My maternal grandmother, Nonna Nancy, was an Italian immigrant and an intuitive, incredible cook. But there was a door opposite her kitchen that led to another world in which she was masterful: the sewing room. The sewing room was a small space packed with rolls of fabric, racks of clothing, her dress form, ironing board, and scraps of fabric she’d always repurpose. There was also a white desk where her sewing machine sat. Never one to throw anything away, she inherited that desk from my cousin. If you ever got close enough to the machine, you’d see it was sitting on a surface that had pictures of *NSYNC and Josh Hartnett glued on it. Nonna paid them no mind.
As a child, I’d bring my torn jeans or coats with missing buttons into the sewing room. There, she’d mend our family’s clothes, and also host clients who came in for fittings. She’d beam with pride knowing that ladies outside of our family tree trusted her with creating the custom pieces they’d wear to weddings, society functions or special events. As I grew older and more interested in fashion, I’d go into that tightly-packed room more and more. Soon, my grandmother became not only someone whose style I adored, but who helped me embrace mine. As a teenager, I’d show her my sketches and she’d bring the outfits I’d drawn to life. I never had to shop for special occasion looks, or consider someone showing up to prom in the same dress as me. Instead, my nonna, mother and I would start by going to the fabric store.
Nonna’s style was always polished, elegant and coordinated. Her outfits incorporated tasteful accessories, gorgeous coats and jewelry that had sentimental value. Hers was the kind of style that’s still enviable today (see: social media’s fixation on the sciura, an effortlessly elegant, older Milanese woman). Despite having such a firm point of view when it came to her own wardrobe, she never prevented me from defining my own. Shorter hemlines? I wore a mini-dress to my elementary school graduation. A pantsuit at 13? That was my outfit for my confirmation. Mixing patterns? My prom dress did that. The only fashion trend she could never, ever wrap her mind around was distressed denim. It just looked in need of mending.
Knowing I could lean on my grandmother’s talents left me free to play. I’d combine ideas from magazines, television shows and red carpets. I could dream up outfits, sketch clothes I’d love to wear and know that they’d soon exist. She knew which fabrics would work best, which would flare or gather. My choices were based on gut instinct, but hers were grounded in expertise.
Many of the movies I grew up adoring featured a signature fashion moment. I never forgot Audrey Hepburn’s feathered hat in My Fair Lady, Kate Hudson’s buttery yellow gown in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, or the parade of looks seen in Sex and the City or The Devil Wears Prada.
On screen, a single outfit could change the way a woman moved, how people saw her, and how the audience felt. As a young woman, I understood that clothing could help change the course of the story. In retrospect, these scenes blended together with moments alongside my mom and nonna in the sewing room. The whole process made me feel decisive and confident. It taught me that I could trust my point of view, and express myself in a fun, seemingly glamorous way.
Whenever I’ve reflected on the years my nonna made clothes for me, I’ve been, frankly, self-centered. I’ve thought about what I’ve learned about personal style, self-expression, and fashion. But over the years, those memories have morphed and shape-shifted too. Now, I see them through a different lens. I’m a mother of two who never learned to sew. I can’t mend my own clothes. A button falling off a coat is a dead end. I don’t even make my children’s Halloween costumes. Lately, when I think about the sewing room, I zoom out to widen my perspective. I think beyond my creative impulses and teenage need to feel seen. I realize that my nonna gave me more than clothes.
She showed me what it takes to live a creative life. As a teenager, I thought it was downright fantastical to think about outfits, and then actually get to wear them. But now I think more about the skill that I mistook for magic. Maybe what I’m meant to take from those years is understanding the practical work required to bring a creative idea into the world. You can have all of the inspiration, but you still need to show up and execute. To practice. To do the work. To look closely, measure, perfect the details, before you can step back, and see what you’ve done. It takes patience and grit to turn a piece of fabric into a dress, or a blank page into an essay. You keep trying. I like to think that there’s something special about that commitment and desire. You move forward without the promise of instant gratification. Over time, you develop an ability like hers, to create something from nothing.
Erica Dutra is a Toronto-based reader and writer. Her work has appeared in Hello! Canada, FASHION, S/Magazine and more.
