative and looking at them is proper and pleasurable.

In the Boy section, there is nothing approaching the jawdropping world of WTF we see in the Girl section. (Heritage? What?) The message of Good toes, naughty toes, good toes… is that there is a paradigm of judgement, to which the wearer is subject. The same goes for Princess in training … almost perfect, which also encourages aspirations that can never be fulfilled (contrast Explorer, Air Rescue, which actually could feature in a child’s future).

Girls are pressured to strive for perfection – which as far as I can see is defined as community approval. Boys aren’t. My afternoon in Mothercare didn’t yield any examples of the “Boys are delinquent, unsanitary sociopaths, and we (women/mothers) love them anyway” meme, but look out for it – it’s everywhere (e.g. the picture at the top of this post, of a T-shirt belonging to the Feaster). Best example I can think of, spotted in the same Mothercare branch last year and neatly combining delinquency, militarism, and the glass ceiling: Trouble Squad: Team Leader.

But let us – with some difficulty, at least in my case – tear ourselves away from the sexist imbalances for a moment. The overarching message of these slogans, supported throughout this society by adult purchasing power, is basically, “Hey, look, here is the world. Regard it in all its teeming richness and beauty. One day, you will hold sway here. But remember – this is really important – you have to ignore this half over here. It is not for people with genitals shaped like yours. Focus exclusively on this half. Here is the arena in which your ineluctable destiny is to be played out. The other half is not for you – repeat: NOT for you. Because look! In your pants! See?”

Don’t you think that’s weird?

In the spirit of David and Goliath (or even, dare I suggest, a female version of the same trope – any suggestions?), my Zazzle shop provides a few alternative messages. These ideas have been kicking around in my head for a while; more will follow as inspiration strikes. (Meanwhile, if inspiration strikes you, it’s dead easy to start up there.)

I ordered an “I’ll be a post-feminist in the post-patriarchy” T-shirt for the Feaster last week, in pink with lilac writing. I got myself a “miles to go before I sleep” top as well, for good measure. I’ll let you know when they arrive.

I always welcome comments, but I’d particularly like to know what you think of this post. I hesitated for ages before publishing it – it’s quite a departure from my usual crafty subject-matter.

But then, clothes and fashion are definitely within the remit here, and there’s plenty I want to say about them. Like it or not, we live in a political soup: everything is touched by it. Plus, this blog is called “String Revolution”, so it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise when I wax polemic.

I’m probably overthinking this. What’s your verdict? Should I stick to the crafts, or would you welcome more of this sort of thing in the mix?

I’ve never been much of a one for slogans on my clothes.

That’s an understatement. Actually, I pretty consistently avoid wearing anything with words on it. I don’t object to other people doing so, you understand – although I do have a veritable phobia of designs that feature random, vapid phrases (T-shirts with [...]]]>

I’ve never been much of a one for slogans on my clothes.

That’s an understatement. Actually, I pretty consistently avoid wearing anything with words on it. I don’t object to other people doing so, you understand – although I do have a veritable phobia of designs that feature random, vapid phrases (T-shirts with “essential beauty of living” in fancy script peeping through vaguely floral-architectural collage, sort of thing). It’s just not for me.

I make a few exceptions. I wear my “iMachiavellian – Think Dissident” T-shirt, which Niall got me. It’s amusing, it makes geeks smile, and I like the way it’s cut. But with the best will in the world, I don’t wear it very often.

Much more often, I wear my Neighborhoodie, pictured above. (Turns out it’s hard to take an accurate photo of your own torso with your phone.) Why? Well, firstly, because I am pretty damn sesquipedalian, and I don’t care who knows it.

(Sorry. Obviously, that should read …because a cursory reconnaissance of my linguistic emanations would appear to render substantially ineluctable the application to me of the epithet “sesquipedalian”, a circumstance the contemplation of which leaves me profoundly insouciant. Yes, that’s better.)

Secondly, and more importantly, I wear it, and love it, because that’s my word. I thought of it. I giggled about it. I got a tiny but crucial kick out of the fact that it’s 14 letters long, which is the most you can put on a Neighborhoodie without paying extra.

So I started to wonder, what other messages would I be happy to walk around behind? Relatedly, what messages would I be happy to see on my children?

Because as I said, it’s not that I’m opposed in principle to messages on clothes. (Apart from anything else, clothes themselves embody a complex network of implicit messages, whether I like it or not.) It’s just that most of the words I see on clothes range from unappealing to enraging – so much so that long-ingrained habit causes me to veer away from messages I might in fact be glad to wear.

Which is where the Web comes in. Because now I don’t have to choose between messages that make me yawn or wince (or, indeed, provoke an urge to go on a frenzied spree with a pair of pinking shears) – I can have clothes that say what I decide.

All of which is a roundabout way of CASUALLY SLIPPING INTO THE CONVERSATION THAT I MADE A ZAZZLE SHOP LAST WEEK.

Oh. I think I just shouted a bit. Sorry about that.

My point is this. I haz a shop. It is at Zazzle.co.uk (where I am also called leannich). I have stuff in my shop. Some of it is for anyone to wear or use, and some of it is only for kids. If you go to my shop and like any of the stuff, and if you want to own some of it for yourself, or give it to someone else, you can buy it, and Zazzle’s faithful minions will deliver it to your door, and then you or a person of your acquaintance will be able to wear or use this thing featuring words I chose. That would be so stunningly cool I might explode.

OK. Breathe. Was that what’s known by marketing types as a Call To Action?

(Please tell me this gets easier as I go along.)

So, go and look at my shop, yes?

If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ll know that one of the reasons why I’m so excited about String Revolution is the prospect of developing some kind of income from it. The idea that I could do these crafts I’m so passionate about as part of my job is wildly appealing.

But [...]]]>

If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ll know that one of the reasons why I’m so excited about String Revolution is the prospect of developing some kind of income from it. The idea that I could do these crafts I’m so passionate about as part of my job is wildly appealing.

But this is where I start to second-guess myself (a filthy habit of mine). Because surely, the risk is that once I’m making money from these gorgeous activities, they’ll take on a different quality for me – they’ll become a chore. I’m afraid of that. Afraid enough, perhaps, that I’m unconsciously dragging my feet a little about getting on with this part of the venture.

For tens of thousands of years, women of all social strata have encountered strong pressures – basic necessity, social expectation, plain old coercion – to produce textiles, and have responded in a range of ways, some of them stunningly creative and inspiring. The key, I’m hoping, is choice. I am choosing to do this work, and I feel amazingly lucky to be in a position to do so.

But I’ve been thinking recently about people, now and in the past, who haven’t had that choice, and what a different experience they must have had: the crafts that to me are pure pleasure must take on a rather more complex set of connotations in those circumstances.

I’m thinking of the sweatshop workers of Asia and the Pacific, who no doubt produced many of the clothes I’ve worn over the years. The garment workers of Lawrence, Massachusetts, who marched in 1912 for bread and roses. The cotton mill workers of the Industrial Revolution. The knitters of Shetland or Aran. Royal embroiderers and weavers and lacemakers. Pieceworkers in every time and place. The ordinary women who, down the centuries, have had the responsibility for clothing their families, starting from scratch – a flock of sheep or a heap of stalks. Teams of slave weavers in ancient Egypt or Mycenae. The spinners of the Late Stone Age.

I wonder about the interplay between the satisfaction of creating beautiful textiles and the lack of choice in doing so. Perhaps, for many women, as for me, textile work has been a positive experience. But doing it from necessity, under greater or lesser degrees of compulsion, must add a darker dimension.

Here in Ireland, the infamous Magdalene Laundries, where “fallen” women were incarcerated throughout much of the twentieth century and treated with breathtaking inhumanity, are once more in the news. (Recently, our Minister for Education and Science, in ruling out any legal redress for the surviving victims, had the barefaced gall to refer to the women as “employees”, which defies belief.) This letter to a national newspaper, from the son of one of the women, reminded me that many of the residents were put doing crafts:

embroidering elaborate tablecloths and other linens sold at exorbitant prices to the tourism crowd (and not a penny received by her).

Meanwhile, girls in Ireland’s Industrial Schools (the horrific history of which is in the process of being made public) were also doing textile work. I quote here from the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse (so be aware that the link leads to some pretty upsetting material), in a section on girls’ everyday life experiences in the schools:

8.18 Sewing, knitting and decorative needlework were regular semi-recreational activities; several witnesses reported making clerical vestments, as well as socks, jumpers, dresses and school uniforms for co-residents. Specialised needlework and knitting was also undertaken for what witnesses understood was the commercial market and a number of witnesses reported being regularly occupied knitting Aran sweaters, making rugs, embroidering tablecloths, vestments and other cloths for shops and church use.

They used to have these huge tablecloths and I used to have to do embroidery on it and do the designs, I used do the crochet. I used do the vestments, the nuns used give them as gifts to the priests. I used to have to do all the sewing for the girls plus all the knitting during the school’s holidays. Remember I was 14 years old at the time.

8.19 Witnesses reported that mending clothes was a regular occupation in 16 Schools, others gave accounts of lay staff being employed in sewing rooms. In five Schools it was reported that residents darned socks and jumpers for local boys’ Industrial Schools and fee-paying boarding schools.

And here am I, wondering will I break out a skein of handspun sock yarn next, or do a little decorative patchwork. Makes me feel like a latter-day Marie Antoinette, donning my fantasy shepherdess costume to go and milk a freshly bathed cow in the Trianon gardens.

Of course, it could be argued that this in itself is so much middle-class posturing. After all, the essentially non-voluntary nature of most of history’s textile work didn’t prevent the development of a host of fascinating and multi-faceted art forms. Not only that, but it has frequently represented for women a path towards some degree of economic independence (back at least as far as Bronze-Age Mesopotamia, by the way, as absorbingly detailed by Elizabeth Wayland Barber in that book I can’t seem to stop citing).

We may well imagine, in other words, that in many cases textile work is by no means the worst option available (I bet it beat washing the nuns’ menstrual cloths with bare hands in cold water, for instance, which is another memory from the Industrial Schools). I sincerely hope that the women and girls who were forced by self-righteous sadists to embroider vestments and knit school socks in the social dustbins of twentieth-century Ireland derived some pleasure from the work itself.

Even in our modern, globalised context, there’s something to be said for the argument that “the only thing worse than being exploited by a faceless multinational is not being exploited by a faceless multinational” – i.e. unfair trade is better than no trade at all. (That said, this argument is limited, and I continue to support fair trade to the fullest extent I can afford.)

There’s a chapter in Women’s Work (yes, again) called “The Golden Spindle”, which deals with textile work in the upper echelons of ancient societies. It turns out that excavations have on occasion revealed actual, honest-to goodness spindles made of gold, which supports the hypothesis that even rich and powerful women took a hand in textile production – presumably without overt compulsion.

To my mind, this is comparable with our modern-day luxury crafting supplies: hand-painted yarns, multi-coloured knitting needles, designer quilting fabrics, speciality fibres such as banana, soy, or wool from specific breeds of sheep, and – yes, unfortunately – the ability to afford organic and/or fairly produced craft supplies.

As relatively rich people in the twenty-first century (we have Internet access – we’re rich), our participation in the textile industry, if any, is (presumably) entirely voluntary. And yet many of us pick up our modern-day golden spindles and get to work. Plus ça change.

Where does this leave me and my precious little desire to earn money from this stuff?

Well, since I’m high up on most of the kyriarchal pyramids, it’s not surprising that I’m in a good position. Textile work is women’s work, and as such is often difficult, undervalued, and underrewarded, but there are degrees of difficulty, value, and reward. I get to pick and choose how I want to engage with the field.

It helps if I think of it as a continuum. I’d like to imagine myself as carrying on the tradition of those Mesopotamian businesswomen in the third millennium BCE. I’d like to operate in a sort of humble, hyperprivileged solidarity with the enslaved children of the Industrial Schools. I’d like to join the community of those who make their living in the exciting new world of online handcrafts – if they’ll have me!

First step, obviously, is to develop some kind of product or service for sale. Working on that…