lighten up: a minor existential closet crisis
An infinitesimally minute sampling of my wardrobe.
While traversing the internet and meandering through the glossies, I often come across what are two dominating philosophies in how one approaches adding to and organizing her wardrobe. On one hand, you have the pack rat, the one who has a lifetime of clothing stashed away in her closet, her kitchen cupboards, her parents’ house, maybe even at a storage facility. Very little, if at all, is ever removed. Such an approach suits the mash-up, heavily layered style, like that of Brooke from The Fashion Void that is DC. Alternately, one can dress in a basic way while still possessing a stuffed-to-the-gills closet. Regardless, the manner that such a wardrobe is portrayed in the media is, if you're holding onto all your old stuff, regardless of what you're doing with it, then you're a disorderly mess and you need advice on whipping your sorry cache of clothes into shape—hence all the "How to Organize Your Closet" articles.
On the other hand, there's the notion of simplicity and, inherent in that, minimalism: You buy less and only the best. It involves saving funds, a careful doling out of currency, and it tends towards premeditation. (Which, to be clear, doesn't exclude instinct. But I imagine that if one is only buying a few major pieces each season, spending copious amounts of money on such wares, then there has to be some planning and research involved. And yet, that doesn't mean that you don't go with what speaks to your heart.) There's also the tail-end of the matter. You don't just acquire, you edit and whittle at the same time. Income and outgo. Such a wardrobe is always representative of a conscious choice and no less. There are a couple of long-running threads on The Fashion Spot, "The 4-5 Piece French Wardrobe" and "The Minimalist’s Wardrobe," that exemplify the theme quite deftly. Camille of Childhood Flames is a prime instance as well; to be sure, her outfits in themselves are minimalistic, but so is her active wardrobe. (Or, at least, what she chooses of it to show us.) By all means, the sparse approach doesn't necessitate having copious amounts of money to spend. What it really boils down to is a value judgment, an ability to discern what is of value to you. The girl who has only $100 to spend on clothes this month can attend to the business of shopping and distilling in a discriminating manner just as the girl who has $1000 to spend can.
The crux of the minimalist's philosophy is its portrayal in magazines and blogs as being somehow more virtuous, superior to that of the hoarder. There's an unspoken looking down on buying fast fashion and mass market, as if the quality is necessarily poor and invariably substandard to expensive garments. That's often true, but any diversified and informed shopper knows otherwise: Pricey doesn't equal well-made, and low in cost doesn't always mean shoddy. However, to take it further, there's almost this sort of moral judgment that's passed on cheap apparel and closets full of it, like a distaste for "the commoners." In all fairness, it's a judgment that is not completely undeserving when you consider child labor, poor working conditions and the environmental impact that typically accompany cheap clothes. I guess it comes down to the fact that when something is easy to attain and amass in staggering numbers, it loses the specialness and value that is typically attributed to the rare.
There are exceptions to this system, this portion of people who have the inclination and means to care about what they wear. The exorbitantly wealthy who can buy the best of everything and lots of it is one such facet that comes to mind. But, that's neither here nor there on the subject of how the majority of us shop and organize. Realistically speaking, most of us combine aspects of both approaches or—if it's less a dichotomy and more a gradient—fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. Lots of us shop at H&M and Forever 21 (all associations to the contrary, Topshop doesn't fall into this category of "cheap" because last time I checked, a $410 beaded jacket or even a $65 viscose skirt didn't qualify for financial accessibility to the masses). Maybe occasionally we will splurge a little at Shopbop, Creatures of Comfort, Barneys. Handcrafted wares from Etsy, more splurges from Nordstrom, sales and discount codes galore, vintage, thrift, secondhand, home made—you know the drill. We all have our own formulas that include many, if not all, of these variables.
When it comes to the arrangement and cleansing of clothes, though, I have less a sense of how many of us actually behave. Maybe it's because, in this First World, American-influenced culture that spans across the globe, the focus is on acquisition and not appreciation, function and disposal. What I do know is that more bloggers are setting up their own blogshops these days, showcasing unwanted pieces from their own wardrobes in the hopes that readers will take the bait. eBay doesn't even need lipservice as I write of this matter, as do not consignment shops, swaps and charities. At the same time, I'll often hear or read, "I have too many clothes," as if such a state were a mild irritant, but not something really worth doing anything about. Frankly, this off-handed remark comes across as an ungratefulness for one's lot in life (i.e., having the means to afford "too many" clothes in the first place), but I suppose ostensibly it's conveying a frustration with the lack of order and functionality in one's closet. More money means more choices. Which brings me to the stereotype of the stockpiler, a generalization that's not always an accurate one: Surely, in the worst case scenario, chaos reigns the land. Things are a mess, forgotten, useless. But, optimally, a stuffed closet can be a sorted one: Things are cycled through and knowingly stored, only to be brought out once again when the mood or need strikes.
I bring all this up because as of late I've been reflecting on my procuring and, more so, systematizing, refining and shedding of possessions. Specifically so in regards to apparel, as it's by far the category of which I own the greatest quantity of. Bluntly put, I feel torn between the wardrobe binaries. I know logically that I don't have to pick one or the other, even though my tendencies put me squarely in the domain of those who have been squirreling away striped T-shirts since 5th grade. (I'm an organized squirrel, but a squirrel nevertheless.) But, a lack of storage and a basic desire to just have a decent looking home already, a living room without industrial sized trashbags crammed with sweaters and dresses, leaves me craving less. Less stuff, and more space. I do have clothes packed away at home in Hawaii, but sending more apparel on that 5,000 mile journey seems a tad absurd and unavoidably costly. I've also been finding myself drawn towards a more nomadic sensibility, an ability to pick up one's belongings and go when the stars align. A move to a new apartment not long ago crystallized the feeling, and it's been lingering ever since. What also doesn't help is that I've been staring—ogling, really—at interior decorating blogs a lot these days. I don't compare my outfits to that of other bloggers, but in the face of all these design websites, I do find myself feeling a bit inadequate about my dwellings.
I have donated and sold things before, things of my youth and things that I acquired during the steepest part of my personal style learning curve (which, if you're wondering, consisted of four years of diligent experimenting. One's style should evolve as she evolves as a person, but as with most disciplines, there's often the initial struggle to recalibrate and comprehend.) When I let garments go, I thought I had moved beyond them, that they were no longer to my taste. What compelled me to actually get rid of these things, though, was that I had temporarily fallen under the spell of simplicity. It felt good at the time, but I now bemoan some of those releases—even pieces that I got rid of a decade ago. The fact of the matter is that my taste cycles, and I regularly dip back into my Rubbermaid tubs of clothes that span the course of 20 years. That's 20 years of my life, not just 20-year old dresses that I picked up in a vintage boutique last Saturday. Another reason I am reluctant to scale back, a reason that's only come about in the past few years when I started experimenting more, is that pieces I don't necessarily like on their own now work fantastically in amalgam, mish-mash-type outfits.
Where I'm at now with my stash of clothes is that I know what I simply do not need anymore, whether it's because it was a bad choice in the first place or something that I will never be able to fit into again. Those, I have already sorted out to be sold and donated. I know which clothes I cherish, clothes that I will go to the extreme of taking as carry-on when flying, for fear of losing checked-in baggage to the airport abyss. What I don't know is what to do with the 80% of my stuff that I find very useful and likable, or stuff that will be useful and likable within the next 1-5 years, but is not piercingly lovely. Or bizarre, or classic, or dorky, or avant garde. In a nutshell, stuff that is not my favorite stuff. I suppose I can exclude 40% of that from my fretting because it is part of my current, active wardrobe. That leaves the 40% that sit, folded and stacked with care, in the aforementioned plastic tubs. I'm feeling that temptation to let go of things once again, but I tiptoe the line, uncertain if I'll face future regrets once again.
The truth is, sometimes I go minimalist like Childhood Flames and other days I pile it all on like The Fashion Void that is DC. Clearly I need to reconcile the fact that, for as long as my daily outfits span the entire spectrum—neither consistently eclectic nor spartan—I need a wardrobe which supports this sort of erratic behavior. At the same time, I can still do that with a clothing cache significantly smaller than the one I currently have. I've been mulling over everything for such a long time now, and I think what I crave most is action. To finally be settled with it all. And, as the call of simplicity has been beckoning for quite a while now, I think it's time to take heed and see where it goes. I feel ready for this change, this release from pondering and of ponderousness. If nothing else—if in a year from now I end up lamenting frocks freed, leggings liberated and blazers unbound—at least I'll have given it a go and done my best. That's really all that be said of anything in life. My life, that is.
I'm going full force on this cleaning spree and not looking back.
