shoes, a photo by dott. dulcamara on Flickr.
My roommate in college was a fashion designer. She was tall and red haired, loud and "country." The kind of country that eats everything mushy or raw, with no in between.
I often wondered if she ended up in New York, working with top designers, maybe even creating a line of own as she had long dreamed to do- or if she ended up settling for a smaller dream, like marrying the douchebag country boy that came around every other weekend and stole her from me, then had a bunch of babies and used her Singer to create rompers for toddlers.
I had notebooks of my own work, but I ended up going into the business end of clothing and never did anything with my sketches. I never even showed her my designs— dresses with zippers and laces, dresses that cut up and slit and were made of fabrics that dresses shouldn't be made of, but looked great on Barbies and paper. It wasn't just dresses. There were the belly necklaces I created in the 80's, and the impossible bent heeled stilettos and platform shoes that I sketched and colored and once, went so far as to tear apart a pair of cheap leather shoes from the thrift store and tried to recreate my design, calling them "art."