I've reached the halfway mark in my year of not buying clothing. The only thing I ache for is something I cannot purchase: a favorite cardigan, lost in my move. I sometimes stay up too late at night, Googling words that might reap a doppelganger of that which I loved: blue, wool, cable, cardigan. Sometimes I dream I'll find it in an empty box, or on the racks at a Goodwill, even see someone wearing it on the street. I've calculated how much money I'd give, how hard I'd plead. I may not be above conking them on the head and making off with it. This sweater and I had a love match.
But I digress.
Lest one think otherwise, not buying clothing doesn't stop one from consuming. I hope I am consuming less, but I may just be consuming differently. Moving makes you notice things that have become ratty: bedsheets, bath towels. And there are new spaces that ask for attention: blank walls, bare windows. Not being a budget-keeper, I have nothing to compare and contrast. (Shame, I know, I know.) However, there is no doubt that, without this self-imposed ban, I would have been purchasing wearable items in addition to the towels, sheets, art and curtains.
The pictures below could be considered a failure of my resolution. I was at an antique show a few weekends ago and saw this French Embroidered Cotton Lingerie, per the tag. Hand-embroidered, French seams, 1920's, --the lines, color, design that make me wish for a mass return to the gin-drenched Jazz Age. The fabric is immaculate. I doubt it was ever worn.
Would I have succumbed if it hadn't, wonder of wonders, happened to fit? Maybe not. Will I actually wear it? Maybe. The camisole could be great with jeans.... However, it could just hang in my sewing room and inspire me for future projects. I consider my resolution sound and unbroken. Cracked, perhaps, but not broken.
This last shot is gratuitous; I have a crush on my clothesline.
