imaginary outfit: cicada


Some of us (the luckier ones) are tentatively emerging from the long pause, burrowing out of our safe hidden places, hungry for contact with other bodies. Blinking our reddened eyes (a year of tears leaves its traces), a landscape both familiar and strange appears. What happens next?

Eager to shed my athleisure pandemic exoskeleton as I re-enter the dizzying world beyond my house, I idly scroll through the websites of shops in far places that I wish I could visit, wondering what to wear. It appears that I must make my peace with ruffles and flounces; they are ubiquitous. And according to my algorithmic identity, I am expected to dress as though I am perpetually picnicking in a vineyard somewhere in California, in voluminous flowing cotton gowns. Is ruffle or puffed-sleeve size a 21st-century flex, like the codpieces worn by sixteenth-century European men? The powerpuff girl rises again!

I do not know what I want, exactly, but puffy softness does not quite suit my mood. Fortunately for the economy, I am the sort of person who can always find something to want, somewhere, and subtly flounced sundresses, stompy three-strap clogs, amply-pocketed totes, and beribboned straw hats work for me, not to mention vintage celluloid bug pins and floral silk masks. (As long as my kid needs to wear a mask, I am wearing one, too. And not having to arrange my face to match other peoples' social expectations is a sneaky little pleasure I plan to enjoy as long as possible.)

Hello again, world ...


Clyde Adriatic ribbon sun hat (past season) / Toit Volant bandeau tier ruffle dress / Samantha Pleet bouquet face mask / Victorian hand-carved celluloid cicada brooch / Clare V. Marine washed-denim tote / Beklina buckle clogs