What we wear tells the world who we are, but open any wardrobe and the clothes reveal deep memories of our true selves
On my first birthday I was given a charm bracelet and over the years various friends and relations gave me little charms to put on it: a tiny tennis racket, a dog that looked a bit (but not very) like ours, a key for my 21st birthday. Once I earned my own money, I occasionally bought a charm and added it to the bracelet – and it slowly grew into a miniature record of my life. When it was stolen in a burglary, I felt I’d lost not just the physical object but my life story.
Clothes narrate our lives in a similar way, though unfortunately you can’t fit them into a tiny box. They are an autobiography in fabric, gathering emotions and memories like a non-rolling stone. When it comes to Proustian triggers, clothes can give the madeleine a run for its money: a rifle through the wardrobe can whisk you back down the corridors of time. It’s little wonder that throwing out a beloved dress can feel like burning a diary. It’s like giving away part of yourself.
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