Not Just a T-Shirt

My mother passed away when I was in my thirties and the menopause was a distant hurdle. So when my time came for this rite of passage she was not there to be consulted. In a kind of mild desperation I turned to a number of older women in a search for surrogate mothering and asked, “How was it for you?” To my surprise, I was met with a wall of denial. Nearly all said they couldn’t remember, a few said they hadn’t noticed anything, and at least two women opined that they were too busy to succumb to such a triviality. This left me feeling vulnerable, confused, and not a little ashamed. Now if I had been living in Japan where apparently a life-long diet of tofu mitigates the symptoms, it would have been understandable, but I live in the Western world and my ladies at best may have hazarded the occasional miso soup.
So what was this? It occurred to me that these women had grown up in an era in which such things were never mentioned, let alone discussed. I had probably inadvertently embarrassed them. During my own childhood (lost in history I suppose), I remember those mysterious whispered comments such as “She’s got women’s troubles.” With a fertile imagination at work and the assured knowledge that I too would one day be a woman, these “women’s trouble” became a monster lying in wait. As I grew and the sixties blossomed into full Technicolor, everything was out in the open, so by the time I was a candidate for the above mentioned, at least I knew what was meant: infertility, excess bleeding, prolapsed womb, yeast infection. However, the “change” was not on anyone’s lips. Of course there is much literature available and some great publications like “Our Bodies, Ourselves”, but like any grieving person I needed one-on-one comforting. I use the word “grieving” deliberately, for unlike puberty which is a flowering, the menopause, with its sister manifestations of confusion, discomfort, and bodily changes is a reminder of the end of things—an unflowering so to speak. And what full-blooded woman wants to be a part of that? So in our panic we turn to hormonal supplements, plastic surgery, anti-depressants, and never-ending cornucopia of alternatives. Yet underneath we are all suffering bereavement—our younger self has passed over and we are left in the limbo world of loss.
How we cope with this is individual, and as I write this, I think that what I am actually saying is this; we can be a phoenix rising. This is our last chance to really grow up. Let’s face it, at 55 and over, we have probably achieved as much as we are ever going to in terms of what we set out to do, so the way is now clear for new horizons, new accomplishments, new ideas. My personal turning point was when, aged 58, after a lifelong fear of water, I taught myself to swim. O.K. I know that’s a bit extreme, but that was my epiphany.
Ladies—a menstrual-free life is great! Being called a “wrinkly” is not the worst thing. Most of my closest friends are involved in new and amazing adventures, and I don’t mean travel to exotic places. The adventure is an inner one. Each of us is a repository of immense knowledge. It doesn’t matter what your background is—ethnic, educational or financial—when you reach 60 you know a thing or two. So use it. It could be the wearing of a red hat, learning a new skill, or coming to terms with illness. Don’t become invisible and don’t suffer alone. I and millions like me are there for anyone who needs a shoulder. Life is a continuity of choices—basically two; how do I make this better or how do I make this worse? Very often, us mature women know.
So no throwing in the towel. In fact come and see what I get up to these days designing printed tops for my more mature and discerning clients (and I don’t mean old and picky!) who are making the most of their lives and want to look good doing it. It’s undergoing a major overhaul these days (who isn’t?) and it’s at www.omnicottons.com. Drop by and spoil yourself. You deserve it.
Wouldn’t be me these days if I didn’t leave you with a short poem, one of many written over the last few, eventful years.
Over the hill?
On the decline?
I can choose
To toboggan, or roly-poly,
Stumble and tumble,
Carefully descend with faltering steps,
Or leap from rock to rock.
I can sit on my bum and slide,
I can stop and have a picnic,
Pick flowers, bird watch, hang glide,
Jump from the top and get it all over with.
But the choice is still mine
And the view continues
Until you reach the bottom.
Mali Joy Livingstone
www.omnicottons.com 

India! Here I was struggling in Mumbai (where did Bombay go?) airport, trying to reach the domestic terminal for my local flight to Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu and t-shirt heaven. Cotton contentment! I’m not easily impressed after many years chasing the perfect 100% cotton t-shirt, but finally I had found it, thanks to my husband, who, if the truth were told, is the driving force behind my Omnicottons business. I may design and hand print t-shirt but when it comes to innovation and pushing the envelope, Arthur Livingstone is your man.

Before my trip to the subcontinent India had brought to mind endless crowds, poverty, bad smells, perhaps offset by the odd Taj Mahal and an elephant or two. How simplistic can one be? It may well be as dangerous to walk along an Indian sidewalk with its sudden and precipitous descents into open sewers as crossing the Himalayas, but contrast this with the admirable entrepreneurship of the Indian businessman as one steps from chaos into state-of-the-art conditions in which my beautiful t-shirts were being sewn. No sweatshops here; I was surrounded by adult workers, eager to hear what I had to say about their work. It was as much a pleasure as it was a relief. This life is full of the unexpected and India was certainly that for me. It’s hard to forget that this is still a third-world country but picture this: a complete family living beneath a tree at the roadside, spotless, their bedding neatly folded; a road system that beckons disaster with narrow highways and an insane traffic of cars, trucks, scooters, bullocks, untouchable cows, all vying for slots to overtake, yet imbued with politeness and good-nature and an indecipherable highway code. Such a mixture of the old and new. Vive globalization!

Well, I have to rush of now to print an order (you can see what I do at www.omnicottons.com) but there are many t-shirt tales to be told and I hope to see you back here soon.

Mali Joy

Not Just a T-Shirt (2)

Call me naïve, but I’ve never understood war. I suppose I’m lucky. No-one I know has ever said “Goodie, goodie, I’m off to kill a few folks!” Yet given the amount of unrelenting carnage, eradicating our neighbours seems to be an integral part of our world mindset.

Perhaps you’re asking what all this has got to do with the t-shirt industry. Well, me and Omnicottons live in Israel and have a relaxed an amicable relationship with our Palestinian neighbours. For over a decade, Palestinian women have sewn my cotton shirts with nary a hiccup in understanding. There was one occasion when I wanted to imrove the quality of the sewing and I suggested a solution to the factory owner, Sheik Omar Sharif (no fooling). My idea was to introduce a bonus scheme to reward high-quality production with a special bonus but Sharif, a devoutly religious man held in high respect in his community, was absolutely horrified. According to the Koran, everyone has a duty to do his best work at all times (a beautiful concept). To offer money for extra effort was, in fact, a huge insult and contrary to Sharia law, implying that the women were not doing their best and could be bribed into the bargain. So another way had to be found. The personal touch! Friendships evolved. Although my Arabic is non-existent and their Hebrew was sketchy to say the least, we managed to converse, adding a sprinkling of English to the mix when it helped to make us understood. I had some wonderful conversations with these hard-working women. I learned about their, children, their home life, their lives. I loved the embroidered dresses they would bring back from Saudi Arabia when they went on the Haj (the annual pilgrimage to Mecca). I’m sure the opulent designs were a rich source of inspiration for my own designs.

At no time was there any unpleasantness. I need cotton tops and they needed employment. It was my recipe for peace. I also learned how to make the best cardamom-scented coffee in the world. All this during a period when anyone watching the news would never have thought this possible. Unfortunately, it has become much harder because of walls, both physical and mental and I gnash my teeth at that handful of influential people on both sides who employ the mighty weapons of fear and distrust to serve their own agendas. But I’m just a simple printed t-shirt designer. What do I know about politics?

Mali Joy Livingstone is proprietor of Omnicottons, designer printed cotton tops, now available at http://www.omnicottons.com

When a visiting old acquaintance turned to me and said, “You do what? A complete waste of your artistic talent!” I was taken aback. I didn’t consider what I did for a living was either limiting or unworthy. On the contrary, my work has taken me far both intellectually and physically.

So what is it that I do? I hand print ladies’ cotton casual tops to my own design using decals. Some of them are the fruit of my fertile imagination while others are subtly adapted by me to conform to my style. Hard to imagine this as a gateway to a higher education, so perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on my friend.

For me, a t-shirt or top is not just a garment but a blank canvas waiting. So whereas a t-shirt to most people is Momma and Poppa out of Myrtle Beach, Gatlinburg or Key West, my inspiration comes more from the direction of Michelangelo through the Impressionists to Picasso and beyond. I put a print wherever I think it should be: on sleeves, back, front, over the shoulder, under the armpit, maybe even across the chest if I’m feeling a tad conservative.

Being responsible for the manufacture of a unique fashion item (well, more comfort than fashion maybe) doesn’t begin and end with art. It involves much, much more. Let me give you an example. For five years I exported to Japan. I loved working for the Japanese because you know exactly what they want – uniform perfection, and in my case, pure white cotton uniform perfection. Considering myself a bit of a perfectionist (my husband has another word for it) I relished the challenge, but little did I know just how many pitfalls were lying in wait for me. Too many for this article, in fact, but let me give you an example of one I encountered.

Cotton grown in the field is tied in bundles. These days, instead of using jute (a natural fiber which dyes the same color as the cotton), synthetic string (yellow, red, blue etc.) is the norm and believe you me that stuff stays the color it started out. Minute threads (known in the trade as contamination) find their way into the finished cloth and they’re as conspicuous, at least to me and the Japanese, as a zit on the end of your nose. Just one white shirt out of a thousand arriving in Tokyo with a colored thread the size of a grain of pepper in a sea of white would instantly set off all the alarm bells in the quality control department and lead to a stream of indignant correspondence from the company, so I used to spend long hours engaged in micro-surgery, removing these intruders with the aid of a magnifying glass, a fine needle and a set of finely honed medical pincers. Want to know about hand eye coordination – I’m your gal. An appendectomy may be beyond my talents, but the extracting of foreign objects – where’s my pincers! That is only one of the many skills I have acquired printing t-shirts. Next time I may tell you about when I needed to study the Koran, or my experience with China, or perhaps you’d like to accompany me on a trip to India. A waste of my talent indeed! Not just a t-shirt, you know.