Clothes as personal history. My wardrobe has played such a critical part in how I remember key moments of my life: My first pair of bell-bottoms; the illusive promise and transformative power of a Jean Paul Gaultier suit. The horrible eggplant colored bikini that I was forced to wear one summer, age nine.
The black velvet skirt that my husband bought for me. I was twenty-three years old, we were dating and falling in love He wanted to gift me something special. It was my first grown-up skirt: tight, and sexy with a long slit up the side. It still hangs in my closet. When I catch sight of it, I remember that girl of twenty-three and how grown-up she longed to be.
There are some items we are never able to part with.
Yes, I still have my mother's Betsey Johnson moon and stars top, the one I wrote of on this very blog. I still have my grandfather's suspenders with the gold clasps. I refuse to part with a certain little black dress... even though it is literally falling apart at the seams...
They are all talismans and treasures.