Remembering my Mama

Eileen Ann (Rafter) Miles,
August 18, 1924 - March 19, 2017

Today, I remember my mother, Eileen Miles, on the anniversary of her passing.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her; wish I could call her, hold her hand, stop by, and bring her a soy latte or just see her stunning blue eyes one more time.

I am reposting this piece that I wrote a month before she died, as I was grappling with the impending loss. 

Time is an amazing healer, as they say.  Today, I feel grateful for having had a mother, as I did; one that inspires me to strive everyday to be my best, to my daughter and to myself.  And for the skills that she so patiently imbued upon me, I have her near me in my work which I love so much--with each stitch, each swatch of fabric and each notch mark on a pattern.  Thank you Mom.

Ses Petites Mains', Tiny Chic Clothing, Happy to be made in San Francisco

February 20, 2017

I have had a life long affection, or you might call it a studied obsession, with clothing. 

For me, it has never been about labels.  After all, I founded Ses Petites Mains, the brand that celebrated the innate beauty of the child, not the logo branding stamped on the clothing or the coquettishness that other lines offered as options for little girls. 

More compelling to me was the fabric of clothing--the hand feel, the color, the details.  Similar to the time capsule that is music, for me, a cloth can hold a treasure trove of memories.  My childhood, spent growing up in Chicago where there was a certain formality to dressing, meant we were never shy of swiss dots; delicate, textured cotton lawns; seer suckers; rich tweeds; denim & tiny wale cordoroy.  I loved using these fabrics within the collections of Ses Petites Mains while creating modern shapes that resonated with new parents and young girls.

The fabrics' timeless quality enhanced the designs that Ses Petites Mains delivered, for over a decade.

 

Pete & Eileen on their wedding day, December 27, 1948

My parents impressed upon me, the love of clothing--my mom, the construction; my dad, the details.  

My mom spent endless hours rolling out fabrics on our dining room table (big enough to comfortably seat my parents & seven siblings).  With unbelievable patience she imparted upon my sister Jeannine and I, the knowledge of how to work with grain lines, pin down the commercial pattern pieces, hand stitch the notch marks and then, only then, could you begin the tremendously joyful task of cutting.  

I loved it. I loved the entire process which actually began at Lee Wards where we spent hours pouring over the pattern catalogs, selecting the designs of our choice--the sky was the limit as long as you could make it.  Freedom from hand-me-downs lived amongst the pages of the Vogue pattern catalog.

My dad was the keeper of fabric & quality -- he excitedly took me to the Pendleton Woolen shop in Bear Country at Disneyland to show me the impeccable woolen plaids and tattersols.  Running his hand along the cloth, he made a point of having me feel the wool that wasn't the least bit scratchy.  It was the benchmark of woven luxury to him.

My Father's favorite wingtips.

Pinstripes; chalk stripes;  French cuffs; three-piece suits; a single-breasted, three-button cashmere coat and heavy soled wing tip lace-ups--polished, heeled & worn daily.  My dad believed that you didn't need many pieces, but the ones you had should be special, well-made and, if cared for, would last a lifetime.

My parents gave me the joy of making and the eye for beauty.

 

The book Women in Clothes, by Sheila Heti, Heidi Julavits & Jeanne Shapton is a lovely exploration of the questions women ask themselves while pulling together their daily outfits. 

I loved reading about the feelings of nostalgia that guides most  women in the choices that they make in deciding what to wear each day. 

As I am nostalgic for fabrics that remind me of my heritage, I realized that most women hold some form of love and attachment within the dress, the shoes, the bag, even the lipstick choices that they make.  Some stand out more than others--such as Leah Dunham's wise advise to avoid gaucho pants; and another interviewee who waxes poetically about a dickie that she had as a young girl (I thought I was the only one!).  

I have actually had friends ask me if I feel spending time developing one’s own personal ‘style’ is  superficial or in some way communicates a less-than-serious tone about themselves.  And much to the contrary, I have always believed that beautiful clothing (whatever that means to you) and strong feminist messages aren’t mutually exclusive but rather, set the stage for greatness.  A great fitting jacket , wide legged trousers and a vintage men’s tuxedo blouse can make me stand taller, deliver a better presentation and have a sense of confidence that makes things happen.

And then there is the protectionist element of clothing.  

Clothing, in my opinion, is not unlike your cultural armor & you would have to be living in a cave these days if you were not aware of the complexities related to certain religious garb and its meaning.  Let's start with the hijab--the head scarf that Muslim women wear, in adherence with their faith.  

Hijab means 'cover' in Arabic and while worn by women, Muslim men might also wear a head covering.  Muslim women have expressed to me, how safe their hijab makes them feel.  It offers a cover as a means of showing modesty.  Christian and Jewish women, in some traditions, also wear a headscarf as a cultural practice or commitment to modesty or piety.  

My Alexander Wang coveted vest.

You could argue that wearing a head cover is not unlike donning a warm coat on a freezing day, a layer between you and the elements.  How can that be so misunderstood and fraught with fear from onlookers?  After all, in American schools, girls are often chastised for wearing 'too little'. School dress codes, for which I tend to disagree with, are typically directed at girls only and are scripted to dictate skirt lengths, strap widths and short inseams, resulting in harsh treatment when not observed.  Do we actually want to do the same to women (and men) who choose to wear too much?  

I find myself, these days, wearing my own layer of protection.  Not a hijab and not related to modesty. Its actually an Alexander Wang knitted vest, constructed of the most gorgeous, thick and nubby yarn with an extended funnel neck that drapes over my shoulders like the zip-up hoods of old varsity jackets.  The hook and eye closures at front are hardly visible and the high rib-start hem holds the bulky shape, close to my form.  Its a security blanket bar none. 

Recently, this cozy piece has been in daily rotation, in my wardrobe.  In February, we moved my beautiful mom into hospice care.  At 92, she seems to be winding down her full, creative, generous-of-spirit life.  As a grandmother to 11 grandchildren, mother to me & my seven siblings, she's been so active and loving in the lives of so many.  She has been everything to me in my life--held my hand at the birth of my daughter, Somerset; she walked me down the aisle at my wedding; she stood by me through, oh, so much.  And although I honor her choice to let go, I simply cannot conceive of a world without her. 

As her last child, she always told me that she had me to keep herself 'young.'  I know that she did all that youthful, joyful giving to me, to live up to this promise she had made.  And now I was the one that had to let go.

So I layer my vest on each morning and pull it close to me, hoping it will shield me from the harshness of that reality. Sometimes I appreciate the anonymity of the gesture while at other times, I find I'm slightly jealous of those whose clothing calls attention to their difference.  

I am not 'myself' right now and perhaps will never be the same again.  

Me, my Mom & sister Jeannine, Lake Tahoe, December, 1996

Getting me to the church on time, September 1998