Defining Style: On Memories + Clothing

More on that later, I had written between parenthesis. I’ve found it’s the only way to keep myself from going off on tangents; too often I’ll be in the midst of writing one thing, only to branch off into pages of something else. Case in point: a paper analyzing Blood Dazzler turned into a rant on femininity and feminism. A post I’ve been meaning to write about self-confidence, as a request per a beautiful friend of mine, also turned into bullet points on media and feminism. A previous post about sweater dresses in February evolved into a discussion on racism.

I did it again. You get the point.

.   .   .

I suppose one of the reasons why I’m so intrigued by and drawn into fashion is its connection to memory. Like certains scents, only tangible. Real. One look at a particular article of clothing and something is triggered: it becomes a time machine of sorts, transporting you back to a specific moment. It represents an emotion, a feeling, a state of min, and state of being. I remember what I wore when he first looked at me and I knew he cared; I remember what I wore the day he told me I was beautiful. I remember what I wore to that interview that landed me a job as a dancer, and the one that brought me here to where I am today. I remember what I wore when I picked up the call saying I got the job. I remember what my best friend wore the time we spread ourselves across her couch and smiled and laughed talking about love and futures; I remember what he wore the night we met, the night we danced, first ones on the floor, my gauzy teal dress swooshing slightly with every double turn. I remember.

And other pieces are aspirational: they help me become something. Someone I want to be. Will be. Some are costumes for when I feel like stepping outside my skin. Others are comfort. I slip into a dress and become this woman—vivacious, charismatic, flirtatious; I put on a pantsuit and I convey rationality. I mean business.

I remember, and I become.

I suppose that’s where a fine line is drawn between emotional attachment and emotional baggage; sometimes I need to be reminded that it’s still—but not just—a piece a clothing. A thing—a material thing. We project because we’re human, but to hold on to all these physical (and sometimes emotional) things burden. The less we have, the more we are free. Free to move on, to move easily, in both the figurative and literal sense.

I wear with the intent of creating memoires. Happy ones, the kind that last forever. New things are savored, kept untouched until I decide to do something. It needn’t be a special occasion—just a day of intent and positivity. I love clothes. I do. They mean so much, and represent so much.

Every garment has its story. May it bring its owner happiness.

.   .   .

x

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