Meeting Artifacts

Every now and then I question myself about style. I gravitate to…

Boho?

Vintage?

Eclectic?

Artsy?

The truth is I don't really know. I feel scattered.

I don't collect clothing the way other people seem to or should.

I don't build wardrobes. I try. I’ve attempted.

But then I meet “artifacts.”

Some people see a jacket and think about what is fashionable. The look.

I see a piece and ask where did it come from and why?

Who would wear it.

What music were they playing.

What dreams were worn with it.

What version of life it was made for.

Take my terry cloth jacket.

Objectively, it is a slightly ridiculous thing.

The color belongs to another decade. There is a pull. A stain.

The fabric feels like it should be hanging beside a swimming pool at a Palm Springs motel decades ago.

It carries the energy of station wagons, roadside attractions, vacation postcards, and someone ordering a cocktail with a tiny umbrella in it.

It is not practical.

It is not particularly sophisticated.

It certainly wasn't purchased because I needed another jacket.

But the moment I saw it, I started imagining.

Not outfits.

Stories.

One day it wants oversized white sunglasses and gold hoops.

Another day it asks for a silk scarf and a convertible.

Some mornings it insists it belongs on a boardwalk with salt in the air and a paper cup of coffee.

Other days it feels like something a retired lounge singer would wear while buying tomatoes at a roadside produce stand.

The jacket is having a conversation.

I simply listen. I sit with it and listen like it is a person.

That realization changed the way I think about clothing.

For years I worried that I didn't have a signature style.

Fashion magazines always seemed to suggest that stylish people knew exactly who they were.

They had formulas.

Rules.

Capsule wardrobes.

Color palettes.

Ten essential pieces.

I tried.

I failed.

The truth is I don't experience clothing that way.

I experience it the same way I experience vintage objects, books, gardens, paintings, and old photographs.

As encounters.

As relationships.

The Mexican wool vest tells different stories than the Ralph Lauren velvet pieces.

The silver and turquoise jewelry has a different voice than the cat-eye sunglasses.

None of them are trying to become one thing.

Neither am I.

Together they become a cast of characters.

A traveling collection of possibilities.

Perhaps that is why I love vintage.

These pieces arrive with lives already attached to them.

They have survived trends, closets, moves, garages, estate sales, thrift stores, and decades of changing tastes.

They have stories.

And if you listen carefully, they still want to tell them.

So I no longer worry about defining my style.

I don't need one.

I am not building a wardrobe.

I am collecting conversations.

And every now and then an artifact walks into my life and says,

"Come with me. I have something to show you."

I usually say yes. 🩷

And this is where my dreaming takes me.