can’t. shouldn’t. mustn’t.
If you made a wordcloud of the contents of my head, they’d be the top three (rounding out the top five would be ‘tea’ and ‘making’). Those three words dullthudding around my brain like marbles on a concrete floor, every single day. Not much of a soundtrack, is it?
There is more than the tired refrain of can’t. shouldn’t. mustn’t. There is more than ruling myself out, turning down chance after chance because I can’t, because someone like me shouldn’t, because I mustn’t.
Now, to see what that is.
I cannot say enough good things about the sadly defunct Academichic in general, but I really like their take on colour theory, which you can see here.
Courtesy of a lovely Twitter Knitter comes a vote for the Vivienne Files. Gosh, couldn’t you just lose yourself?
Last but not least, Putting Me Together. Audrey has a lovely eye, and I’ve great time for her (just beginning) Wardrobe from Scratch series and her take on remixable items. More items does not necessarily mean a better wardrobe.
I had barely hit ‘post’ on the previous entry, and I run across this lovely, wise piece from Tuppence Ha’penny Vintage:
I had something of an epiphany and realised that no “courage” was required. I could wear vintage, I could wear twirly dresses and frothy petticoats and satin pencil skirts and dress like a pin-up if I wanted, there was actually nothing stopping me. And, well, as you know I’ve never looked back since! That’s why I so want to encourage anyone who feels drawn to vintage not to be held back by a lack of confidence – because it doesn’t require confidence, all it takes is the decision to wear the clothes you love.
If you love it, wear it, and it will bring you happiness.
Silk to chiffon to ponte, cotton to jersey; swirling botanical patterns and block colour. Deep reds and blues and greens, a surprisingly lovely and gentle navy, teals and purples, a great amount of black. These are my beautiful dresses that never get an airing. They are a silent reproach to my inertia, the somnolent grab for the clothes that I am used to, the ones that politely apologise for the visual space I might take up.
In the course of a great wardrobe clearout yesterday (read: one bag for the charity shop, an emptied wardrobe and three large mugs of tea later), it occurred to me; I have stopped dressing like myself. I can easily tell you how, but the why of it is rather tangled.
This does not seem like a particularly great way to go through life. I am no longer satisfied with leaving all the colour and playfulness for my sketchbooks and my finished work.
Yesterday I told myself, take a deep breath, and wear that dress. The earth will continue working away on its axis, the sky will not fall, people will not stare in horror and cover the eyes of small children. The likelihood is nobody will notice, or someone on the street will remark to themselves on what a lovely colour or pattern it is in between coffee-coffee-coffeethoughts and oh-god-the-email-is-mounting-upthoughts and go on their way.