I love clothing. Passionately. If I were to describe how many hours of the day I think about clothing and outfits and what proportions flatter each body type, it would be an institutionalizing revelation to my family and friends. When I put on a well-made piece with beautiful fabric that makes me feel thinner or curvier or sexier or smarter or all of the above, all at once, it is this feeling that fans the flames of my sartorial obsession. I blame my mom for my addiction, in the most loving way. She and I shop as a hobby. Not in an over consumptive way, we don’t tend to buy much, but just as an art lover enters a museums to observe and reflect on the paintings and sculptures, we enter Nordstrom with the same reverence to observe and take in the endless possibilities of style.

I also love where I live. The United States is not perfect, far from it. Just ask 20-year-old me after I returned from a semester abroad in the South of France. I could have described, in detail, the faults with America and Americans: too little public transportation, too many tracksuits, everything oversized and overdone; the list goes on. It is easy to love someone or something without flaws. It takes courage and effort to love something with tears and rips and stains and the faint odor of neglect. It is my home; it is my children’s home, and it is where I, as a woman, am lucky enough to have rights and countless of them. I am able to drive on my own, go outside unchaperoned, and the best part of all: wear anything I want, anytime I want. It’s a heady freedom when put into the context of the long history of women’s rights: no corsets required, no skirts required, the dying idea that modesty or respect can be lost or gained simply by what a woman chooses to put on her body. Or take off.

But with all this freedom, we have not always extended this blessing to others. We’ve overstepped and over-consumed. We’ve overspent and underinvested. And as I’ve researched my passion more and more over the past few years, I’ve discovered the dark underbelly of the industry I love so much. The clothing industry is one of the greatest transgressors, and I, as a consumer, am one of its greatest enablers. By moving manufacturing overseas to cut production costs, we empowered ourselves to buy not just one new outfit a season but thirty; not one swimsuit, but a dozen; not four pairs of shoes but forty. It’s a powerful feeling to have our personal style and creative expression no longer limited by the high dollar cost of clothing. But in our single-minded push for lower dollar cost, we’ve shoved the cost on others and they’re paying for it, dearly. Their faces are unseen; we don’t know their names. They are the men, women, and children who work in the overseas clothing manufacturing factories, making less than a living wage, sewing each piece of fast fashion we’ll wear four times and throw in a bin or the trash, forgotten forever. By increasing our freedoms, we’ve limited the freedoms of others and created an industry, which, although shiny on the surface, is ugly and oppressive when you look under the covers.

And so, the origin story of Martindale Clothing Company (MCC): designed and manufactured in the United States, bringing together my two passions into a woman’s clothing line focused on slow fashion, exceptional quality forever pieces that guarantee all those involved in the creation of the pieces are making a living wage. Our clothing is meant to make those who wear it feel confident in themselves, as well as in the knowledge that it was created and sewn with love just around the corner from here.
I am so excited to have you join me in the marriage of my two passions. More to come.

Bisouxx,

Elise