Hopefully you’ve all seen the piece I wrote for the current issue of KnitWit about my weird life spent thinking publicly about my clothes, and about how I came to be pursuing a “slow fashion” wardrobe in the first place. For the photos, I was asked to put together outfits that demonstrate the point — what I mean by slow fashion — and unfortunately the descriptions of those outfits didn’t make it into print. I’ve been wanting to share them for that reason (they’re at the bottom of this post), but they also feed into a larger conversation I’m always having in my head and would like to have with you. So here at the start of Fashion Revolution Week, I’m putting the question into Q for You form, the question being: What makes a garment “slow fashion”?
I feel like I can make a case that my wardrobe is slow fashion at this point because I say so, in a sense. Hear me out: I think if you’ve educated yourself about the issues (The True Cost is a great place to start), made a conscious and genuine vow not to acquire clothes indiscriminately henceforth, and you take full responsibility for the contents of your closet, then that is a slow-fashion closet. By take responsibility, I mean commit to wearing each item (whatever it is, wherever it came from) for as long as it lasts, extending the lives of things through care and mending, and re-homing anything that doesn’t work for you. (Hopefully not just dropping it into a charity bin — remember no one wants your old clothes — but literally finding it a new home.) So perhaps I can say “my clothes are slow fashion because they’re my clothes” and because I’m committed to these principles, but when it comes to adding anything, I’m constantly asking myself what I’m ok with — where do I draw lines?
There are three underlying considerations or motivations to slow fashion, in my view:
1. The environmental cost — seeking clothes that don’t contribute to the inordinate damage the fashion industry is doing to rivers, village(r)s and the planet; and generally opting out of the escalating fashion churn cycle
2. The human cost — seeking clothes that aren’t made by slave labor or child labor or in unsafe conditions
3. The actual monetary price — seeking to get the most out of whatever money we spend on our clothes; better quality/value and longevity
And then there’s also simply seeking to support companies that are making goods or materials in laudable ways. Grainline recently included this definition of slow fashion in a blog post, and it’s pretty good — “the practice of creating and buying garments for quality and longevity, ideally minimizing waste and supporting fair labor” — except if your concern is the environment, the only truly responsible approach is to not make or buy anything new in the first place, but rather to use what already exists. So first and foremost, there’s simply wearing what you already own or get second-hand. When adding new clothes, the surest way to avoid anything made by slave labor is to make it yourself, but then of course there’s still the question of the fabric or yarn. With store-bought or manufactured clothes, there are all the questions: both about where and how the garment was made, and where the materials came from.
I feel like there should be some kind of slow-fashion credentials scorecard, but even that gets complicated. Still, here’s one way we might put it:
“This item before me …”
IS NOT NEW
[ ] I’ve owned it for years and will wear it for years
[ ] it was a hand-me-down
[ ] it was bought secondhand (thrift store, consignment, eBay, whatever)
[ ] it was acquired through a clothing swap
IS HOMEMADE (no factory labor involved)
[ ] I made it myself
[ ] someone I know (or hired) made it for me
[ ] it’s made from 100% natural fibers
[ ] the fabric/yarn is of known, reputable, transparent origins
[ ] the fabric/yarn has upcycled or recycled content
[ ] the fiber was organically grown and/or processed
[ ] the fiber/fabric/yarn is undyed and/or minimally processed
[ ] environmentally safe dyes and dyeing processes were used
IS NEW, BUT
[ ] it was made locally to me
[ ] i bought it directly from the designer-maker
[ ] it was produced in-house (or at a company-owned facility) with full transparency
[ ] it was produced in conjunction with acknowledged artisans/craftspeople in their endemic location
[ ] it was produced in a country that has meaningful labor laws, and I believe they were adhered to
[ ] the company has a central mission or founding policy of only working with reputable factories
[ ] the company has environmentally friendly business and manufacturing practices
[ ] the company has socially beneficial business practices
[ ] it’s made from 100% natural fibers
[ ] the fabric/yarn is of known, reputable, transparent origins
[ ] the fabric/yarn has upcycled or recycled content
[ ] the fabric/yarn has organic content
[ ] environmentally safe dyes and dyeing processes were used
That’s arguably hierarchical: wearing what already exists is better than making something new, is better than buying something new — very broadly speaking. But within all of that, the checkboxes aren’t necessarily of equal weight, and how many need to be checked for a garment to really rank?
I make a lot of my clothes, and almost entirely from new fabric or newly spun, virgin yarn. I’ve challenged myself to work harder on that aspect. The only fast-fashion garments that have moved into my closet in the past year or so are jeans and a button-down shirt that I rescued from my husband’s Goodwill pile, so they’re basically secondhand and I’ll see to it they get worn instead of dumped. But then there are conundrums. I’m apparently content to buy a garment from someone like Elizabeth Suzann, feeling good about knowing exactly where and how it was made (and supporting a company with deeply felt principles) but without knowing anything about the fabric’s origins. So what about a case like this J.Crew shirt, which is the opposite: it’s Baird McNutt Irish linen, pure of origin, but I don’t know anything about who/how/where it was sewn into this garment. Are those cases equal? (Can I bring myself to buy the linen shirt??) If a thing is made in this country, so it at least didn’t get shipped across the Atlantic, is that inherently one tiny notch better than made in Bangladesh? There’s no guarantee the US factory is abiding by labor laws just because the laws exist, so how much weight do I give whatever increase in good odds that represents? I trust that Imogene+Willie is working very closely with their LA factory and can be trusted; can I say the same for J.Crew’s made-in-LA goods? What about a company like Everlane that says they only work with the good factories? Isn’t that what every brand says if you ask them? How do we know who’s telling the truth (or not being deceived by their factory)?
Ultimately, everyone’s definitions and comfort levels are different, and everyone has to follow their own gut. I want a garment to check more than one box if I’m going to have it in my closet, but how many, and which do I give the most weight to?
What about you? And what would you add to the checklist?
See also: Why I make my own clothes
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THE KNITWIT OUTFITS (pictured top to bottom)
- Elizabeth Suzann wool cocoon coat (made locally, no longer available); handknit grey vest in Hole & Sons farm yarn; homemade plaid top in French cotton (never blogged); J.Crew Point Sur made-in-LA jeans
- Handknit black cardigan and beloved 10-year-old t-shirt (with I+W jeans, below)
- Handknit turtleneck sweater in US wool; embroidered cotton Katayone Adeli skirt c.1998
- Handknit Cowichan-style vest in US wool; homemade black muscle tee in organic hemp jersey; Imogene+Willie jeans in undyed Japanese cotton denim (made in LA)
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PREVIOUSLY: Why I make my own clothes
Photos by Zachary Gray for KnitWit/Fringe Association