hello

I have been drawn to things that have the imprint of life, of beauty, of soul, for as long as I can remember. These are my treasures. They are diverse, always interesting. Some are old, some are just becoming. Strong or delicate or imperfect I can feel music in the color of a cloth or words tucked into its weft and weave.

 

It is my passion to retrieve and honor the essence and beauty of a thing. 

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This picture of me was taken ten years ago after a trip to Nepal where I hiked up to Base Camp on Mt. Everest. I had never hiked before, but was compelled beyond reason to go; I assumed that attaining elevation at 17,600 feet would bring me revelation - the mountain would surely reveal its secrets, fulfill my wishes, tell me what I needed to know. But there was nothing. It was just a number. 

 

On my last day in Kathmandu, however, after a long and exhausting descent, I was violently torn from my conclusions. 

 

Reeling from the disappointment of what felt like a pointless journey, it was nonetheless a great salve to be reunited with my Hermès backpack that had lost it's metal "H"  (there is no "apres trek" fashion on Everest. There are weight limits to what you can carry, and only items that may keep you alive make the cut. I didn't know.) Without it's "H," my accessory was just a thick grey canvas bag with sturdy straps - a hand-me-down twice over, taken without asking from the bottom of a closet. It was so plain, so nondescript, but even bereft of its brand I could feel its essential character - it had strength, and integrity.

 

Soon the spokes of a passing rickshaw hooked me by one of its stubborn French unbreakable straps, and I was thrown to the ground and dragged several yards over the cobblestone street. By the time the ancient vehicle was stopped and I was detached from its wheel, I was bloody and bruised. 

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A few hours later, on a layover at Heathrow, I dragged my swollen foot and a carry-on behind me, all the way to Knightsbridge; I sipped a cappuccino and devoured a pregnant croissant while watching the passersby, dreaming of the things I wanted to make. The trek had rent an opening. 

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This spring, on the long anniversary of my arduous ascent, I returned to London to take classes at Central St. Martins and the London College of Fashion. It is thus that I sit by the loom, in late bloom, weaving a new story, a new beginning - full of texture, hope, and significance.  

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My design ethos was forged among the textiles protected by my immigrant parents; in the interstices of this cloth were their memories, a physical connection to where they came from, who they were. These were fabrics embroidered by the hands of a sister, a long lost friend, or carried by a beloved brother as a gift from some exotic land, material for something new. Both my mother and father nurtured a small wardrobe that saw them dressed impeccably - and before they came to the United States, their new clothes were always made by a family tailor. In each piece was woven a bit of their history. 

 

My design experience took root in creative enterprises that were born soon after my children; for many years I styled and shot portraits with the beautiful frayed or faded garments I collected, and used other vintage pieces to design custom, hand-wrought evening gowns and wedding dresses. 

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I am otherwise self-taught in the arts. My approach is intuitive, and I am not bound by any learned limitations in thinking or seeing. 

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I didn't understand then but I understand now - the light and joy shining through in this picture comes from being broken open, uprooted from a familiar but stagnant place, to reclaim all that was born, then died, then could live again. But it took time to reveal it. My yellow watch is the symbol that says it is so. Time always leaves behind its imprint, it's wisdom. This is its power. This is what I search for and excavate in the garments that I make, unmake or remake. It doesn't belong in a landfill, because what may have been broken discarded or overlooked might still have the power to express, or to guide and renew us.

 

What has lived, and what has been marked by its living, has truth, and beauty. 

 

By its very nature, Fashion has always been something that comes back around, in one way or another. This is because of its close connection to the human body - it follows its rhythms and gives expression to the physical embodiment of our essence within the context of a particular moment. As we live and grow, so it can too. It is intrinsically cyclical, always revolving, evolving, and reflecting the lived experience. Like the wheel of a rickshaw, it can move you a few stones further down the road of your life.

 

Our culture of excessive consumption has broken the circle and sent it off the rails, destroying nature's way and destroying nature along the way. We should all do our best to repair that. Universal truths are round and full, like the earth, and the moon, and the sun. Let's go back to expressing, through dress and adornment, the fullness of our humanity - our individuality, our resourcefulness, our survival, the triumphs and the stories.

 

That is the only sustainable truth. The "H" doesn't really matter. It's just a letter. 

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I love what I do. It is the expression of my life and my passion. Thank you for loving it too. 

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Julie Stermasi, Mother of Moonbelli

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