Real people, talking with their clothes

On my mind, real people, eveyday clothes. Years ago, a woman I worked for  said, "I choose my clothes so I have to talk less." 

On a warm day last fall, I 'heard' some chatter from clothes. On the bus:

She was not pointing at me, but at a similarly-dressed friend. I was taken by the juxtaposition of her scarf and her jeans and cutaway sleeveless top, which she carried so well. First time I had seen this look, the long drift of scarf over the head, with the small top and cropped jeans, and I was fascinated. The butterscotch scarf lit the black and grey. 

On the same bus ride, almost next to the scarf-wearer, was this woman in a blue knit turban:

As I looked more closely, I saw how put-together she was: the patterns, the camel sweater picking up a single camel stripe in the skirt, the matching black bag and gleaming loafers. Highly original, almost eccentric, but she also looked quite proper.

On the street, a schoolgirl in an exuberant outfit: braids piled into a bun, dramatic dangles, black shadow-plaid jacket, pink pleats, big red pack (plus small duffle as well, what's in there?) and... legwarmers for no other reason than they're cute.

Here's how this man, whom I remember as Sebastian, came to pose so charmingly: I asked him, because in my student days, I attended Marshall McLuhan's lecture series when he was a visiting professor. Sebastien could hardly believe that he met a still-breathing person who had that experience; he is a McLuhan fanatic. 

His wife bought him the t-shirt, along with a Baudrillard one. We stood in the sun chatting about culture and media while she bought coffees in a café.  

His goodwill is palpable.

Those four crossed my path within an hour, which is why I love my adopted city so: the parade of humanity.

The photo below is from earlier in the fall, when I visited my friend K. in Québec City. From my apartment above a pub, I spotted two women on its terrasse. First, I saw the ochre sweater on the chair, which I liked with the black top and dotted skirt; then I admired her friend's blouse with its translucent fans and blue skirt, so fresh.

I noticed their rapport, their pleasure in sharing an apèro. How I have missed these scenes, and long for them to return.

These persons are speaking with their clothes: this is me, I am here. No one has the latest status thing, the rote recitation. 

Another friend, Michaela, said that when she looked at women on the street without competition, they could sense it. I'm sure we've all had, at some point, one of those up-and-down assessments. But i am not interested in any kind of measurement; I look at them not to emulate but to enjoy, not to tote up what they spent but what they say.