When my mother died, I took on the responsibility of cleaning out her closet.  It was bittersweet; joyful, as I smiled remembering the events to which she wore certain things, and terribly sad, as I cried realizing she’d never wear them again.  Her clothing was organized by type, season, and color.  Her nicer dresses were in zipped cloth garment bags, handbags were safely nestled in soft drawstring bags, hats in traditional round boxes, and her shoes, of which there were many, were carefully stored in their original boxes. When I started to look through her drawers, I was astonished to find everything so deliberately placed.  Scarves were folded with tissue layers in-between them, sweaters laid flat in vinyl bags with clear windows and hosiery was methodically arranged by color and style.  Nothing seemed to have been worn, though I knew it had been.  Her things looked like they belonged to someone who respected what it took to obtain them and found the time it took to make certain they would last.



           


My mother didn’t really have the patience for bargain shopping and generally bought well made clothing from nicer department stores.  From the moment she walked in the doors, she treated the experience as if it were an important one and didn’t purchase anything on a whim or with carelessness.  The sales woman with the perfectly manicured nails would hand her the beautiful bag with layers of logo tissue or a hanging garment in a bag and my mother would carry it carefully to her car. The minute she got home, she would take it right inside and put it in its proper place.  She wore her clothing carefully too, taking care to pay attention to the way she moved and the way she walked. She never needed to tell me to stay away from her closet, the way she treated her things told me that they were very special and off limits to my sometimes marker stained little girl hands.
                               

As I reminisced and lingered with the comforting fabrics that made up the complexity of my mother’s life and wardrobe, I experienced a strong sense of deja vu.  I started to see the similarities between my mother and the many women who owned the finer estates of vintage clothing I’d acquired throughout the years.  They all had those neatly stacked shoe boxes, with the original tissue.  They all folded their sweaters the same way and zipped their nicer dresses inside of cloth garment bags.  Everything had its place and had its purpose and was purchased with thoughtful deliberation.  Some women owned numbered couture designer clothing and some owned higher end department store clothing, but they treated it well and respected its value. When I bring those garments to my studio, I treat them with the same respect, as if they’ve earned it somehow, through years of being loved. 

                                  

What has changed, I wondered?  My own closet, though fitted with organizers and shelves, feels unimportant, and though organized, haphazard. Other than vintage, when I buy my own clothes, usually on sale, or at Nordstrom Rack, Loehman’s, etc.. the less than enthusiastic cashier throws them into a paper bag and hands me a receipt without looking at me directly and I then throw it into the back seat of my car with the same disregard. It might be the same dress that sold for $800 originally at Nordstrom, but because I’ve purchased it at the Rack for 60% off of the last marked price for $80, I don’t assign it the value it once deserved.  Maybe it started when I was handed a plastic number to assure I came out of the dressing room with the same number of things I entered with, or maybe it started before that, when I tried to look through the overcrowded racks of clothing on cheap hangers under harsh lighting.  I might have decided my shopping experience was insignificant when I saw that there was no “Women’s Lounge” and you had to get a key to use the restroom.  Or, maybe it was immediate, when I first stepped onto the floors, which weren’t soft carpeting, but harsh industrial linoleum and the sales people that I first encountered had looks on their faces that said, “I wish I’d gotten a job at the retail store.”


Whatever the reason, I don’t keep my shoe boxes.  I’ll even admit that sometimes I just kick my shoes off and let them land where they land.  I don’t take the time to make decisions about buying clothing with the same care that my mother did, and sometimes I buy things on impulse that I discover I never want to actually wear.  I treat my inventory like it is invaluable in temperature controlled rooms and clean, bug resistant garment bags. My own clothing is not that fortunate. I’m afraid that I’d never wear anything if I had to take the time to unzip a bag or open a box first.  I need quick clothing options to fit into my over committed stressful life
                                   
 

All of this has made me realize something. I don’t want to be one of those fashion hyper focused, trend obsessed neurotics who try so desperately to stay ahead of everyone else and discard clothing like it was garbage after wearing it once or twice. I think our whole society needs to re think this disposable attitude and take a minute to consider where we are, and who we are, right at this moment. We don't even care how anything is made or who made it.  We all pretend to care about social justice, but when push comes to shove, we run into Target to grab a white tee shirt because it's easy, cheap and quick.  I’m literally exhausted after rummaging through discount stores that feel like prisons with security cameras and the sales people are so concerned with potential thieves that they forget about providing service to paying customers. Maybe the way we are treated and the way we treat our clothing is a reflection of how we see our lives; careless, conditionally valuable and disposable. 

I love vintage clothing because I love the idea of  timeless quality and beauty.  My mother didn’t convert entire apartments into closets, (which, in my opinion, would indicate an almost pathological emphasis on the value of ones' posessions), she didn't have a stylist, a personal assistant or complicated closet organizers, but she understood style and never underestimated the significance or value of her life.  She kept her shoe boxes because it was the smart thing to do and I think just might start keeping mine too.