The Crazy House at night; your humble blogger aged sixteen, back when all the cool kids (us) used vintage sunglasses as makeshift colour filters - to not-so-good effect.
While I am trying clean out my wardrobe (albeit halfheartedly), I keep coming across these pieces of clothing – pieces I haven’t worn in years, that I looked awful in, that are pilling, acrylic, faded, or just not my style any more. I pull them out of the sorting pile, stare at them for a moment, and, with a pang, realise that I can’t quite part with them yet, and put them back in my wardrobe – right at the back, that is, where I don’t have to look at them. I never want to wear these pieces of clothing again. That’s not the point.
These are the pieces of clothing that have nostalgia value. I virtually inhabited some of these pieces during some of the most fantastic moments – and even years - of my life. But these years, these moments, still exist – in my head, in photographs, in journal entries. I remember being seventeen and driving around in a sleek black car at night in my hometown – even if I don’t hold on to the red track jacket I wore at the time. I still climbed through the half-constructed parts of the Crazy House in the middle of the night, even if I throw out the green knitted hoodie I was wearing when I did it.
What are any of us afraid of losing when we part with the last tangible remains of these kinds of moments?