clothes store memories

HOUSEKEEPING: We’re doing a version of Bookbear Express matchmaking that pairs people based on their three favorite Substacks. It’s free, you should participate, and you can fill it out here :) In particular we are looking for more girls!!!!

I loved the loft we rented in Williamsburg from two gallerists who had bought property in the 90s and become rich off it. S didn’t like it because there were no doors and none of the furniture was comfortable. I didn’t like Williamsburg and spent all of the time I wasn’t working wandering around Greenpoint browsing vintage stores. Today I’m wearing the slouchy blue cardigan I bought from Shop 86 in 2022 (looks like Gucci, the shopgirl said); yesterday I wore the plaid Burberry skirt. I can’t tell you exactly how many months I lived in Williamsburg but I remember the black Rachel Comey dress I got off Rent the Runway that year for my birthday and the heart-shaped choker from the MNZ store.

Clothes store memories: they are markers of where I’ve been and where I am now, what I kept and what stopped working. I sold the Ganni rainboots that Bella Hadid made popular that year on Depop because they were so uncomfortable. I still have the silky green overalls I got from Malin Landaeus; I still long for the green and white dress I lost in Paris and couldn’t replace. We were moving constantly in those pandemic years. Being as absent-minded as I am, I lost a lot of clothes.

When S moved back to SF, he took several boxes of my clothes out of storage, and I sorted through them all. It was interesting to see how my taste had changed since 2020. I’d gone through an all-consuming athleisure obsession that coincided with a temporary interest in weightlifting, and then a period that can best be described as “discovering SSENSE and doing entirely too much.” I was wearing these bizarre Eckhaus Latta sweatpants and rotating through way too many oversized sweatshirts. There was a pink Ganni beret that lasted two days max. There was the brief love affair with Kith. I had red hair for a while, and it did not suit me.

In those years, my desperate desire to figure out what I wanted out of work and love was reflected in the experimentation I did with my wardrobe. I’d always liked clothes, but in my teens and early 20s I didn’t have the self-knowledge or presence of mind to to really learn how I wanted to dress. It took a long time, I guess, for me to get comfortable with myself.

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Some of my friends went to Peru and did ayahuasca, or went on 40-day meditation retreats to find themselves. Instead of doing that I thought obsessively about what I wore. S was so confused by all the packages arriving. It was clear I was seeking, but what was I seeking?

What I wanted was always a feeling. I was willing to hold out for it long before I could articulate what I was even searching for. I’ve always believed that I would know it when you see it. Like when I walked into Colbo a couple of years ago and tried on these men’s Levi’s and thought—I guess I do like jeans. Some things just work, and they are so easy.

If you’re like me, when you don’t know how to sort out your life, you believe that a pair of Prada derbies from Poshmark will rescue you. Well, they didn’t deliver salvation, but they delivered something—after many years of experimentation, I now feel like my relationship to my sense of style is simple and uncomplicated. I know what I like and what looks good on me. I sell or donate the things I don’t wear. I know that clothes won’t save me, but they soothe me still, and I think they always will.

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These days how I dress is pretty uninteresting. V-neck sweaters, midi skirts. I like Issey Miyake and Dries van Noten and Comme des Garcons and Lemaire. I still really love 90s Prada. I have precisely one pair of sunglasses that look good on me. The idea of going on a long journey and trying lots of things only to find that you’re essentially sort of boring and nondescript is funny to me—I remember arguing with a boyfriend I had in my late teens because he thought the way I dressed was too provocative—but also seems honest.

I keep thinking about this Sheila Heti piece Celina told me about—Should Artists Shop or Stop Shopping?

Most of us buy to project something about ourselves to the world of people who witness us, or to tell ourselves that we are the sort of people we want to be. But Sara’s time-rich consumer activity is different. It is different because the things she buys never seem expensive: a postcard with the Twin Towers on it; dishwashing gloves just the right colour of red. They are never expensive because she is the only one who wants them. Things that are expensive are the things we all want. If we all had the time to want what we in particular want—to figure out what those wants might be, then spend our time finding them in stores or online—we would cut down our discretionary spending by so much... But we have other things to do. We are not artists. Being not-artists, we buy what others buy, and spend so much more than we should.

Whenever something costs a lot, it’s because everyone wants it. The reason you want it is because everyone wants it. And you want it because it costs a lot—you want it more because it costs a lot—because its costing a lot is a sign that it is wanted by many people. The fact that you can afford it and others cannot makes you feel like you are part of an elite circle that not only wants it (like everyone does) but can afford it (like only some).

To turn yourself into an artist, stop buying things that cost a lot. Buy the things that other people don’t want—that only you want, because it’s the right shade of green.

In the piece, Sheila Heti talks about how writing is similar to shopping—both are about selecting. The same impulse that drives my writing drives my interest in clothes. Just as words are inescapable, clothes are inescapable—no matter what you do, you’re going to get up in the morning and put on something.

I still remember my favorite pink dress from when I was six. It was a tiered pink dress with a strawberry motif. Then and now, it felt like girlhood distilled. I guess I could buy myself an adult version of that dress—from Molly Goddard, or Simone Rocha.

Potential adult version of that dress

I guess part of why clothes are enticing to me is because, like books, they are all about knowledge. Who makes what when. And what are the references? Recently at a party a female friend and I fell into conversation and a guy friend of mine remarked something like, “Ava, I didn’t know you liked fashion.” I felt weirdly happy hearing that and it made me realize that my interest in clothes, like my interest in books, feels both public and personal. They signify an interiority that I prefer to dole out at will. The moment I tried on that pair of Rachel Comey pants with the weird zipper that catalyzed the beginning of my adult experimentation with clothes felt just as meaningful, and moving as the first time I read Anna Karenina as a teenager. They were moments that marked a new kind of consciousness.