My mother's wardrobe has become a treasured resource for me over these recent years, slowly at first, building to a small storm of digging through silks that swept my house in a flash in August. My family gathered around my dad's computer a week ago and flipped through photos from my childhood, when my mom used to instruct me to start far away from the camera, and run happily towards her for a "care-free action shot." Those pictures reinforced my long time belief that my mother was exceptionally fashionable in her day - maybe, certainly to my father, ludicrously so. I count my love of silk a gift from her, and my high standard of a fabric's handfeel part of my DNA.
I saw in one picture, which vaguely stirred some part of my touch-memory, a saffron charmeuse confection, worn with upswept hair and strong brows. I wanted it, badly. My mother told me she'd long ago gotten rid of that dress. Crushing. How to remedy the repeat of sartorial heartache should I have a daughter in my future? Keep every piece of clothing I love, forever.
But this is New York City, where a rolling field is as much a joke as it is imagination. So where to store my clothes for posterity, besides in my already failing memory and my iPhoto? Maybe I should start antiquing, keeping an eye out for a sturdy chest with brass hinges.
 |
| The dress, the wedges, the hat. That's little me. |
 |
| A braid and skinny pants. God look at that water. |
 |
| My own attempt at style, with the aid of a banana pop. Shut up. |
No comments:
Post a Comment