When handed this book, I felt like I was intruding—the hand crafted spine creaked with hours of the author’s labor, and the muted green fabric frayed at the corners. I felt as though I had been handed a diary, and as it turns out, I sort of had been. Waisted Curves: My Transformation Into A Victorian Lady chronicles Sarah Chrisman’s journey from corset loather to Victorian garment educator and advocate in 250 hand-bound pages. We see Chrisman’s disdain for corsets melt away as she laces herself into the garment daily, and witness her transformation of thought and body, all brought about by an article of clothing.

Chrisman begins the narrative on her birthday, when her husband Gabriel gives her a corset as a gift. This spurs an extensive personal change, both physically and mentally. The narrow conception of corsets with which she begins the memoir quickly changes as she learns more about the history and practices of corsetry. Eventually, she dismisses the idea of the corset as oppressive as she records her changes in self-perception and self-esteem.

Despite this eventual change, the journey begins reluctantly. In the opening pages she admits to thinking, “At least he didn’t buy the most expensive version of a thing I’ll never wear.” But at the close of her story we see her in an “ankle-length wool skirt, three petticoats [and] cashmere-lined leather gloves.” She gradually adopts more Victorian inspired garments—and at times real vintage pieces from this era—into her day-to-day wardrobe. Waisted Curves is not simply a diary of what Chrisman wore each day, but is also full of historical and practical information about the garments she describes. In between stories of Victorian fashion shows gone awry, and stuffing a broken foot into kitten-heeled boots, Chrisman informs us about the history of not only corsetry but also Victorian apparel in general. In an often humorous tone, she examines the myths and misconceptions of the corset, and turns them inside out.

Reading this book reminded me of just how much what we wear shapes us—both figuratively and literally. Our feelings about our bodies are complex, and though we put on clothing every day, we don’t often think about garments as being able to address or reconfigure any of these feelings. If we hate the way a flap of skin sits on the top of our jeans, our disapproval is not likely transferred to the jeans themselves. We tend to think that our bodies should work around the clothing we wear, instead of the reverse.

Chrisman’s experience with corsets highlights the fact that clothing should work for your body and self-esteem, not against, and emphasizes the inseparability of clothing and body image. Throughout Waisted Curves, she becomes increasingly comfortable and proud of her corseted figure, until being without a corset leaves her feeling naked and uncomfortable. In the same sense, some women may feel foreign in their own skin when they unclasp the eyehooks of a bra. How clothing affects our perceptions of our own bodies is subjective, but as Chrisman’s book reveals, there is a direct connection.

What made me uncomfortable was how frequently Chrisman was approached or interviewed by complete strangers regarding her corseting practices—imagine the disgruntled woman sitting next to you on the subway asking you your cup size. At times, people’s audacity was shocking. It reminded me that, sometimes unfortunately, once what we wear enters the public domain, it becomes open for commentary—be it scrutiny or admiration. She handles both of these reactions with grace, never faltering or holding back as onlookers prod and pull at her petticoats. Chrisman’s experience pushed me to be not only confident in what I choose to wear, but knowledgeable as to why and how I am choosing to wear it.

Waisted Curves: My Transformation Into A Victorian Lady by Sarah A. Chrisman, AEGIS & OWL PRESS, 2010
reviewed by Casie Brown

Gluing things to other things has always been a favourite pastime of mine. Add champagne, my best friend and nighties and you’ve got a recipe for the best slumber party since The Baby-Sitters Club: Dawn and the Big Sleepover. We picked up some cheap barrettes from the dollar store, scoured our apartments for trinkets and thingamajigs (think old necklaces, pillowcases, shoelaces, or old perfume bottles) and plugged in a hot glue gun. The result: some pretty fantastic barrettes that I will probably never wear, but had too much fun making.

text and video by Casie Brown

His arms had been wrapped around mine for nearly a year. In sleep, he curved around my upper body, cradling my shoulders and neck. Though I can remember numerous outings, the few photos that survived of us include an oddly framed photograph from a road-trip in 2010, and one quickly snapped on my grandfather’s Canon at a family gathering. Throughout the summer, we grew distant. Occasional visits to his new apartment and local bars would afford me a glimpse of him, and I would stare longingly as he sat crumpled on a chair, never working up the nerve to steal him back. This distance grew, and by fall we had separated for good. My handsome blue oxford button-down now hangs in a closet blocks away, surrendered to my then boyfriend.

The trade started innocently enough—the guy I was dating needed a shirt to wear after my dog had covered his own in a thick layer of fur. He buttoned it up, noticing how the shirt, which hung off of my own body in what I like to consider a jaunty way, skimmed his torso perfectly. He immediately began joking about assimilating it to his own wardrobe. Weeks later my best friend recognized the borrowed item and told him the shirt looked better on him, suggesting he keep it (what ever happened to the sisterhood?). That was the beginning of the end for my button-down.

Two months into my relationship, and I had given up any hope of reclaiming my beloved men’s dress shirt. At the time, knowing I could borrow the shirt back acted as a comfort to my loss—the cotton collegiate-style cardigan he lent me also softened the blow. After an amicable break-up, however, I have slowly had to come to terms with the fact that my shirt is gone. Custody battles and settlements aside, I have come to wonder what the post-break-up-attire rules are. Do you take back the shirt? Do you keep it? How long until you can wear said shirt? Can you go on a date wearing it? 

These questions float through my mind regularly, as I think about my forever lost oxford. I would like to believe that the image of me throwing on the shirt in the middle of the night to get a glass of water would have stained his memory of the shirt, causing a Tell-Tale Heart-esque reaction (well, not the whole disembodied part) if he even stepped near another girl while wearing it. On my end, I have casually put on the swapped cardigan numerous times without thinking twice about him, or whether I am wearing the garment respectfully. In just a month with his cardigan, I have come to learn how quickly sentimental value can be lost once a garment is thrown on four days a week—and yes, I realize I could use another cardigan to put into my rotation.

Losing someone you care about is hard—not to mention losing the shirt off your back. Though easy to replace—anyone who has wandered the men’s aisle at a Value Village knows that oxford button-downs are a dime a dozen—I’m hesitant to run out and scoop up a new one. For the moment, something about my (or his, rather) shirt seems irreplaceable; the way its cuffs took exactly three rolls to reach my elbows, or how despite steam or ironing, the fabric between its white buttons remained permanently wrinkled. The daunting task of finding a replacement, or the fear of that replacement running off with another well statured 16.5-necked man, keeps my closet free of men’s dress shirts for the time being. I can only hope the oxford button-down that got away is being cared for, loved, and well worn.

text by Casie Brown

Scrolling through the endless list of fashion bloggers in my Google Reader, I’m often left hazily trying to remember the “who’s who” and the “who wore what” of the fashion blogosphere. Outfit photos are updated daily, new bloggers are constantly emerging, and the images and clothing we love on one day become ephemeral, disappearing into the sartorial black hole we call fashion blogging. Simone Werle’s Style Diaries attempts to pin down the inherently fleeting nature of the “daily outfit shot,” fossilizing these images between cover and spine. The pocket-sized book serves as an interesting freeze frame of indie dress and culture at a particular moment in time and, of course, as seen through Werle’s lens. In just short of 400 pages, Werle profiles dozens of fashion bloggers, who she claims make up “the most visible arm of the indie fashion scene.” While these profiles are predominately made up of striking images ripped straight from the archives of each blog, each blogger is also introduced with a short blurb of personal facts.

In one fact sheet, 20 year old Zoe Demruis Portia Flood notes that her blog is “not a place where [she] post[s] the same pictures of models and clothing that are unobtainable to the public.” And while this begins to touch on the power that these bloggers have within the fashion industry, insights — or beginnings of such — are rare within each blogger’s description of themselves. Most remain fairly surface, mentioning things like their careers and favorite foods, which would be fine if not for Werle’s declaration in the introduction of the book which states fashion blogging is “a cultural phenomenon that show[s] just how quickly established structures can be broken down.” To make such a declarative statement about how these bloggers are breaking the established — and often exclusive — structures of the fashion industry, only to follow this with a blogger informing the reader that they prefer guacamole on their vegan burger, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I would much prefer that Werle push each blogger to consider their influence and responsibility as bloggers in the fashion industry, rather then try to lure obscure and niche facts out of each contributor. In addition to this both the images and bloggers chosen by Werle fail to represent a breaking down of the narrow conceptions and standards of beauty that the fashion industry propels, and that Werle claims — and perhaps with a different curator this could be proven — fashion bloggers hold.

Instead, flipping through the pages of Style Diaries felt like an extended Nylon photo spread, full of tall, slender, white, American-looking twenty-somethings in concaved poses. I will admit that there are a few exceptions that creep into The Diaries. Croatian blogger Ljupka Kohorta is one of the few included in the collection that I feel even comes close to the breaking down of established structures that Werle raves about in the book’s introduction; she is not 5’11 and rail thin, like the models we see on runways or her peers who flank her in The Diaries. While I thoroughly enjoyed her photos — it was a pleasant break to see clothing on a body type that didn’t herald images of Kate Moss — she seems to stick out amongst the cattle call of stick-thin style bloggers doing their best ‘vogue’. This fact crystallizes the lack of diversity or of challenging Western conceptions of beauty that seeps through the book as a whole. While I can appreciate the personal style of each participant, it would have been nice to see some variety, especially when the jacket of the book claims to “offer access to a vibrant community of people.”

Style Diaries: World Fashion from Berlin to Tokyo by Simone Werle, Prestel, 2010

review by Casie Brown
photography by Valentina RossMottley