Master and beginner: Raf and Judy

Raf Simons

The day after I watched the engrossing documentary "Dior and I", which juxtaposes old footage of  Christian Dior with the house's most recent head, Raf Simons, I read that Simons was leaving his prestigious job.

Suzy Menkes wrote an empathic post here; if you read between the lines, she's implying Simons was burnt out, and that anyone would be, given the relentless pace of collections, PR duty, and leadership of one of the few remaining houses that does its couture work in on-site ateliers.

(The most intriguing part of the film is seeing les petits mains at work, and briefly entering their culture of mastery and fierce pride.)

At first I wondered, what does the resignation of an acclaimed designer have to do with the average woman, for whom a Dior label will only be attained via a lipstick?

Keira Knightly in Dior couture

Couture counts, we are told, because this heady vision trickles down to the designer's prêt-a-porter level and eventually to the mass market where most of us buy our everyday clothes.

I believe that it serves on a more subtle level, too: somewhere in the vast world of fashion, there is still a tiny world that hews to the principle of concordance with the body. While not all couturiers are thinking about how a woman will live in the clothes, Simons does not see women as walking billboards, but as active persons. ("Can she move in that shoe?" he asks a designer.) A highly-focused attention emanates from all hands; a change from white to black takes a meticulous jacket to an entirely different sensibility; the 3mm adjustment to a waistline is taken as seriously as a ten-page spread in Paris Match.

When I watched models walk in Simons' Dior couture, I realized how few ready-to-wear items sold in department stores acknowledge women's bodies. Too many feature dolman sleeves that drag the torso lower than an old bra. Tees called "relaxed" are just plain boxy. Jeggings cannot replace a well-cut pair of pants, but on rack after rack, lycra has triumphed over tailoring.

A number of women, frustrated with quality—especially of fabrics—have literally taken matters into their own hands.

My friend Judy recently took up sewing. (She's based in Houston and spends summers in Montreal; be sure to visit her blog about her favourite city.)

Her husband, proud and bemused, said, "I've known Judy for twenty-five years, and she has never been very interested in clothes—now she's making them!" Unable to find what she wanted to wear to a wedding, she set out to copy a well-worn, beloved blouse. She found two colours of the same handwoven silk, bought herself a machine, and hit it out of the park:

Judy's first piece

Then, Judy went to an exhibition of fashion photographer Horst's work and saw the elegant designs of the '40s and '50s. She decided to make this:

'40s-era blouse

The experienced sewers are probably way ahead of me by now, smiling. That vintage pattern is not beginner level, and Judy had fit issues. She recut to an elegant vest. (If you see "Dior and I" you will see the same process in the atelier: rethink, recut, repurpose.)

Blouse becomes vest

Unbreakable! Now she's bought this Vogue pattern and is finding the instructions sparse—but knowing her, she will prevail. 

Next up: Vogue vest

I find Judy as inspiring in her world as Simons is in his. The difference is, I'll get to see my friend in her creations when she's back next summer; I doubt I'll ever have lunch at the market with a woman in Dior couture!