Week Seven of Why So Many Clothes : Because Clothes Tell the Wearer Stories
Fairytales With Endings We Change
At twenty-two, I’d been working in a clothes shop, put on full make up every morning, and bought into trends for their own sake. By this, I mean I bought into the idea that wearing clothes marked in magazines as ‘Bohemian’ (this was 2004) and ‘Gypsy’ actually transported me into these imaginary lives. The much-parodied fashion talk about buying into dreams was a waking reality for me.
This Monday, I’m wearing my satin, aqua blue vest, with mesh trim, bought in Warehouse in 2003 at full price (about £15), layered under the white shirt. I rushed out to buy it after seeing it in a glossy, in a section marked ‘Mermaids’, showing all sorts of watery, oceanic textures and colours. I wore it first to a house party, with a statement, beaded necklace in more sea colours, fitted blue jeans, and stilettos. Another wavy-haired brunette was wearing the same, Warehouse vest, in more of a sea-green, with a different, beaded, statement necklace, tight jeans, and heels. We took a photo together: two mermaids.
Of course, this didn’t consign me to a life with my too-human legs bound forever in tight denim, my feet stabbed at each step, much unlike the sad, original Little Mermaid – although I didn’t ensnare any handsome young men either, at that party. The vest lives on in different guises, most recently, today, as part of a quite pantomimey ensemble.
Clothes With Little Lives
I’ve written a few times about realising, through this blog and looking more closely at my wardrobe, that quite a few of my clothes are worn out. Looking at this white, tuxedo shirt, I can see it’s past its best: rusty drops on the shoulder where I’ve brushed past lily stamens, coffee and very faded red wine on the front, if you look – and I don’t iron (once, my wonderful friend and ex-housemate KR ironed it for me, and I went unrecognised, honestly, at work the next day). Love this shirt, though. Keeping.
The shorts are a favourite, although they don’t have any specific sentimental value. I just like them.
I’d miss each of these items. I realise: I keep some, if not many, clothes because of how they look to me, and not how they look on me – as if they have lives of their own and I want to keep them in mine because they tell some sort of story to me as I wear them, rather than their always meaning something to my own life story or simply looking good. It reminds me of looking at a picture book recently that I’d loved as a child: Angelo, by Quentin Blake. I’d spent hours reading it, then adult me looked again and realised there were no words, and wondered where everything I remembered had gone. I’m still at the dreaming stage with clothes.
I wonder if I should worry about this?
Adult Clothes
There is a large degree of adult fantasy, too. The stripy top under Tuesday’s dress has a deep V on the chest and back, and I bought it as a reference to Brigitte Bardot. It sits very high on the waist and looks very sixties French movie chic with high-waisted drainpipes or pencil skirts. Today, though, I’m working practical chic, with the black dress. Fifty cents from another Irish charity shop, and too comfy and easy (good sensible length, nice smooth, tactile fabric, sensible neckline) to Not Keep. The strappy red sandals slip off different parts of the foot, but I want to keep them. ZH pops up in my head, saying, as she did while we shopped on King’s Road a few years ago, that adult sandals are always a good investment. Keep all. Except the embroidered coat – I love it, but it’s just too tight on my arms. It’s taken me four years to admit that.
Duvet Days
Wednesday is a genuine duvet day. Really not feeling well. Thursday I still feel unwell, but need to go out for a couple of hours to keep a promise to help a friend, before curling up in bed again. The long-sleeved maxi feels like the closest thing to a duvet. This dress is pure story. I bought it in tribute to a friend’s poem for a poetry theatre event, Peter Ebsworth’s ‘The Very Brief Rise and Fall of Andy the Amoeba and his Contribution to Popular Music in the Late 1960s’ (about an amoeba who inspired the Cellular Song) and it became my Incredible String Band dress. I wore it to my mum’s 60th birthday shortly after, because of her love of the song and band, and my wish for her, as the song says: May the long time sun shine on you and all love surround you and the pure light within you guide you all the way home. Like a duvet, like clothes, the dress is enveloping, comforting and full of dreams and stories.
Weathering a Storm
On Friday, I need to wear all grey and practical clothes to shift things about for a performance of The Tempest, with puppets. The grey dress makes me feel strong and shaped, although it shows my tummy. Back in Week Two, I gave a green dress to a craft group to become a puppet. Today, that puppet is coming to life, as Caliban. Seeing the dress in its new role, in a beautiful performance, triggered a poem, which is on a new page in its first drafty form.
On Saturday, the Wolf and I travel to Manchester to see Bjork’s Biophilia (yes yes, now equal to Bob Dylan for best gig ever) with the Wolf’s lovely parents. I seem to be in storm colours, still, appropriate because it doesn’t stop raining. I do love rain. At the concert, people’s buttons and zips catch on the extraordinarily loose-knit jumper. They are all very friendly about it, and one man asks if it’s a net for catching people, new friends. Perhaps it is. Fisherwoman is more effective than mermaid.
One man also says he would wear jumpsuits if he was a girl, as they look so comfy. Quite right. I knew catsuits and holey jumpers were useful.
The Dream is Over
Bjork is wearing a short, gold, leatherette dress, with a foumphy multi-coloured top and a wavy, orange wig. She looks stunning and glorious. Her dress reminds me of a gold bandeau dress, very similar to hers, I didn’t buy in a Glasgow charity shop. Longing. Did I mention Bjork is amazing? I want to go home and dress like her.
Sunday’s dress is, like the white shirt, way past its best but still too loved to Not Keep. Ink stains on the bottom, mottled with light bleach, and once offered the compliment: ‘I like your dress, it reminds me of my kitchen curtains.’ The velvet leggings, however, are a failed fantasy. I’ll keep them only to keep me warm in winter, under high boots and long skirts.
Here’s the link the old green dress poem https://saranesbitt.co.uk/poems/
by Sara Nesbitt Gibbons
