Stitching Together Sustainability, Art, and Wellness

I began making and selling wearable garments in the summer of 2024, but like any story, mine began long ago. My dad first taught me to sew back when I was in the 5th grade. He was a counterculture motorcycling and sewing man, who made our farmhouse’s curtains and our family’s quilts. Domestic crafts, including quilting, crochet, and needlepoint, were once essential in maintaining and decorating a home and typically linked to women’s work. You’ll notice it’s called a “craft” rather than “fine art” for this reason. In the era of Amazon Prime, domestic crafts are being replaced by convenience and speed. Something remarkable is lost here, and my goal is to find it.

As someone who spends a lot of time thrifting, I started to notice a pattern: quilts were often left behind. If a quilt is tattered, ripped, or stained, it may be donated and then passed over. When these pieces aren’t purchased, they are pulled from the floor and eventually sent to the landfill. Sewing quilts takes immense craft, accuracy, and time. I am heartbroken at the idea of these resources going to waste. In time, quilts are landing in the waste stream, and family history is being thrown away.

I value art-making and sustainability more than anything. With a background and degrees in art and art therapy, I decided there was something I could do to be part of my beloved sustainability community, and so I’ve taken actionable steps toward a solution. The second driving force behind my sewing is paying off my student loan debt and the high interest attached to it. I spent seven years studying art and art therapy, but with steep interest rates, the balance often feels like it’s growing rather than shrinking. To keep up, I work a full-time job, run a private practice, and operate this sustainable sewing business where everything I earn here goes toward student loans. I share this not just as my own lived experience, but because it reflects a much broader reality: People are working multiple jobs and still struggling under the growing rate of student loan interest.

The Slowest Fashion

I have some strong feelings about the quality of fiber materials and the impact of fast fashion. We’re living in a culture that prioritizes quantity over quality, where design, durability, and fair compensation are often sacrificed for the instant gratification of micro-trends and corporate greed.

Of the 100 to 150 billion garments produced annually, an estimated 15 to 45 billion are never sold. In contrast, vintage garments continue to hold up as quality pieces, with materials that stand the test of time. It is both more expensive and of lower quality to buy new rather than secondhand.

Slow fashion or handmade items have become luxury items, but they don’t need to be. I feel it is important to learn to sew, share these skills with your neighbors, and spend time getting to know your clothes. In a world that pushes us to move fast, we can move slowly with intention. I actually like to call my work “the slowest fashion.” It’s a deliberate, time-intensive process that begins with sourcing materials—often through trips to thrift stores, in search of the right pieces. Once, my partner and I drove ten hours from Colorado to Nebraska in search of cutter quilts; another time, we traveled two hours for a single quilt from Facebook Marketplace. Some days, we spend hours looking only to come home empty-handed.

After sourcing, I carefully clean and spend time with each quilt, considering how its existing patterns and history can best translate into a garment. I design the layout and hand-cut each pattern. Often, I mend rips and worn areas to honor the history before me. Finally, I sew the pieces into the finished garments you see at markets. Every step is intentional. It’s a labor of love and slow fashion. My creative process includes consuming an alarming amount of Diet Coke and listening to the Grateful Dead or Joan Baez. I go on what I call a ‘sewing marathon’ for 12 hours on Saturdays and Sundays, fueled by caffeine, good music, and the company of my pal, Reva the Dog.

It Takes a Village

One thing I wish people knew about being a maker is the immense impact of buying from a local artist or small business. Supporting my work means supporting my creative dreams and helping keep quilts out of landfills, and thereby—in a small but meaningful way—saving the world. Another thing I wish people knew is how impossible this would be without the support of my friends, family, and community.

As a small business owner, I wear many hats. I am a shopper when sourcing fiber materials, a laundromat when cleaning them, a designer when reimagining each quilt into a one-of-a-kind piece, and a seamstress when bringing it all together. I am a photographer when documenting my work, a social media marketer when shaping its visual story, an accountant when managing finances, an athlete when setting up for markets, and something else entirely when I meet you and invite you to try on my pieces.

I can only do this with the support of those beside me. My best markets are the ones where my partner David cheers me on through every piece I sew in the weeks leading up to it, my best friend Claudia sits beside me for hours at a booth, and I call my mom Amy afterward to talk through every detail. There is a whole community surrounding each small artist.

At the heart of the maker and thrifting community is something deeply collaborative and generous. I think I once imagined our culture’s forces of scarcity and capitalism would make this space feel competitive or gatekeeping. Thankfully, I was wrong. Instead, this community has far exceeded my expectations in embodying something closer to anti-capitalism—a culture rooted in showing up for and supporting one another.

Sharing is Caring

At each market, I make new connections and friendships. We uplift each other, whether through the social media platforms we creatively curate or by passing along our newest finds. Some of the best examples of this mutual aid are thrifters like Lydia Lyon, Matthew Simonson, and Emma Bridgewater, whom I met through Market in the Parket. They regularly send me photos of quilts, blankets, and materials they think I might work with, and even collect pieces with my work in mind. Many of my favorite quilts have come through these connections, becoming some of the most meaningful pieces I’ve ever made.

I’ve learned that despite living within an individualistic culture, we don’t just thrive—we can only survive—through collective care and by consistently supporting one another. At this time, all of my sales and the relationships that I build are made possible through local pop-up markets. This season, I made the decision to prioritize quality over quantity—vending at only a select number of markets each month and spending the time I would have otherwise been vending at my sewing machine instead. I love meeting the folks who wear the clothes I make and feel that personal touch is important in a digital age. As long as there’s an overflow of textiles headed to landfills, I know this work matters.

For more information, visit the-art-therapy-lady.square.site, follow Abby on Instagram @abbysaesthetics, or meet her in person at Market in the Parket in Wash Park and City Park this summer. More details at marketintheparket.com.

Photographs by David Beson and Abby Cerne