Once, we were all dressed by someone else. Parents picked out a T-shirt; the school dictated what colour our trousers should be.
But at some point, we were granted the opportunity to discover who we might be in the world of clothes. We had to decide for ourselves about collars and necklines, fit, colours, patterns, textures and what goes (or doesn’t) with what.
We learnt to speak about ourselves in the language of garments. Despite the potential silliness and exaggeration of sections of the fashion industry, assembling a wardrobe is a serious and meaningful exercise.
Based on our looks or background, others are always liable to come to quick and, not very rounded decisions about who we are.
Clothes provide us with a major opportunity to correct some of these assumptions. When we get dressed, we are, in effect, operating as a tour guide, offering to show people around ourselves
We’re highlighting interesting or attractive things about who we are and, in the process, we’re clearing up misconceptions.
We’re acting like artists painting a self-portrait: deliberately guiding the viewer’s perception of who they might be. Our clothes give us a crucial introduction to the self.
This explains the curious phenomenon whereby if we’re staying with good friends, we can spend a lot less time thinking about our clothes, compared with the anxiety about what to wear that can grip us with strangers.
With good friends, we might sit around in a dressing gown or just hastily slip on any old jumper. They know who we are already; they’re not relying on our clothes for clues.
It’s a strange but profound fact that certain items of clothing can excite us. When we put them on or see others wearing them, we’re turned on: a particular style of jacket, the right kind of shoes or the perfect shirt might prove so erotic, we could almost do without a person wearing them.
It’s tempting to see this kind of fetishism as simply deluded but it is alerting us in an exaggerated way to a much more general and very normal idea: that certain clothes make us very happy.
They capture values that we’re drawn and want to get closer to.
The erotic component is just an extension of a more general and understandable sympathy.
The French novelist Stendhal wrote: ‘Beauty is the promise of happiness’ and every item of clothing we’re drawn to contains an allusion to a different sort of happiness.
Clothes embody values that enchant and beguile us. By choosing particular sorts of clothes, we are shoring-up our more fragile or tentative characteristics.
We’re both communicating to others who we are and strategically reminding ourselves. Our wardrobes contain some of our most carefully-written lines of autobiography.
But at some point, we were granted the opportunity to discover who we might be in the world of clothes. We had to decide for ourselves about collars and necklines, fit, colours, patterns, textures and what goes (or doesn’t) with what.
We learnt to speak about ourselves in the language of garments. Despite the potential silliness and exaggeration of sections of the fashion industry, assembling a wardrobe is a serious and meaningful exercise.
Based on our looks or background, others are always liable to come to quick and, not very rounded decisions about who we are.
Clothes provide us with a major opportunity to correct some of these assumptions. When we get dressed, we are, in effect, operating as a tour guide, offering to show people around ourselves
We’re highlighting interesting or attractive things about who we are and, in the process, we’re clearing up misconceptions.
We’re acting like artists painting a self-portrait: deliberately guiding the viewer’s perception of who they might be. Our clothes give us a crucial introduction to the self.
This explains the curious phenomenon whereby if we’re staying with good friends, we can spend a lot less time thinking about our clothes, compared with the anxiety about what to wear that can grip us with strangers.
With good friends, we might sit around in a dressing gown or just hastily slip on any old jumper. They know who we are already; they’re not relying on our clothes for clues.
It’s a strange but profound fact that certain items of clothing can excite us. When we put them on or see others wearing them, we’re turned on: a particular style of jacket, the right kind of shoes or the perfect shirt might prove so erotic, we could almost do without a person wearing them.
It’s tempting to see this kind of fetishism as simply deluded but it is alerting us in an exaggerated way to a much more general and very normal idea: that certain clothes make us very happy.
They capture values that we’re drawn and want to get closer to.
The erotic component is just an extension of a more general and understandable sympathy.
The French novelist Stendhal wrote: ‘Beauty is the promise of happiness’ and every item of clothing we’re drawn to contains an allusion to a different sort of happiness.
Clothes embody values that enchant and beguile us. By choosing particular sorts of clothes, we are shoring-up our more fragile or tentative characteristics.
We’re both communicating to others who we are and strategically reminding ourselves. Our wardrobes contain some of our most carefully-written lines of autobiography.
Comments
Post a Comment