Most of my spectacular summer outfits have gone unseen this year thanks to the current state of the world, and I’m surprisingly ok with that. (It also helps that I haven’t really purchased much new clothing this summer.) It takes a certain amount of effort to get all gussied up all the time. The past few months have realigned the importance of fashion and dressing up in my small world, but glimmers of the old fashion horse remain, and I can still get into the saddle on a moment’s notice. My closets run deep, my closets run wide, and my closets run free.
Back in the early days, when it looked like we might return to some degree of normalcy, when I still had some faith that we as Americans could put on our fucking masks for a few weeks and behave until this virus was under control, I ordered this bright, ridiculous, Barney-hued caftan. How wrong I was, but how right this caftan turned out to be. So on a moody day when clouds rolled quickly overheard and were putting on a dramatic show, and moods of the interior mirrored the changeable sky, I slipped into this silly outfit and pranced around the backyard recalling when such performances once had an appreciative audience, and the comforting murmurs of friendly conversations near and distant filled the silence.
The fuchsia necklace of wooden beads was a purchase from Savannah, Georgia, at a little street market by the river. The hat – a statement hat if ever there was one – was a $5 steal at the end of a summer season in Ogunquit, Maine. It was on one of our fall trips there, so it stayed in the attic, untouched, for many seasons until the sun came out again. And the sunglasses – Toms – were from The Tannery in Boston, when it was still open, when the world seemed safer, and saner. Who knew they were having all the troubles they were having long before the virus took hold? It seems fashion attracts drama, or maybe it works the other way.
Above all else, fashion should be fun. It should be playful, reminiscent of the unabashed joy and frivolity many of us lose with the decline of childhood. Somehow, in spite of all my jaded predilections and faux-ultra-serious stances, I’ve managed to retain the kernel of play that allows me to parade around like a fool, even at this lofty age. If you can’t be silly, how can anyone take you seriously?
