In line with my desire to live more lightly in various ways, I have been cleaning out my closet, literally, though the Eminem song Where's my snare? Is playing in my head. My entire vintage wardrobe, along with several Vivienne Westwood numbers has been snapped up by anonymous bidders. They were very snap happy for Viv. There have been mishaps. I sent my flowery Doctor Martens to someone who was expecting a camel coloured wool coat and vice verse. That took some time and expense to unravel, and unravel I almost did as I messaged back and forth praying that each disgruntled punter would play ball, or boot as the case was. Happily each agreed to send to the other. Thus my past has been passed around the UK, and, in the case of a seventies halter-neck dress, last worn to a music industry party during the rise of Oasis - to the US.
Each item of clothing that has been packaged and sent had a story behind it. The 60's and 70's dresses worn to gigs and parties or on stage during my fleeting singing career in 90's Camden. Or the designer stuff I have from my modelling days prior to that. Before that, I had been collecting vintage clothes since I was a teenager. I used to go to Diagonal Street in Johannesburg and rummage through piles of clothes in basements until I emerged with winkle pickers and sixties suits that I would take in on my mother's sewing machine and later wear to the clubs I was way to young to be at. If those clothes could speak...and they do, imbued as they are with memory. Who will wear them now? I have been surprised at how hard they were to actually give up, even though I had determined to.
Which isn't to say that my glad rags were all bad news. Oh the fun we had! It's just that for me it is important not to dwell on the past but to live fully in the present. We do have photographs after all, though those can sometimes be fraught too. My father passed away nearly two years ago. He was not around when we were growing up. I only met him when I was twenty-one and thereafter on only a few occasions. After he died, my sister and I went to collect his things, including a large box of his photographs many of which were taken in nightclubs and parties in his heyday as a singer and actor and general charmer. I haven't been through the photographs yet as there was an exhibition that they were needed for and they were only recently returned. I intend to and want to, but the box has a mark of the Pandora about it. I have often found nostalgia a tricky emotion to manage given my peripatetic and sometimes fraught childhood. The clothes that speak of the many lives I have lived, the photographs speak of what was and what might have been. The clothes have travelled on to adorn other lives. The photographs have arrived from Portugal, and what a route they have taken, those potent squares of reminder.