My grandmother was a "collector," to put it gently. While she was still alive she would watch me after school, as both my parents worked and kindergarten was only a half day. Being one neighborhood away from my folks meant I spent a lot of time with her, in her amply (though not expensively) furnished and stocked home. Her unwillingness to part with materiality left an impression on me as well as my mother before me. Stuff was everywhere, and a sense of organization was lacking, but it felt extremely cozy and mysterious to a child. I remember the piles of stuff in her basement reaching as tall as she was (which, to be fair was probably not that tall, but seemed so from my childhood vantage). In some ways my mother was less wedded to stuff than her mom. But like my grandmother strong sentimentality was imbued onto things. I too have this tendency. I remember too well how stuff connects to segments or moments of my life, making the weeding process that much more overwhelming.
Cartography Cardigan from Anthropologie (similar
here,
here, and
here)
Bold Boutonnière dress by Burlapp from Anthropologie (similar
here,
here, and
here; similar plus
here)
Chloé Edith pumps (similar
here and
here)
When I was preparing for the flea market last week, and in preparation for previous moves and flea markets, I had to consciously remind myself that things are not memories. The stuff might provoke a pang of nostalgia but giving stuff up will not erase the emotion or memory itself. I have a few pieces of clothing that connect closely with travels, event memories, and people and I try to police myself from gathering many more. The above dress will be forever remembered as what I wore to try on wedding dresses with my mom and sister. And it will likely be hard to part with it, if the day comes that I should. The cardigan is new and has no such memories yet. But controlling whether or not a thing becomes part of a narrative memory seems unrealistic. And determining what to keep should rarely be based on memories alone.
Sometimes the process of deciding to say goodbye is simple. I am re-homing my first pair of
Marc by Marc Jacobs shoes because the only memory I have from them is that I ordered too small and they didn't fit. That was an easy decision and it is embarrassing that it took so long. But the choice to re-home my first
A.P.C. piece, purchased during my first research summer in DC, and worn throughout my first visit to the Bay Area with Chris for the wedding of our dear friends, was much more fraught. Although I cannot wear it without tights due to length (and my own sense of modesty), I have fond memories and so many vacation photos of me in it. It is such a charming little dress that I feel conflicted about parting with it. Still, the photographs should be enough to jolt my nostalgic feelings. And I haven't worn it much since that trip.
How do you decide what stays or what goes? The conventional wisdom and magazine tips don't work unless one adopts a more stoic approach to material life. Instead I am plagued by rationale to the contrary of the practical. "Sure I haven't worn it in 3 years but it was my outfit for New Years Eve in 2007/08." "Sure I don't very much like this particular style dress anymore but it was my go-to in the summer of ____." "Sure I haven't reached for this bracelet since I moved into my new house but my mom bought it for me when we were antiquing the Mon Valley that day." I could go on with these justifications. But they only enable me to keep what I don't need.
