Patch Work: A Life Amongst Clothes

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In summary, a patchwork book which I enjoyed in pieces. I might have enjoyed it more if I was expecting a personal memoir rather than an account of a working life.

The stories were also arranged non-chronologically and often did not clarify the names of the characters which I found needlessly obfuscatory. For instance, the author went to (I think) Vivienne Westwood's house, but I don't know exactly when or really why except that she had to help herself to some apple pie. I saw you run up the hill. You were crying, and I thought, well, I wanted to be available if you needed to talk. But, if you'd rather be alone, that's totally fine, I'll go. You were cruising," he ended with a smile. I want to thank everybody who’s been involved, everyone at PEN, everybody who loves books, all the writers I admire – I think of this great legacy of language we all share and I’m immensely touched and honoured. Thank you.’ What’s her dream as a curator? If she could stage an exhibition about anything at all, what would it be? “That’s like offering me a plate of sweets and making me choose just one,” she says, looking completely delighted nonetheless. She thinks for a bit. She has been fantasising for a while about doing a show staged underwater, but the practicalities are extreme, so for now she’ll plump for something else: “I was reading Zola’s The Ladies’ Paradise, a novel about a 19th-century department store that’s modelled on Le Bon Marché [a Parisian store now owned by LVMH]. It’s set at a moment when women had more freedom to go out and be consumers, to explore a fashionable world that went beyond clothing, and it’s completely wonderful: the luscious descriptions, the fabrics tumbling over bannisters, the entrance hall hung with carpets from Turkmenistan. It would be incredible to recreate such a store: visitors could even be hit by a blast of perfume as they come in.” Exhibits from Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty, the 2015 V&A exhibition, which Wilcox says was an ‘incredible liberation’. Photograph: Victoria and Albert Museum, LondonAndrew is his name. I was almost matched with him for dishwashing duty. I remember how unsure of himself he seemed on opening day, dropping his welcome-papers twice when we were introduced, and how relieved I felt when I didn't end up with him. Irrationally, his awkwardness seemed contagious, at the time. Wilcox was born and raised by her parents in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Her father owned a shop selling wools as well as haberdashery. He was a man of wide interests, amongst which was music, as well as played professionally in the age of the big bands. Her mother who was a teacher had a particular interest in fashion. The family resided above the shop which still remains in the family. There is a benevolent stirring in my center that seems to have come out of nowhere. And next, a sense of wanting to lean towards Andrew. Something like radiance comes from him, but it's subtle. Like a warm-springs... the kind you could sit in all day. But the pain is forcing me to contend with it. The thoughts hit me like darts. Who am I to see myself a sexual object, at my age? At 47. With dumb crushes and imagining I'm still in the game. I'm an embarrassment. Nothing will change things or me. Not meditation. Not therapy. Not getting in shape. I should give up on love. Focus elsewhere. Where though? Where?

It all began when I was a child. Because I was short-sighted, anything more than a few feet away was a blur. I liked solitude and quiet, and was happiest lying on my stomach in the long grass making fairy skirts out of geranium petals or hiding in the airing cupboard reading everything from Tarka the Otter (I wept inconsolably) and The Secret Garden to my grandmother’s Mills & Boon. When I'm anxious about a decision, I tell myself: 'I'm going to make a mistake!' Then, I'm less caught up in the consequences, and things are lighter. Does that make sense?" And then the door-knob jiggles, the crying yogi, apparently miraculously healed, emerges, blotchy-faced. I try to concentrate on my food. Be a good yogi, I say to myself, though I'm anything but. A yogi is worthy of a bow. I'm more like a bumbling idiot, a disaster.

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The “blurb” about this book grabbed my attention – I enjoy memoirs, personal histories, “hidden stories” & the like so I was intrigued by the promise of stories told through a box of buttons, a forgotten pin in a hem, a mark on leather … the fact that it was written by a curator in Fashion at the Victoria & Albert Museum surely meant this would be a glimpse behind the scenes, some stories of clothes within the collection – very exciting! At our first interview, she asked me about my intentions for the retreat. I had told her I was working too hard in the wake of recovering from a divorce. I wanted a change. An expert and intimate exploration of a life in clothes: their memories and stories, enchantments and spells.