Pink cowboy boots, a mystical cardigan and the magic of wearing clothes.
Joan Didion said “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” I suppose we also tell ourselves stories in order to wear clothes.
Usually when I have written and finished an essay, I stop thinking about it. The thoughts have come together and I have released them onto a page. Case closed. However, I am still thinking about one line from last months essay;
I miss the feeling of buying a new dress and thinking it was going to change the world.
In this essay I want to explore the magical element of clothing. The power it held for me as a teenager and the power it continues to hold for me.
In The Language of Clothes Alison Lurie writes “In civilised society today belief in the supernatural powers of clothing - like belief in prayers, spells and charms remains widespread, though we denigrate it with the name ‘superstition.”
Imagine; You wake up one morning and want to wear your lucky sweater but it’s in the wash. The day starts off badly, then gets increasingly worse and you can’t help but think if you had been able to wear the lucky sweater, things might have turned out differently.
That’s what's known as ‘being superstitious” but beyond superstition, I want to know why your lucky sweater is your lucky sweater.
For example, I have 2 rings that I wear compulsively. If I have forgotten to put them on I tear back up the stairs, rush to the bathroom, lift them swiftly from the shell upon which they rest at night and slip them over my left thumb and middle finger of my right hand. It’s a feeling akin to nudity without them. I don’t believe that they will bring me good luck or that if I don’t wear them I will suffer bad luck, rather that they are a kind of armour. Please note I am not deliberately dressing each day for an urban battleground, nor do I feel like I should! The rings have become part of my spiritual armour if you like. They are an external symbol of an internal prayer that is steeped in a magic of my own making.
To explain further, the rings are not especially outstanding. The one on my left hand is the first piece of gold I bought for myself. It’s a vintage sweetheart ring with a hazy garnet in the shape of a heart. Its colour is close to blood. I wanted that ring so I indulged in it. When it arrived, it fit none of my fingers, only my thumb and that is where it stays.
The ring on my right hand belonged to my Grandmother. It’s a simple thin gold band, not especially pretty but the combination of both rings pleases me. When I wear them I feel, well, elegant. The rings accentuate my fingers. I like the way they look on my hands.
Gold is special to me.
Once in a moment of sadness I visited a masseuse who told me that though I was quiet and shy she thought I was strong because I was made of gold. I started to associate the metal with qualities I garnered within myself; Strength, beauty and sophistication.
Joan Didion said “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”
I suppose we also tell ourselves stories in order to wear clothes (or jewellery).
The stories I grew up with were full of magical clothing. There were Ruby Slippers and Invisibility Cloaks; The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe featured a whole enchanted closet filled with fur coats that transported Lucy to a different world. These stories were still very much alive in my head when I was a teenager and shaped my relationship and imagination with clothes.
As I got older I learned that a tight dress would give me the power to be admired sexually. This felt important to me. At the age of 14, I was infatuated with starlets and old Hollywood glamor. I read biographies of Jayne Mansfield, Marilyn Monroe, Greta Garbo and Rita Hayward. By the age of 15, I wanted my figure to be on show. It gave me the power of confidence. It continues to. My wardrobe even 20 years later is still fitted.
A friend who favours loose clothing once asked me why I wore such tight clothing. I felt speechless. I could not put into words how it made me feel. I believe I managed to respond with something vague but the truth was closer to an indescribable personal power, or desire.
“Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly” Epictetus, Discourses.
At the age of 16 I borrowed a pair of pink vintage cowboy boots from my friend Emma’s Mother. The boots were ankle height with a small 1 inch clipped heel made of soft leather in baby pink with a pretty embossed decoration.
The borrowing aspect is possibly a lie. I think Emma and I decided I should take and wear the boots (Emma is probably reading this and screaming that she had nothing to do with the heinous crime!) But however it happened, the boots ended up on my feet. They were pink, insanely cool and they were my size.
My life at that point revolved around a club called The Crypt.
It was my heart's desire to go there every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night and I firmly believed that if I was not wearing the boots I would not be allowed in.
Each time I wore them, I got in. No fake ID needed. I would drink Jägermeister from a plastic test tube, clutch a can of Castlemaine to my chest and dance until closing.
The pink cowboy boots served the same purpose as a prayer or a spell but they replaced a spoken charm and became my key to a different world.
Since Emma and I grew up together, reading the same books, eating Pringles in a tent in my parents garden, stealing pink cowboy boots - I believe that an integral part of my belief in the magic of clothing also lies within our joint perception of fashion.
I would give Emma clothes from my Grandmother's house and buy her special garments I found in vintage shops.
I took a huge joy in seeing her feel good in the clothes she wore.
We encouraged each other. She particularly loved swirly star patterns and I would make a point of finding pieces like this for her.
The magic of clothing was made bigger when we were together because we believed in each other.
In May 2020 when Emma’s Mother died, Emma messaged me to say that her boyfriend was driving down with her favourite cardigan. It was a thin black knit, embroidered all over with swirly white beaded stars and crescent moons that I had gifted her many years back. Despite the magical symbols on the cardigan, Nigel packed it because he knew that it would bring Emma comfort. This was the cardigan's power, known only by those who were close to it and only by those who believed in it.
I now work in fashion advertising and find myself being tasked with producing ‘meaningful’ campaigns in order to sell clothes. There is a lot of emphasis put on how clothes make one feel and how that can be converted into sales but I am adamant that consumerism and magic just don't mix.
A sweater doesn’t become a lucky sweater because it is sold that way.
There are no boutiques for enchanted dresses, no showrooms of transformative accessories and no elite emporiums toting mystical knitwear.
The fashion industry can push “forever pieces” or “wardrobe staples” and try as hard as they might to conjure some meaning into a croptop every season. But that spell will always be out of reach for they do not know, the true magic of clothing lies within the wearer.
In memory of Janet Dunning, who loved clothes.
Artwork by Glenn Whiting @whitingglenn