I Don't Care What I Wear
Not Even A Little...
Today’s outfit: Too boring to take a proper picture of. Comfy though!
When I left a job at a fashion forecasting agency in Amsterdam this is what the account manager wrote on my farewell card:
“What I will miss about you the most is your coffee - strong enough to tar roads with. And your inimitable outfits.”
My life in fashion has been a weird one. A wonky romance. Not necessarily toxic but also not exactly smooth sailing either. I kept, and keep, falling in and out of love. The account manager was right though. I have quoted her before because she was so spot on.
The account manager and I had gone to New York once for a project. We were creating a trend forum for the Turkish Textile Federation. The night before the launch, the delegation had come up to conference hall on the ninth floor of the hotel, to check on progress. I was prancing around in bright orange yoga pants, my skinny calves tucked into goat fur boots. A neon pink pushup brah was clearly visible underneath my gold and silver lame, knitted cardigan. My long hair was wrapped up in a giant loose bun on the top of my head, held together by a giant scrunchie. I had long dangly earrings from an Indian wedding shop in Whitechapel, London. I looked utterly ridiculous and never expected anyone to take it seriously.
But the delegation did. And they had addressed their concerns with the account manager, who wisely had not mentioned it to me. In hindsight it did explain the sigh of relief and the looks on the faces of the terrified Turkish men, when they saw me at the opening of the trend forum. Wearing a tweed suit with a Victorian blouse underneath.
That I was wearing it with sky high Alexander McQueen tortoise shell pumps was instantly forgiven. Considering it could have been so much worse.
What they did not forgive me for, was that on top of dressing like a bit of a clown, I had also sent their project manager into Manhattan at 3 in the morning to get met coffee and cheesecake.
What most people didn’t realise was that I was, mostly, being ironic in my way of dressing. Nobody could make sense of it. Including me. I don’t think that my Dolly Parton on acid look was really me.
Years later when I did a ten week stint at a rehabilitation centre (not addiction but post surgery) I spent a day wearing the same bright orange yoga pants that had scared everyone in New York. This time I confused everyone by wearing them inside out. Accidentally. Nobody had dared to point it out to me, as I worked in fashion so maybe it was intentional.
My first self made blouse
MY PERSONAL FASHION HISTORY
Let’s start at the beginning. I am a child of the seventies. In my case that did not mean flared jeans and flower power dresses. That meant parents so dirt poor that everything I wore had already been worn by somebody else. I don’t think I cared. I did love it when my mother made me something. Standing on the kitchen table to have my measurements taken was a special, meaningful moment.
What I also remember is the kitchen being full of bin bags full of donated clothes. This was the beginning of the eighties and the clothes had been collected to be shipped off to Romania that had only recently opened the borders. The Dutch were the first ones to line up with “stuff”.
I went through the clothes and saw another side to it. Knitted granny cardigans with beading, velvet dresses with intricate pleats, jeans made from the most beautiful raw denim. I just sat there for hours sifting through the contents of each bag, sprawled across the kitchen floor, touching materials, turning items inside out, reading labels to find out what it was made of. That’s where is started.
Where before, I just wore things because I had to, I now started to develop preference. I did always have good shoes. That’s where my mother spent the majority of what must have been a very small clothing budget. They had to be of good quality, with non slip soles and a good foot bed. They also had to fit perfectly so the shop assistant would measure our feet and watch like a hawk while we did our test walk.
My first pair of self chosen shoes were purple suede. A bold choice as I had not ever seen any of my classmates in any colour other than black. How I loved those shoes. I also swapped seats with my mother and learned how to sew.
High school (1989-1995) was half conformity and half experiment. Levi’s 501 lay loyally next to Mac and Maggie pants suits on the shelve of my small wardrobe. I don’t know if anyone remembers the brand but it is where most of my allowance and baby sitting money went for hot pants and open worked knitwear, outrageous dresses and faux fur coats in colours like ruby red and emerald green. It was glamour punk with a seventies twist. I think Kate Bush would have loved it too.
Once I saw the first Vivienne Westwood catwalk show on VIDEOFASHION and started watching the BBC clothes show I was hooked. Fashion was my future. Something I literally dreamt of it daily until I finally took my first steps into the industry. At 18 I got hired by a PR company in London where I studied at the London College of Fashion.
I had a bit of a relapse at the time dress wise, and my wardrobe consisted of odd pieces, mostly found in charity shops and army surplus. Think bright yellow rescue worker coat, army trousers and moth eaten woolly jumpers and whatever shoes were the most comfortable. When working at a Vivienne Westwood show (yes some dreams do come true) the head of my course at LCF was invited.
She walked straight past me. When I went up to her, yelling yooohooo, she looked me up and down, and drily said: “Oh my Leo, you do clean up nicely.”
Malcolm. Here I also have to tell you about Malcolm. He must have been abhorred when he first met me, dressed like a disgruntled teenage boy. He was a senior PR agent at the place where I worked. Imagine the most handsome version of Ken (Barbie) and you still won’t come close to how beautiful, how exquisite, how polished Malcolm was. He was stunning and always impeccably dressed. And so generous, as he spent three years dressing me personally, every season for all the shows we worked at. Probably as much for his own peace of mind, as for my benefit. It rubbed off on me, eventually.
Fast forward two years and we see me walking up the stairs of the PR in a black pencil skirt, a perfect white T-shirt and the sexiest pair of black and white Mary Jane’s ever designed. My hair smooth, shiny and slick, tight back in a high pony tail. Red lipstick and designer sunglasses. Malcolm was in tears.
Tears of sheer joy, expressed with the words: “Look how you have become such a lady. Remember I knew you when you were just a baby.”
It stuck and for decades I dressed well. I knew quality, I found original pieces, I would occasionally splurge. After my house burnt down and the insurance money was finally paid out, the first thing I bought were two pairs of boots, Prada and Sergio Rossi, and an Yves Saint Laurent bag. The boots are long gone, but the bag I still have. I never use it but it is safely tucked away in a dust sleeve in the wardrobe.
Around 2007 (way too late and long overdue) I discovered the dark side of fashion, started to veer towards sustainability, shopping lost its lustre. I had enough. Literally.
Then Romania happened, where I volunteered to work with children for the summer. Running around with kids all day was done in a team T shirt and shorts. I did wear the odd dress on a day off. One summer became all the summers.
Until cancer came along. My body changed. I went from 56 kilos to 68 kilos because of the lymphedema. I couldn’t tolerate stiff or rigid or tight clothes. I couldn’t wear tights or stockings so dresses were reserved for summer only. I was tired. Too tired to spend energy on deciding what to wear. Even though I know, and have experienced, how an outfit can also energise you, make you feel good, it just did not matter. All that mattered was the ultimate comfort.
My favourite gardening outfit: it could have been linen Tradwife dresses, but nope.
Then gardening came into my life. Then dogs. Then cats (kittens and silk dresses don’t match). Then chainsaws and cob work. Intersport made a large donation with their entire sample stock for a few seasons. This is where outdoor clothes and jogging bottoms completely hijacked my wardrobe. The only other thing left there are my yoga pants and old T-shirts.
I could have gone full Gorpcore and turned it into a style. But I didn’t. I briefly contemplated pulling a Steve Jobs, not in the business sense, but by adopting a uniform the way he always wore black turtle necks. It could have been iconic. But I didn’t. And I don’t know why. I just can’t be bothered. Or shamed into it. People do try. “You used to look so nice.” Ahuh. “Are you depressed?” Ahuh.
Jimmy Choos: the shoes I never wear.
I have beautiful clothes. I do. I have the softest cashmere jumpers, the craziest JW Anderson dresses, I even have the Jimmy Choos. But I don’t wear them. I don’t have any occasion to. I don’t feel compelled to. I don’t know if it is a reflection of a poor mental state, a tedious lifestyle (to be honest I do not exactly thrive in the suburbs). There are plenty of other things on my to do list, beside pick a dress, that do still give me a thrill. Writing, reading, cooking, eating, walking, cuddling pets. I love it!
In a world where women are judged based on appearance, not caring about my own appearance may seem defiant or subversive. I am not that intentional, nor that clever. And also not that bothered, because it would mean that not caring is a statement in itself. It really isn’t. It is boredom, disinterest, laziness and a preference for something else. I am just not in the mood to spend time and energy thinking about what to wear.
Sometimes I think I should get rid of it all and start from scratch. Maybe that will trigger some enthusiasm, spark a bit of creativity. On some level I wished I cared. But it doesn’t bring me enough right now to prioritise it, to make an effort.
It’s not always a conscious choice not to care. Last summer after a long string of devastating losses I did loose myself. When I arrived at my friends’ house it literally took a week of daily showers to scrub off the stench of fear and anguish from my body. I was emotionally exhausted and having a full breakdown. The worst of my life to date. And that was even before I ended up in hospital and found out cancer is back.
I still wear my Intersport jogging bottoms and my moth eaten T shirts. It is not a sign of self neglect or a lack of self love. I have long baths with scoops of epsom salts and herbs. I dry brush my body every night. I meditate. I wash my face gently and massage it with oils and serums. But it is so much more about how that feels and not how that looks. I guess the only look, now in the middle of a cancer recurrence, I care about is looking healthy. Feeling healthy. Being healthy.
Summer of 2023: the last time I felt strong and healthy
I think there is no deep or profound reason that changed the way I connect with my clothes. Maybe, because of the practical demands of my chosen lifestyle and the way my priorities are listed, I just came back full circle. I returned to the wild child with the bushy unbrushed hair and the muddy patches on her overalls. The one who went fishing and building fires on the beach with her grand dad. Fierce and fearless.
Back to who I was before my purple suede shoes.