wardrobe nostalgia

Every wardrobe has that precious piece. The bracelet you were wearing when you met him. The dress you wore to the Stones concert. Your mother’s coat you wore to Paris when it was so cold you had to tuck into your favorite bistro and nurture cafe au laits all afternoon. The shirt you never gave back to your first lover.

There are some pieces that are timeless simply because they have a history and their stories speak to you every time you wear them. Choose one (or two) and tell us why it has such a hold on you that you’ll never let it go to the great closet in the sky.

I could not settle on one and you’ll see why when you read about my three favorites.

Stories: We want to hear

September 28, 2009

Before I launch into the stunning results of the Wardrobe Nostalgia query I wanted to take this opportunity to talk about one other cherished item in my closet; that would be the jacket I am wearing in the photo above (during a photo shoot in Canada). I love it for oh so many reasons: it’s warm, light weight, comfortable, well fitting----and chic. Above all, it has a tender story. My dear Swiss friend Doris, (who I have known for nearly three decades, through the best and, more significantly, the rock-bottom-worst of times) up and moved to Abu Dhabi. We have survived many moves and I knew this was just one more in a life long friendship. However, after she moved I didn’t hear a word from her, not one bon mot. More than six months passed. Then a package arrived in the mail. Doris’ jacket that I had admired, tried on, coveted (as did she . . . it was newly purchased). There wasn’t a word of explanation.

Sometimes friendship doesn’t need words.

MAUREEN

ode to doris

This dress was bought in around 1989. No, not in Spain or some exclusive boutique but in good old Laura Ashley... At this time I owned the most beautiful horse in the world. A most magnificent wine grey, Andalucian stallion called, Trianero, which means someone who is born in the old gypsy area in Seville.

The low neckline and boned and buttoned bodice tucks in my waist and makes me stand and move with a great sense of physical awareness. As soon as the last button is fastened my back straightens and my shoulders drop and my chin goes up. It makes me feel graceful and elegant. Not that the photo gives the least little impression of those qualities but...in secret that is how It makes me feel. It emphasises my waistline while also managing to hide my hips and behind. The many buttons all covered in the same fabric, have a ritualistic effect of slowing me down. The very fact that it needs to be buttoned rather than yanked shut with a zip adds to the sense of the unusual..to the glamour. Not that it is a particularly gorgeous or breathtaking outfit in itself...it is just unusual enough to be interesting and fun. The flounces still emphasis the sway of my hips when I walk and dance. The length is perfect for me as it shows just enough of my legs which at 56 are still my best feature.

It became the dress to wear at Christmas and family parties..not too long or in the least bit formal but for me, full of fun and the sound of laughter...and just a little bit sexy. I don't wear it nearly so often now but i remains just about my most favourite thing in the wardrobe.

My youngest daughter Victoria (23 years old), now pinches it whenever she can and I get the biggest thrill just seeing it transform her from a scruffy, typical student into a young woman, beautiful and proud.

LYNNE

Hampshire, England

The Case of the Purloined Sweater or Does the Right Arm Know What the Left Arm is Doing?

When I was somewhere in my mid-twenties I had a job at Harper & Row, now called Harper Collins. I created ads for textbooks. The office was on 53rd, just east of Fifth, in Manhattan, and after work, in order to unwind, I sometimes went to the tiny boutique across the street and wandered around the racks caressing clothes I couldn't afford. One of those evenings I took two identical sweaters in different sizes into the dressing room to try them on. They were cashmere in the softest gray imaginable. They had three quarter sleeves and a large ribbed collar, like an oversized turtleneck, that draped gracefully any which way it happened to fall. I loved how the sweater rounded my breasts and I loved the way the gray looked with my hair which, back in those days, was a chestnut filled with blonde and red light. I didn't love the price tag though, about a week's salary and so, sighing, I took them back to the table on which I'd found them. Then, after wandering around some more, I glided out the door past the uniformed security guard. I walked a block, crossed a street, and walked half a block more. Then I happened to glance down and saw, with enormous surprise, that one of the sweaters was still on my arm. How had that happened, I wondered in a kind of terror, expecting the security guard to come running up and arrest me, or four police cars with sirens wailing and lights flashing to converge on me at any moment. I realized that I must have inadvertently put just one of the sweaters back. I wasn't the shoplifting type and it seemed to me that the only reason I'd managed to get past the security guard was that there was nothing in my body language to put him on the alert. But which sweater was it? Was it the one in my size? Still feeling like I'd just nabbed the Mona Lisa, I cautiously looked at the label. My size. I kept on walking.

CAROL

Klamath Falls, OR

When I was in college I loved shopping at consignment and thrift stores, especially in the fall. A group of us would hop in the car and head up Rt. 6 to take in the foliage and see what kind of bargains we could score!

One crisp fall morning in the student center, my very handsome friend James came up to me, said hello and nonchalantly handed me this belt he pulled from a crumpled brown bag. It was the perfect shade of dark green, patent leather with a silver buckle and just so simple. Can you imagine? James -- sweet, untouchable James -- handing me a belt and saying he saw it at a thrift store in the city and thought of me. Wow. Swoon-a-cide. Years later, James is out of the closet but that belt is still in mine!

(At some point I figured out that while I'd never get James, I got as close as he would let me and that was just fine.)

JEANETTE

Seattle, WA

I found this gold Jeanne (Jean?) Marck pleated skirt cira 1980s on eBay, and NEW/old Lanvin strappy sandals at one of the great consignment stores in San Francisco...

CIJI

San Francisco, CA

Being an “emotional pack rat,” I have too many Nostalgia clothes…the dress I wore to my 40th birthday party, the bathing suit I took to Nice (although I shouldn’t have bothered with the top), the necklace my daughter picked out for me when she was 5, and more. But there’s this one special mini-skirt. I was in Paris to give a presentation, and a man I had been furiously flirting with was there. In deciding what to wear I chose a very short black and white polka dot BCBG skirt. Not my usual business attire, but it was my legs I wanted him to notice not my brilliance! Lucky for me he saw both, and he returned to my life several times in the years that followed. Recently we had a good laugh when I pulled the skirt out of the closet.

SHERI

Palo Alto, CA

i have a yellow cotton nightshirt with VICTORIA'S SECRET embroidered across the chest that my mother bought for me about 15 years ago. This is significant because my mother never bought me clothes, saying that i was too hard to shop for because i was so particular about my clothes. She was right. i never really liked this nightshirt. After she passed away i started wearing it because it would remind me of her. i've now worn it hundreds of nights and washed it as many times, and it is soft and cozy and makes me think of my mother.

NANCY

Larkspur, CA

This probably isn't what you had in mind, but I'll share it anyway. Years ago, I had a pair of biking shorts (you know the type, black, skin-tight, padded in the butt) that I wore for a long time, actually way too long. My old girlfriend (post divorce) was constantly urging me to get rid of them and get a new pair, but I just couldn't part with them. Even after she showed me that they were so worn out in the crotch as to be paper thin and completely transparent (and, of course real bikers don't wear underwear because of chafing), I stubbornly continued to wear them. She hid them. I found them. I packaged them in a manilla envelope which I marked "Urgent" and had them messengered to her office. They were handed to her in an office meeting. She opened the package and started laughing so hard she spilled her coffee all over herself. Mission accomplished. Moral of the story: We guys are often creatures of habit, and one should not mess with our biorhythms.

How's that for a fashion story?

STEVE

Santa Monica, CA

Lying deeply buried in the bottom (and how significant is that word!) drawer of my clothes chest is a pair of pale blue denim jeans. They've lain there for more than twenty years - yet put on today wouldn't draw a second glance for being out of fashion. (Or maybe they would and I'm just deluding myself!)

Do they represent a tender moment? Or awake memories of an especially happy day?

Or commemorate some never-to-be-forgotten event?

Ah well, er. No. Not exactly.

But they are a potent reminder. A reminder that once I was a mere size ten and that at forty-eight I could still squeeze into them.

And who knows? May yet do so again.

They remind me of something else too.

That I'm almost certainly an unquenchable optimist. Living proof, you might say, that hope springs eternal in the human breast.

Or more particularly in the human hips!

ANNA

Clisson, France