I hated Versace in the 90s. So brash and vulgar. Too much colour! It didn’t fit into my view of fashion at all. And I’m not buying into this revival either. Or so I thought…
Then I practically tripped over this little silk twill stray and just had to bring it home. It had stumbled away from its tribe, lost its Medusa bearings and was dangling alone among less Elton John friendly fare when I came across it:How different it looked and behaved under my touch. It stopped yapping for attention, although I had to caution it several times. “We don’t holler here. That’s not how we do things.” Soon it accepted the rules of the house. My house was very different than the house it had been brought up in. I guess among all that noise of the 90s, it had to raise the volume just to get any love. Not any more, I assured the little stray. Welcome to your new home.
Now with some quiet, I could read between the lines. What I read said less ‘camp Reggio Calabrian trawls Miami nightclubs’ and more ‘turbaned old lady potters in her country garden’.
He who has a garden and a library wants for nothing.– Cicero
I could wear this when I’m old, accessorized with a pair of gardening shears and wellies. In the great tradition of that doyenne of gardeners, Vita Sackville-West:
I’ve always imagined I’d have a garden when I’m old. My mum describes her daily travails among the carrots, parsley, turnips, potatoes that she grows out behind the shed (they’re big on food in our family) and I wish I had the same capacity to conjure growth from my New York plot of concrete. But I’d plump for petalled beauty over table’s bounty any day.
May I put in a good word for dill?–Vita Sackville West
Of course, I quite agree. Eventually, in a few years, I want to become like these judiciously arranged and sweetly disordered cultivators:
The most noteworthy thing about gardens is that they are always optimistic, always enterprising, and never satisfied. They always look forward to doing something better than they have ever done before.–Vita Sackville West
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to simply slip by. How else indeed to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten, the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellow: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. Growth is exciting, growth is dynamic and alarming. Growth of the soul, growth of the mind.‘Nuff said, Miss V! Off I go to cultivate my own plot..to drop my net over a butterfly.
My debut novel, set in the thorny rose garden of international fashion is now plumply in season and ripe for the picking. You can buy Silk for the Feed Dogs here