Clothes capture who we really want to be
Like every other woman in the land, I was prompted by the recent sunny spell to haul crumpled summer dresses out of cupboards and discarded sandals out from under the bed in the hope that they will “do” for another year.
It’s a process that should take an hour, tops. So far, it’s been three days because my wardrobe (now floordrobe) is less a place to store my clothes than a repository of memories.
Summer memories are the best: the bright halterneck I wore in the Bahamas, the khaki camping shorts that make the children cry out “It’s Ste-e-eve Backshall!” The slinky backless gown that yearns for Champagne, moonlight and a chorus of cicadas.
Every last garment has a tale to tell: dancing in a Rembetika bar on Crete, the sunburned picnic on the Isle of Mull, that time I got caught up in a Peruvian drugs raid.
Some of these things are 30 years old, too shapeless, too short, too shiny or tiny – but they make me smile. That’s why I expect to be riveted by Netflix’s new docuseries Worn Stories, about the relationships cultural icons and ordinary people alike have with their clothes and fashion.
Clothes may not define us per se, but they do capture something of the character we seek to project or hide.
Over the past year, while friends invested in high-end loungewear and set about frantically decluttering and in one case embarking on Swedish Death Cleaning, whatever that is, I made a decision to up my sartorial game by wearing a new ensemble every day.
Were I more vain, I probably would have taken a selfie in each outfit and published some sort of navel-gazing photoessay tracking my mental health journey, one mismatched Whistles blouse and Primark skirt combo at a time.
Instead, it was a reminder that Marie Kondo is right: we should only keep those items that spark joy. So ladies, bin the tasteful taupe cushions and keep the faux-leather leggings.
What could possibly spark more joy than glorious memories of the way we wore?