Irony and "Old Lady"
A blogger whom I have long read mused about some luxury clothes and accessories she's stored for years but not worn, calling them "old lady/rich lady" pieces: four bags, a pair of shoes, a small leather accessory, and a coat at least forty years old.
She had long intended to work the things into her wardrobe, viewing them as "ironic, or believing that they will convey that (ironic) attitude", and vows to do so now— but suspects that, on the shady side of 60, her style statement may harder to pull off.
I share her reluctance. In a post about attempting irony in attire I said, "I neither understand its stance nor does it summon desire. It's outside my ken; I feel like Dr. Who contemplating a hula hoop."
I considered the "old lady/rich lady" descriptor. When I see signifiers of wealth from twenty, thirty, forty years ago worn today by someone over age 50 or so, I wonder, What is the story here? I mull a few possibilities: Bygone prosperity? Vintage-clothing collector? Held captive somewhere for decades?
The blogger is an intelligent, discerning woman with deep anti-consumerist values. She admires these pieces because they are handsome and well-made—far better than their current versions. They should get out more.
I don't think, though, that they are best worn by most women in the Passage, and tell this story on myself.
In 2003, I bought this sumptuous yellow alligator frame handbag at an auction, for a steal. It was a socialite's trophy from the '70s or '80s, on another planet from my lifestyle—a pom-pom-clipped poodle of an accessory. My arm seemed to have a mind of its own; I waved the lone paddle. A sand dollar nestled in an interior pocket; I imagined the bag at a Palm Beach lunch, carried by a tanned blonde with an apricot manicure.
I displayed "Mrs. Palm Beach" on a bookshelf; it held small scarves and handkerchiefs. Occasionally I'd think, I really should use this, but always held back— it felt too costume-y. So there it sat for a decade, until I met my son's friend Nicole, whose daily attire is a pompadour up-do, cherry lipstick and 1940s dress. I offered her the bag; Nicole accepted with a blissed-out sigh of pleasure. She carries it with a rockabilly sundress rather than a Lilly shift.
My gesture is not necessarily the answer for the blogger; some of her items carry fond family memories. She might wear her pieces, and have a wholly satisfying experience.
Certain nostalgic settings support a vintage bag or coat—the old-school strawberry social or Pink Martini concert— but they are presently nonexistent.
She could slip on the shoes at home, though, perhaps easing into character with a skewer of rumaki and a Sidecar. Irony is optional.
She had long intended to work the things into her wardrobe, viewing them as "ironic, or believing that they will convey that (ironic) attitude", and vows to do so now— but suspects that, on the shady side of 60, her style statement may harder to pull off.
I share her reluctance. In a post about attempting irony in attire I said, "I neither understand its stance nor does it summon desire. It's outside my ken; I feel like Dr. Who contemplating a hula hoop."
I considered the "old lady/rich lady" descriptor. When I see signifiers of wealth from twenty, thirty, forty years ago worn today by someone over age 50 or so, I wonder, What is the story here? I mull a few possibilities: Bygone prosperity? Vintage-clothing collector? Held captive somewhere for decades?
The blogger is an intelligent, discerning woman with deep anti-consumerist values. She admires these pieces because they are handsome and well-made—far better than their current versions. They should get out more.
I don't think, though, that they are best worn by most women in the Passage, and tell this story on myself.
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| "Mrs. Palm Beach" |
In 2003, I bought this sumptuous yellow alligator frame handbag at an auction, for a steal. It was a socialite's trophy from the '70s or '80s, on another planet from my lifestyle—a pom-pom-clipped poodle of an accessory. My arm seemed to have a mind of its own; I waved the lone paddle. A sand dollar nestled in an interior pocket; I imagined the bag at a Palm Beach lunch, carried by a tanned blonde with an apricot manicure.
I displayed "Mrs. Palm Beach" on a bookshelf; it held small scarves and handkerchiefs. Occasionally I'd think, I really should use this, but always held back— it felt too costume-y. So there it sat for a decade, until I met my son's friend Nicole, whose daily attire is a pompadour up-do, cherry lipstick and 1940s dress. I offered her the bag; Nicole accepted with a blissed-out sigh of pleasure. She carries it with a rockabilly sundress rather than a Lilly shift.
My gesture is not necessarily the answer for the blogger; some of her items carry fond family memories. She might wear her pieces, and have a wholly satisfying experience.
Certain nostalgic settings support a vintage bag or coat—the old-school strawberry social or Pink Martini concert— but they are presently nonexistent.
She could slip on the shoes at home, though, perhaps easing into character with a skewer of rumaki and a Sidecar. Irony is optional.
Comments
fmcgmccllc: I kept the fine jewellery and had it restyled, but divested most of the casual real and costume; two enormous shopping bags to a charity sale where they were appraised first so the church received fair payment. Alas, no daughters. My DIL has one piece that was my mother's but since I have never seen hear wear it, I'm not sure f she really likes it.
Lynn: You have me trying to picture something the Queen would carry, yet too young for a friend of your grandmother, but so be it. I agree that stature counts. So does attitude. Nicole owned that bag, and I felt like you, that it belonged to someone else.
Some animal sanctuaries take old fur to make bedding. If the piece is in excellent condition and you are OK with someone wearing it, you can give it to that person, or sell on a site like The RealReal. A friend of mine had a pair of fur cuffs made from her mother's scarf and wears them when the mood strikes in her memory. She says she can still smell her mother's Arpege in them.