MY WARDROBE IS VERY VERY FULL BUT I CANNOT LET ANYTHING GO

Clothing is my means of connection, both to myself and the world around me.

LOVE IS…

The opening of overstuffed drawers and doors, now bared to the world. My style, my signature, my imagined history — articulated through my careful curation and an irrepressible shopping habit. My clothes are beyond the microtrend of the moment, or a successfully shared Outfit Of The Day. They are the expression of a sentiment held to myself and to others, the connective tissue between the wider world and an innermost feeling. My clothes are  interwoven and overlocked with a deep love of beauty, stories, and ideas.

More naked than nakedness, to dress is an invitation to reflect on these personal positions; spaced in the memories and meanings different pieces hold, unless I am rushed of course.

For now, a warm, syrupy afternoon is settling with anticipation, beckoning me through my bedroom window. It is that special time of year, before the real heat kicks in, where everything feels more important than ever before, and important memories are yet to be made. A sun fuelled delirium of cool drinks and new mouths, of loud moments shared laughing and urinating with friends in the same bathroom cubicle. All these potentialities are in my mind as I stand before my wardrobe, trying to decide what I will wear to carry these imagined memories with.

Let me sift through the colours, shapes, and images… denims, polyblends, natural fabrics… patterns, solids, florals… and connect these memories to both my mirrored and real self.

Behind these doors is the materialisation of precious days spent trawling through thrift stores and websites in pay-day glory. This time is guided through the imagined world of clothing, the ideas that pertain to their conception and their wearer. Flickering images and ten second videos grouped through a hashtag on social media create nostalgic histories, devoid of violence, that I am able to participate in through my outfit. A frenzied Y2K where Iraq and Afghanistan are left alone, a grown-up girlish coquette allowed to be forever innocent, a post #MeToo indie sleaze hipster, a clean girl that requires no more than a centre part. 

Then, there are the hours spent yearning for plastic packages and a knock at the door. Just like the ache felt in the awaited arrival of a lover, a never ending sequence of a ripped parcel and perfectly fitted item reels through my mind, my sanity only sustained through updates on the AusPost app. “Your delivery is coming today” rings with the excitement of flirtation, and a certainty that fantasies of wanting fingertips needing to know where this is from will soon be realised. 

Clothing is my means of connection, both to myself and the world around me. They are objects created with the desire to possess and display, their fibres embedded into visions of time and place. Tonight, I will stretch the arms of the top I finally decide on wearing to hold the people who might understand me for who I am, of who I want to be, of who I am trying to be. At the very least, we can all agree it makes my boobs look great.