Vintage Find: One Eyed Lion

I like nice things. I like worn things. I like damaged things.

To me, they are like people.

I found this little vintage rhinestone lion already battle-worn, tossed into a tray with other rhinestone-encrusted and enameled brooches.

Segmented and sparkling, unbranded, one green eye still watching the world, the other long gone.

He fascinated me.

The little bandit had a story.

And as I watched people inspect the brooches, discarding ones with even a little wear, I found myself slightly offended on his behalf.

We all have our injuries. We are all damaged goods in one way or another.

Maybe because I came from rough spots, that stings a little more for me. Alcoholic, violent parents. Inconsistent, volatile siblings. My clothes and hair smelled like nicotine, and I was given more than one not-nice nickname.

I love nice things, but I remember when things were very much not nice.

And honestly, I don’t want to shed that.

It made me who I am.

So I chose the lion as my little “happy” for the week. He was inexpensive, damaged, and I had absolutely no idea how I would wear him. It was more than a week before I did.

Then I pinned him to blue denim with orange stitching, over a vintage satin camisole, with denim block heels.

I’ve always loved those contradictions—denim with satin or silk, pearls with something worn, rhinestones against something practical.

Up and down.
Rough and beautiful.

Things that supposedly don’t belong together finding out that they do.

The missing eye doesn’t bother me.

I don’t think I’ll rush to replace it.

He arrived with evidence of having lived.

There is something reassuring about that.

Not pristine.
Not untouched.
Still here.
Still sparkling.

Glamorous survival.

I think my one-eyed lion and I understand each other.

I know what it is like to have things we want or love ripped away from us, and we have to continue on with our injuries.