The Private Museum of Loved Ones' Clothes
Our friend Beth came over for dinner the other evening and wore a Scandinavian ski sweater knit by her mother, Martha, in her twenties. The pattern presented leaping stags, geometric foliage and tiny ecru snowflakes; it was finished with mother of pearl buttons thick as poker chips.
It is more than a magnificent example of the craft; its stitches carry her memory. I could almost see the petite, slim young student; though Beth pointed to a few tiny signs of wear, the wool had held up for over seventy-five years.
There is a particular sweetness in life in a loved one's garment; it is no longer "just clothes", but an echo of that person's essence.
Sometimes, simply preserving the object is enough. When my sister died in the early '80s, I took several items from her closet. My favourite was a burnt-orange terry robe infused with her fragrance, L'Air du Temps. I still have (but no longer fit into) my mother's satin wedding-suit blouse, an appiquéd cashmere bolero, and her pigskin driving gloves.
Beth has a blue sweater-jacket that her mother wore often at the family's cottage, and a finely-woven woollen shirt, which, she says, "...was my paternal grandfather's—my mother gave it to me when they cleaned his things out, forty years ago, and it became my studio shirt when I'm painting or in cool weather. I love it and it seems to be indestructible." She has had to replace only the odd button.
I would give anything to still have my mother's skeet-shooting jacket. The back and arms were knit of a wool so thin and strong it was like chain mail; the front was caramel leather with bellows pockets to hold shells. I wore it for years, complete with the objects tucked in its pockets when she gave it to me, a linen hanky and a golf tee. I lost it during a move decades ago; a whole box vanished between two houses.
We love those things; they cannot be bought, any more than that beloved person can be duplicated. Even the most generic or modest piece—an apron, a little hat—reflects the personality, the style, the voice. We mend moth holes, ignore stains, and when it's absolutely past wearing, we save the buttons, or a label.
May we have a tour of your museum? What do you have, and whose was it?
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| Ski sweater, ca. 1942 |
It is more than a magnificent example of the craft; its stitches carry her memory. I could almost see the petite, slim young student; though Beth pointed to a few tiny signs of wear, the wool had held up for over seventy-five years.
There is a particular sweetness in life in a loved one's garment; it is no longer "just clothes", but an echo of that person's essence.
Sometimes, simply preserving the object is enough. When my sister died in the early '80s, I took several items from her closet. My favourite was a burnt-orange terry robe infused with her fragrance, L'Air du Temps. I still have (but no longer fit into) my mother's satin wedding-suit blouse, an appiquéd cashmere bolero, and her pigskin driving gloves.
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| Wedding blouse, 1931 |
Beth has a blue sweater-jacket that her mother wore often at the family's cottage, and a finely-woven woollen shirt, which, she says, "...was my paternal grandfather's—my mother gave it to me when they cleaned his things out, forty years ago, and it became my studio shirt when I'm painting or in cool weather. I love it and it seems to be indestructible." She has had to replace only the odd button.
 |
| Plaid woollen shirt, ca. 1965 |
I would give anything to still have my mother's skeet-shooting jacket. The back and arms were knit of a wool so thin and strong it was like chain mail; the front was caramel leather with bellows pockets to hold shells. I wore it for years, complete with the objects tucked in its pockets when she gave it to me, a linen hanky and a golf tee. I lost it during a move decades ago; a whole box vanished between two houses.
We love those things; they cannot be bought, any more than that beloved person can be duplicated. Even the most generic or modest piece—an apron, a little hat—reflects the personality, the style, the voice. We mend moth holes, ignore stains, and when it's absolutely past wearing, we save the buttons, or a label.
May we have a tour of your museum? What do you have, and whose was it?
Comments
My mother was a seamstress and artist. I have a hat she made-hundreds of feathers glued perfectly to form a pillbox hat. I also have her collection of gloves.
I also have a t-shirt that my Uncle Danny had made and gave to my dad when, at 72 my uncle made his first visit ever to his Canadian brother. On the front of the shirt is the text Dan and Ken Then, over a photo of the two boys, perhaps 8 and 10, still in short pants; on the back, Dan and Ken Now, and a picture of the two of them lifting a pint together, hugging, taken during Dad's visit a couple of years earlier. I have those two photos in the frame my Mom had made, but the t-shirt also holds the memory of my Uncle's shock at seeing how frail my Dad had become since. The photo of the two older gents he'd reproduced as Dan and Ken now represented Dad with that telltale effect of chemo /steroids, puffy, slightly swollen of face. In the time since, he'd been chiselled right down to essence. So difficult for my uncle to see his "little brother" that way, but beautiful, too, that they had that week together. . . So that t-shirt I'll hang onto although I'm not sure it ever got worn, an XL for a man who'd gone from 200 to 90 pounds. . . Sorry if it seems I've gone on and on to leave a sad story on your post, but honestly, I don't feel sad at all when I take that t-shirt out. It's comforting, that material (no pun intended) connection. to two lovely men, both gone now. . .
But this post--even more extraordinary. I could present a long list of perhaps too many things saved--or rescued--given my birth family's prediction for tossing everything. I have a ski sweater made by my great aunt for my mother in college, a dirdl worn by my grandmother before the family escaped from almost certain death in Vienna--on and on.
I am sure you will get many lists from your readers. My contribution: an incredible essay written by Peter Stallybrass, which centers on the experience of wearing a friend's jacket given to him by the widow: "Worn Worlds"--Yale Review 1993.
Kathleen
I used to berate myself for feeling so attached to material things but after all, we're human, and material things have value to us.
I must admit I still regret the loss of those beautiful gloves!
Ali
une femme: I remember you posting a shot of the scarf. Scarves can be handed down (when they are of that quality), so there's one more reason for collecting them.
Madame Là-bas: 1917! Do you keep it in cold storage? That is very old for a fur.
sgillie: If you can keep the moths away, old Pendleton was indeed forever. New, not, and I am so disappointed that they discontinued the 49er, and let quality slip. I wonder if you display the feathered pillbox? It sounds like it would make a fantastic piece on a stand.
materfamilias: Not at all,, thank you for the memoir. The vest and the t-shirt show how a garment can summon not only a person, but an entire story of the person at that specific time. My mother's cashmere bolero was part of an ensemble she bought for my sister's engagement party, and seeing it always takes me right back to that grand celebration.
Frugal: Yes, I remember you writing about the various heavy, intricate hand-knit sweaters. (Sometimes we keep things even though they are wrong for our climate- it's not about usefulness, it's the memory.) Thanks for link to essay. Linda Grant's book "The Clothes on Their Backs" also addresses the role of clothes beyond utility.
Unknown: Three generations of wear! Witness to what cashmere was in that time, and also to your dedication in preserving it.
Loretta: What a wonderful gift from your friend, and you are a serious curator! I had more of my parent's things, some of which we wore out. Their Maus and Hoffman raincoats for example, made of the fine, supple Egyptian cotton. This taught me that a raincoat need not be a heavy, rubberized tarp! They were made in Italy for the store, and I have never found anything close in probably 40 years of looking. Yes, some things are worn but others kept because they are so deeply "them".
eleni: Fascinating; that would have been a vintage look even 30 years ago. As for the sleeveless sweater, little did they know their work would be appreciated over half a century later
Carol: Oh, wonderful! I had not thought of repurposing fabric and it's such a great idea.
One of my friends was diagnosed with cancer and was able to spend the last year of her life with a good level of energy. She made the most exquisite quilts for each of her two children and her husband. The quilts used some of her clothes, some new fabric, and for her children's, their baby clothes.
Jane Pinckard: When I talk to friends who had house fires, it is the sentimental family things they mourn; you can always get another TV. I notice that gloves are often kept and cherished. They are an intimate accessory, and summon not only the person, but what they did, whether fine formal ones, or humble gardening gloves.
Ali: Maybe the shirt survived in good shape because he did not wear it much? Gardening in your mother's hat- nurturing your garden with her along.
anyresemblance: You are so right about how much better things were made even a relatively short 20 years ago: I read somewhere that even ordinary thread is much weaker than it was then, as manufacturers look to cut costs in every tiny way they can. Feeling a pang for your velvet scarf.
Susan: An eclectic museum! Makes me wonder what of ours our children or others will keep to remember us. I allowed a son to give my daughter in law the first piece of jewellery my Dad gave my mother, in about 1920, a beautiful art deco lavalier.
A friend had a •huge• moth infestation and traced it to her mother's fur coat, hanging unworn for at least 12 years in a garment bag that had a small hole for the hanger... and moths. Kind of like a wren house for moths.
One of my favourite things is a photo of my mother as a young woman in wartime, by an old-fashioned upright telephone, with a "skunk" stripe in her black hair. She is wearing a black fitted dress with a white collar.
We all greyed young. My youngest uncle is in his early eighties and his hair is all white - but he has a full head of very curly hair.