*A Note From Our Sponsor
Supplying the demand
[from demands on our supplies]
Here at GG, everything we make comes from the materials at hand.
…and what we have on hand is:
Surplus fabric from the Garment District.
Friends’ closet castaways. Strangers’ closet castaways.
Vintage textiles found in the back of Great Aunt Evelyn’s armoire.
$1/yd remnants from my local Mom & Pop fabric store.
The bottom halves of all the men’s tees I’ve cropped for myself over the years.
So when we describe the things we make as being “one of one”…we mean it.
i have these conversations a lot:
Where can I find more of your pieces?
When will these items be back in stock?
Do you have this in another size?
All reasonable questions. Short answer—
“I’m working on it!!”
[but you’re not here for the short answer,
so here’s the long answer]:
In general, modern production practices are dictated by demand [the projected demand informs the production numbers]; at GrandMother Goods, we instead operate chiefly based on supply [what we have is what we’ll make, until it’s all used up, then we make something else like it, but not exactly it].
Having a demand that outweighs our supply is both incredibly flattering and also so so scary! I’d love nothing more than to give everyone who wants something handmade by me, something handmade from me. I worry: if I can’t make it fast enough, will they lose interest entirely? Have I shot myself in the foot by not making a business plan that includes infinite and actionable scalability? Do I want it to?
“Slow fashion” to me not only refers to how it’s made [by hand vs automated or production line], but how we should regard the things we trade our money for:
slowly, and with intention.
Are we afraid that if we can’t get it fast, we’ll miss our
optimum window of satisfaction?
And what if we do get it in time?
How long will it continue to satisfy us?
The summer of my 13th year, I was desperate to get my belly button pierced.
It was the year 2000: The Golden Age of Low-Rise & Midriffs laying the cultural backdrop to my personal golden age of quiet adolescent rebellion.
On our annual lakeside family vacation, I found a piercing shop in the tiny town where we spent 2 weeks every summer. Having successfully convinced my mom earlier that school year to buy me my first thong underwear, my budding sense of maturity was bolstered and I was ready to test the limits.
So I asked Mom—timidly, casually, while Dad wasn’t there—if she would give me parental consent to get my navel pierced.
I knew it was a long shot, but to her credit, she didn’t even flinch. She daftly likened it to another dangling milestone of summer: operating a jetski without an adult [something I desperately wanted but was out of reach by no fault of anyone besides the long arm of the law]. This, Mom explained, along with bodily ornamentation, was a privilege one is granted at a certain age, and that age was 14.
Deterred but not defeated, I accepted this as a bittersweet win and put it out of my mind until the next summer when, as it goes…
I didn’t care about getting my belly button pierced anymore.
Because maybe we can have it all, all at once! right now! but should we?
I think there’s something truly valuable in the wanting. It’s what drives our economy after all; our lives really. In some ways this is good—we make a goal, we work hard, we achieve that goal, we make a new goal. The wheel keeps turning, we keep growing, progressing onto the next milestone. This is both a fantastic way to evolve as a person, as a society, and a terrifying modus operandi.
I don’t think the goal should be to forever want more things, but to want better things that last forever.
Making the transition to a more sustainable lifestyle means playing the long game.
Use the things you already have until you can’t use them anymore, then figure out what a better option would look like. Keep in mind that the most sustainable options are the ones that make sense for you—your routine, your needs, your life. Those are the ones that will last you the longest. And that’s the whole secret: true sustainability can’t be bought, only practiced, over and over again. That’s all I’m doing anyway. I’m using what I’ve got—a passion for making things, an anxiety about textile waste, a lifetime of hoarded fabric—in the practice of manifesting a less wasteful consumer landscape.
There’s a narrative around living an eco-friendly lifestyle that you have to swap everything disposable in your life for a more sustainable option asap. I think this is a huge deterrent for people, mostly because buying things that will last you longer is not a small investment. The up-front costs are intimidating! And if you’re anything like me, you don’t do so hot with big ticket commitments.
[I mean—what happens if I pick the wrong color of that $85 metal razor and am stuck looking at it forever?! Bottom line: I’ve definitely wasted stupider money. At least this mistake is fully recyclable.]
Every once in a while, I’ll hear someone say some version of “I could/should make this” while looking at what I make/do. Granted, some are nicer about it than others, but neither really bothers me.
In fact, I kind of love hearing someone say that!
I’ve said it myself while shopping handmade goods [albeit I have the decency to keep it an “inside my head” thought]. And sometimes I do end up making it myself. And that feels really satisfying!
Other times I realize what it would actually mean for me to get myself set up in the right way to make that thing, & I’d rather give someone else my money to do it for me.
And that can feel equally satisfying! Everyone has their limits.
What’s important is to know yours and then stand by the outcome.
If it would satisfy you to emulate what I’m doing, great! I only have two hands!
I couldn’t make use of all the rejected textiles on this earth if I had 2 kajillion hands!!
