THREADS OF INTIMACY – How Our Clothes Reveal... and Conceal Us

Like many postwar, middle-class kids with older siblings, I seldom had any clothes of my own. What I got were my brother’s hand-me-downs. I never questioned the practice; it made perfect sense. But as I reflect on it now, I realize I was robbed.

The problem—a first-world problem to be sure—was that my clothes didn’t serve, as those of most older or only children did, as a way to express myself. I wore what my brother had picked out to express him-self.

I don’t think that’s had any lasting effect on me, but it’s got me thinking about clothes and becoming more aware of my own and others’ relationship with them.

           We live in them. We sleep in them.
           We’re buried in them.

This theme has been tentatively poking its head into my consciousness for years, but because it resides at the blurry nexus of the pedestrian and the sublime I’ve never gotten a good look at it.

The pedestrian part: it’s about clothing, stuff most of us totally take for granted. That we put on every day of our lives; that gets wrinkled and dirty; that shrinks and fades and ends up in the garage sale.

The sublime part: the fact that these garments are our most personal of possessions, the items closest to us for more of our lives than anything else we have or even anyone we love. We’re swaddled in them at birth. We live in them. We sleep in them. We’re buried in them.

INSIDE OUT
Clothes are not just close to us physically; there’s this emotional intimacy we share with them. Often making up about 90 percent of the countenance we present to the world, they’re one of the most telling ways we express ourselves.

Another way our clothes emanate who we are is our infusing them with our own unique scent. It’s why bloodhounds can track down fugitives and missing children; it’s why grieving survivors treasure a garment worn by a departed loved one.

But clothing doesn’t just express who we are; it can disguise who we are. Sometimes we dress outside our comfort zone to please someone else. We might don a costume to play a role or fulfill a fantasy. Some days we just don’t want anyone to recognize us.

POOR JUDGEMENT
What happens when you see someone in an outfit you find really unflattering or just plain ugly? Are you aware of what’s going through your mind? 

I notice such things all the time. After all, I’m a designer; it affects me when colors clash, when patterns get too busy, when things are out of proportion. But I know there are other factors prompting such criticism. Prejudice, stereotyping, class-consciousness…

      Whether they’re wearing Gucci or Goodwill,
      everyone’s simply doing the best they can.

Part of my effort to be a kinder human being is to put aside the judgements and see my fellow human beings in light not of my point of view, but theirs. Of their own life stories, their own dreams, the utter innocence of their efforts to be who they are. And to realize deep down that, whether they’re wearing Goodwill or Gucci, everyone’s just doing the best they can.

It takes an extra measure of what I call seeing generously, but I know I can do better. I can look at folks whose clothing choices might at first elicit a shudder, and coax that response into a nod of understanding and compassion. Here are a few examples from my own experience.

SUNDAY BEST
I’m always moved by those local-interest news stories we see now and then about high school girls from low-income families choosing from racks of donated prom dresses. It’s just so sweet to see one young lady’s expression when she holds up a dress she’d never allowed herself to even dream of.

While I might not understand her tastes, here’s a way for her to show off what she considers her best self for a very special night. Maybe it’s a favorite color, a cut that makes the most of her figure, a pattern, perhaps, that reminds her of her abuela. She just wants to look pretty.

Then there’s the aging widower who’s lost or given up on—or perhaps never had—what you could call a wardrobe, but still keeps the one Sunday-best outfit he’s ever owned. Trousers, jacket, tie and maybe even a spiffy hat. And always a pair of well worn but nicely polished shoes.

It doesn’t have to be a marry-‘em or bury-‘em occasion; he dresses up even if he’s just walking down the street to the park. Whether that reflects some life lesson or just basic self-respect, the practice always touches me.

Or the thirty-something dude I keep seeing at the coffee shop, whose ruddy, pock-marked face belies the meticulous, bright-colored suit he’s always sporting. He’s got several: royal blue, marigold, cherry red. All of them double-breasted, with wide lapels, a style that reminds me of the kind of depression-era zoot suits sported by Jim Carrey in The Mask.

I know I could never get away with that look, but for him…well, it seems to animate him. Standin' tall; lookin' good.

  Hundreds of millions...live in the kind of poverty
  that renders obscene the luxury of changing one’s
  clothes to suit one’s mood.

HEART ON THE SLEEVE
I guess the point is this: Every one of these people got up that morning and pulled from their closet the duds, however modest or flamboyant, they thought would look and feel best.

And, while these characters had some sartorial choice, there are hundreds of millions * of our fellow human beings who don’t. Who live in the kind of poverty that renders obscene the luxury of changing one’s clothes to suit one’s mood. And yet they don what they have with dignity.

I want to remember that everyone, whether prince or pauper, whether or not their look suits my taste, ultimately wears the fabric of their own unique, deeply intimate life story.

Some of you say, “It is the north wind who has woven the clothes we wear.” And I say, Ay, it was the north wind, But shame was his loom, and the soften- ing of the sinews was his thread. And when his work was done he laughed in the forest.

Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/on-clothes-by-khalil-gibran/

Some of you say, “It is the north wind
who has woven the clothes we wear.”
And I say, Ay, it was the north wind,
but shame was his loom, and the soften-
ing of the sinews was his thread.
And when his work was done he laughed
in the forest.
KHALIL GIBRAN

* According to World Vision 9.2% of the world's population—approximately 719 million people—live on a daily income
     of less than $2.15.

THE COLORS WE BRING – Adrift In a Sea of Gray

This has been a winter to remember, at least here in the U.S. Throughout much of the country, low temperatures and extraordinary snowfall amounts ranked it among the worst in decades. Here in Minneapolis/St. Paul, we’ve endured 53 days with temperatures dipping below zero Fahrenheit.

The most extraordinary thing about our winter has been not the amount of snowfall, but its frequency. Every few days, it seems, we’ve received at least a dusting of fresh snow. And, with so few days above freezing, there’s been a minimum of the sloppy gray mush we usually have to wade through as spring approaches.

All this snow is a mixed blessing; it’s brought out the sheer beauty that’s possible in winter. Sparkly-white-cloaked trees and landscapes, lakes and rivers you can walk and ski on, and the perverse joy of comrades together facing the arctic blast armed with shovels, skis and sleds.

PASS THE TABASCO
Nonetheless, having just returned to all this after a month in a place that’s never seen a single flake of snow—has me thinking about winter and how we manage to survive it with so little color.

Esthetically, it might seem that winters here in Minnesota are to those in warmer places as oatmeal is to a rich, spicy paella. For someone like me who draws nourishment from color, that can prove a pretty bland diet. It seems that, when all our buildings were designed, there must have been a shortage of materials—even paint—in any colors but shades of white, brown and gray.

People tend to stick to the same palette. Why, when our clothing could so easily splash a bit of vibrant color on our being, do so many of us choose black and gray? Okay, you’ll see some navy blue now and then, but...really, navy blue?

Compound this dreary palette with our low winter sun’s feeble output and daylight that’s snuffed by 4:30, and you have a recipe for what we call “cabin fever.” But, as Garrison Keeler captures so well in his reports from Lake Wobegon, we stoically accept what is and make the best of it.

SCARCE DELIGHTS
To be fair, when you really put your mind to it, there is, indeed, color to be found in a Minnesota winter. If you’re aware, you catch it in threads of vivid nylon sewn down a ski slope. It rises in the roaring flamboyance of a hot air balloon.

Indoors, it might wrap you in a bright, cozy throw or beguile you with the sizzling yellow and orange dance of a fire. It’s in a ruddy cheek, a warm smile and the resilient spirits of the folks you get to know so well when you’re housebound together for a while.

       It’s the pigment we bring to the mix that 
       ultimately determines the color we see.

And, for those of us unsatisfied with man-made color, even Nature teases us with her reluctant hues. Unlike those of summer that nearly accost you, these shades tend to lay low, obscure to all but the most determined eye. Yet, once found, they delight all the more for their scarcity.

They’re the raw umber and burnt sienna cloaks the oak trees refused to give up last autumn; the golden, burgundy, crimson, even chartreuse stems of dogwood and other shrubs; the gilded glow of sun setting over virgin snow; the quick red checkmark of a cardinal alighting for just an instant.

HARBINGERS OF SPRING
The color of winter is, at its best, a collaboration. Nature does her part, albeit begrudgingly. The rest is up to us. After all, it’s the pigment we bring to the mix—in our openness, our creativity, our zest for life, our rejection of cynicism—that ultimately determines the color we see.

Yes, you may have to look a little harder, perhaps open your heart and soul a bit further, but, as with anything in short supply, you learn to appreciate winter’s little wonders all the more for their incongruity. The alternative? Well, believe me, it can be an awfully long time between October and March.

And now March is almost gone, and still no break in this extraordinary winter’s cold, pale grip. Not even the brave pastels of crocus or the bold blue of Siberian squill have dared stick their tender heads out. Oh, for those first thaws when they will break through and show the way for all the other blooms, that profusion of spring and summer color to come.

My senses, my soul, can scarcely wait!