PART 2

Fast forward a bit, and our university organized a field trip to Chicago (side note: field trips have triggered some pretty major life decisions for me). I grew up pretty sheltered, so just the three-hour bus ride to the city felt like an adventure. As we rolled in and I saw the skyline, I was hooked. I’d seen it in a million John Hughes movies, but seeing it for real? Magic.
We visited the Art Institute, and later walked around the Clark and Belmont area—shopping, eating, just soaking it all in. It was beautiful and exciting. A real city! Coming from Green Bay, where I’d always felt like the weird kid who didn’t quite fit in, Chicago felt like a place where being different might actually be a good thing.

I grabbed brochures for the School of the Art Institute (SAIC) and decided right then and there: I had to go. Never mind that it was super expensive. I did the Immediate Decision Option Day where they review your portfolio, interview you, and tell you on the spot if you’re in. And…I got in! It was official—I was moving to Chicago.

At the time, I was impulsive and completely fearless when it came to big life changes. I moved in the fall of 1996 with zero clue what classes I should take. There was one spot left in the fashion design program. “Fashion? That sounds cool—sign me up!” It was technically reserved for someone else, but somehow it became mine.

I’d always loved clothes anyway—especially vintage. I was obsessed with old-school coats and hats from the ’50s and ’60s. I had the full Jackie O vibe going: sunglasses, gloves, the whole thing. Eventually, I scored a vintage Persian swing coat and a pillbox hat. Obsessed.

My sewing skills, draping, construction all suck unfortunately. I can’t tell you how many armholes I made too small (gave me shoulder aches).  Zippers were terrible…. the serger at school was always broken so I bought a mini one from Woolworths. (Yes, I’m that old.) Fortunately, my parents felt bad and were able to get me a much better one that actually cut the edge like the ones at school.

I was especially drawn to the silhouettes of the ’20s and ’30s. I created some collections inspired by Seguy’s insect illustrations (yep, insects). Poiret and Erté were major influences on how I drew my croquis and styled the makeup. I’m not saying the designs were amazing, but it was a blast to explore fabric, texture, and shape.

Sewing, on the other hand… oof. My construction skills were rough. I made so many armholes too tight they gave me shoulder cramps. Zippers were a nightmare. And the school’s serger? Always broken. So I bought a tiny one from Woolworths (yes, that long ago). Thankfully, my parents came through and got me a real one that could actually cut fabric like the school machines.

Looking back, that whole era was chaotic, exciting, and full of trial and error—but it was also one of the most creatively charged times of my life. I didn’t have a plan, but I had passion and curiosity, and honestly, that carried me pretty far. I was just following what felt right, even if I had no clue where it would all lead.

I didn’t become a fashion designer in the traditional sense. I didn’t land in galleries or paint murals for a living. But every weird detour—every tiny armhole, every vintage coat, every overworked paisley—taught me something. And all of it eventually shaped the creative work I do now.

Sometimes, the best part of the journey is not knowing where it’s going. You just keep creating, keep exploring, and trust that it’ll make sense later.