There's a studio space I rent hours in off the Seneca Avenue M stop in Ridgewood, up a staircase that smells like old wood and somebody's incense.
I've been working on a project all spring: turning saris into summer dresses. Some I thrifted from an estate sale in Jackson Heights. Some are the ones my mother sent in a suitcase "for special occasions" that I have never once worn because where, exactly, in my Bushwick life is the special occasion.
So I cut them. Which, the first time, felt like a crime.
The sari is six yards of intention. My Ba would lay one across the bed and you could read her whole mood by which one she chose. Cutting into a green Banarasi felt like cutting into a memory. My scissors actually hovered for a full minute.
But here's what I've decided about sustainable fashion, the real version, not the marketing version. It is not about keeping things perfect on a shelf. It's about keeping them in use. A sari folded in a suitcase for ten years is dead silk. A sari that becomes a dress I wear to get iced coffee on Myrtle Avenue is alive again.
The green Banarasi became a wrap dress with a neckline that finally feels like me. The pallu, the decorated end, I kept whole and turned into a sash so the most beautiful part stays the most beautiful part.
Turning saris into summer dresses is slow, sweaty, imperfect work. I pricked my finger twice. The Ridgewood studio has no AC worth mentioning. By 4PM I looked like I'd lost a fight.
But I FaceTimed my mom and held up the dress and she went quiet, and then she said, "It looks better on you than in the box."
From her, that's a standing ovation.
Nothing beautiful should be saved for a someday that never comes.
Love,