Of course Joan Didion’s estate sale was utter madness. Her Celine sunglasses alone sold for $27,000, and the rest of the lot—Cy Twomblys, bundles of blank journals, selected books curated by author or topic—auctioned off for amounts just as impressive. A small (fine: sizable, if you’ll have me be honest) part of me wishes she were less cultishly loved so I had a chance at winning her Elizabeth Hardwick collection and deskside accoutrements, but I also relish in how adored she is. Does this sale not confirm the power of women and the voices they dearly, desperately admire? Is this not viable validation of her impact, but also of our collective worship?
Provenance makes you see differently, deeper even. You start to look for meaning: is a wooden initial basic or is it a profound artifact of its time? That Moleskine notebook with the Jane Austen cover, still blank because you’re afraid to write on pages in such close proximity to one of history’s most celebrated titles: are you now free to marinate in thoughts without feeling bound to wrangle them onto paper because Didion left hers untouched? And embroidered napkins with the most delicate scalloped edges! A sign of a life well-lived and perhaps expertly curated—not one of empty frivolity. From the outside it might’ve seemed like material obsession; throughout history, women have always been known for and reduced to the things they collect, judged for them until their things become legends and the woman who once owned them, myth. (Marilyn’s Jean-Louis dress, for example. Cleopatra’s treasures, resurfaced through the discovery of her tomb last week.) Yet here at auction were objects that embodied Didion’s idiosyncratic essence, no different from Monroe’s glittering, slinky little gown. Some items were extraordinary and others became so simply by association—evidence that it’s the life and not the thing that’s valuable. There were books (so many books!) and colorful glassware and cushions she might’ve kept purely for decor but found too precious to actually use. What we know for certain is that Didion loved stuff; she was a woman who kept detailed lists. What to pack. Her favorite books. Things that were her things above all the others she’d accumulated over the decades.
Joan was so much better than us, yet perhaps also just like us.
Funny, isn’t it, that I could probably write an essay about her possessions but can’t even begin to find words to describe why Didion meant so much to me. But I suppose that in wanting her things—an attempt at manifesting some sort of kinship and finding a closer glimpse into her psyche—can tell you just how much she means to me, still.
Leaving you (for now) with a stack of her blank notebooks—
. . .
xx
Awesome