Caption

The object I chose to research and analyze for our Historic Huguenot project is a quilt made by Sarah M Lefevre (11/12/1825 – 3/4/1902). Sarah was married to Joseph Hasbrouck, a notable figure of the time in New Paltz. Both decorative and functional, the quilt can be seen as both a piece of art and a bed covering.  

Object Description

Object description: The quilt has a simple and cohesive pattern, laid out horizontally and vertically, consisting of a white background with pink and green design. There are feathered stars alternating with diagonally crossing oak leaf pieces making up the pattern that spans the entirety of the quilt. In the center of each feathered star there is also an additional 6-pointed star applique. The quilt’s backing is is made of white muslin, white seams, and a cotton backing. The quilt’s front is made of cotton; pink, green, and beige. The border surrounding the quilt is single, with butted corners. On the very end of the front “Sarah M Lefevre 1847” is appliqued in pink. All hand sewn and stitched.

The Fascinating History of Turkey Red

After looking into the unique history of quilting, and how the art played an important role in the lives of 19th Century people, I grew interested in the industries surrounding quilting and textiles, specifically regarding how different textiles were valued and used over others. I researched further into Sarah’s quilt and discovered that many of the colors she used were actually considered very popular at the time, specifically the greens. I also discovered that the pink fabrics she used were at one time originally red, specifically “turkey reds”, and were part of a very complex system of old/new world economics.

“Turkey red” was a very distinguished and vibrant color of red that was very popular in Britain during the 18th and 19th Centuries. The color was used in many different textiles to add vibrancy and opulence to designs, and proliferated quickly through the textile industry, especially in Scotland. Popularized originally as a color-fast red dye that could withstand frequent washing and sunlight, Turkey Red was a long-standing ambition of dyers in eighteenth-century Britain. Coined “Turkey Red” because it originated from the Levant region of the Middle East (the Red Sea). The color’s original dying process, which was time-consuming and expensive, was based on the extraction of alizarin from the madder root, which was then fixed to fiber using oil and alum, as well as a number of other ingredients such as sheep excrement, bull blood, and urine. Because of its high-quality, in conjunction with its arduous and time-consuming processing, the color became extremely valuable and sought after, and subsequently caused a competitive and aggressive industry to emerge, all surrounding one simple shade of red(Tuckett, Nenadic, 2017).

According to the National Museum of Scotland, from their exhibition “Turkey Red: A Study in Scarlet”, The Turkey red dyeing and printing industry in Scotland was concentrated in the Vale of Leven, Dunbartonshire, and was brought to Scotland in 1785 by a Frenchman named Pierre Jacques Papillon(Tuckett, Nenadic, 2017).   Papillon was hired by David Dale and George Macintosh, both prominent businessmen of Glasgow, and worked together with other manufacturers who saw the potential profitability of Turkey red. The color soon popularized, and a was printed for fabrics made for clothing and furnishings and, unlike tartan, another textile which was popular among Scots, many of the Turkey red fabrics were intended for foreign markets such as India, China, the West Indies, and North America. The Scottish firms at the forefront of the industry went to great lengths in ensuring their designs would be catered to foreign markets. They wrote regularly to agents in different countries and stuck to designs they knew were popular. For example, the “Peacock” was a pattern or motif made of Turkey Red which was popular throughout the nineteenth century and was often produced for saris and shawls for the Indian market(Tuckett, Nenadic, 2017).

As markets became more and more competitive, synthetic versions of Turkey Red began emerging to keep up with high demand; and all for lower prices. However, instead of remaining bright and vibrant over time as the Turkey Red was widely known for, these synthetic versions would turn a brown/pink color as they would age. This brown/pink is what we can see in the Sarah Lefevre Quilt, and delineates the demand and prestige of Turkey Red in the 19thy Century, as a sign of wealth and indulgence. Even though at that time, many of the people who must have seen Sarah’s quilt must have thought the Turkey Red was real. But now that some time has past, and the color has faded, we can tell now that it was fake.

Date of Creation Narrative

Tying the quilt back into the story of New Paltz, it’s fitting to understand its creator, Sarah Lefevre, in a wider context. Sarah was born on November 12th 1825 and died March 4th 1902 at 76 years old of heart failure (Hasbrouck, 2012). Sarah was married to Joseph Hasbrouck, a superintendent and Elder in the New Paltz community, making them very wealthy. They had 4 children, Henrietta, Ann, Elizabeth, and one unnamed who died at birth. Sarah and her husband Joseph were landowners west of Walden, Orange County, and played an influential role in their community. After her husband died in 1895, Sarah moved in with her son Philip Hasbrouck, where she lived until her death.

It can thus be inferred that because of their wealth and status, the Sarah Lefevre must have had a lot of time on her hands. Because quilting was a large and emerging leisurely activity, it must have been something she practiced. With textiles imported to three major commercial centers in America, mainly New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, it is possible that Sarah Lefevre would most likely have come into contact with her Turkey Red from one of these areas, and included them in her quilting designs. As imports from the Old World grew steadily over the course of the 17th and 18th Centuries, the distribution of textiles in New England became increasingly spread out. Even more so, during the 19th Century, the “mechanization” of manufacturing made textile prices deflate, and subsequently more readily accessible and cheaper in America (Shammas, 1994). Sarah Lefevre must have used this to her advantage, and purchased her textiles to use for quilting during deflation. During this time, quilting also became a leisurely activity, growing as a common household hobby for women (Jirousek, 1995). Rather than simply making quilts for pure function, women would make them for fun, and typically incorporate personal touches like their names and dates onto their pieces. This is evident with Sarah’s quilt, which can thus be seen as a hobby piece or something of leisure.

Course Connection

Relating back to our class and much of what I have written about thus far regarding my own textiles and Oxford shirts; image, prestige, and ostentation played a large role in the popularization and proliferation of Turkey Red. As I have written previously about my own predilections to well known brands and quality textiles, Turkey Red found itself in the hands of many people because of its reputation, rarity, and prestige. Sarah Lefevre and other wealthy women of her time must have known this, and incorporated it into their quilting patterns. I find it interesting to think about how Sarah was not immune to our seemingly 21st Century craze of branded goods, elucidating a connecting between our time and hers.

References

Yule, Graeme. “Turkey Red: A Study in Scarlet” National Museum. Edinburgh, Scotland. June 11, 2017. Retrieved from http://blog.nms.ac.uk/2012/06/22/turkey-red-a-study-in-scarlet/

Tuckett, Sally. Nenadic, Stana. “Colouring the Nation: ‘Turkey Red’ and Other Decorative Textiles in Scotland’s Culture and Global Impact, 1800 to Present”. National Museum. Edinburgh, Scotland. 2017. Retrieved from  https://colouringthenation.wordpress.com/

Tuckett, Sally. Nenadic, Stana. “Turkey Red and the Vale of Leven” National Museum. Edinburgh, Scotland. 2017. Retrieved from https://colouringthenation.wordpress.com/turkey-red-in-scotland/

Jirousek, Charlotte. “Art, Design, and Visual Thinking: Textile Materials and Technologies.” Cornell University TXA. 1995. Retrieved from http://char.txa.cornell.edu/ppeamericatex.htm

Shammas, Carole. “The Decline of Textile Prices in England and British America Prior to Industrialization.” The Economic History Review, vol. 47, no. 3, 1994, pp. 483–507.  Retrieved from www.jstor.org/stable/2597590

Hasbrouck, Donna. Find a Grave Memorial Obituaries: Sarah Maria Lefevre Hasbrouck. April, 27th 2012. www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=89207489

For this week’s blog post on analog experiences, I decided to restrict myself to only using cash wherever I went, instead of using my credit or debit cards. I’ve noticed over the course of my college career that as I’ve had an increased responsibility over my own personal finances, and as I’ve been more in charge of spending my own money in many different areas of my life, the value of a dollar has become less and less significant to me. I notice this especially well when I used my cards to purchase things or to pay bills instead of using cash. It sometimes feels like virtual money isn’t as real, or isn’t as valuable, and I’m subsequently much more inclined to spend it. I consequently thought that it would be a great experiment for this week to abstain from all “virtual” purchases, and to only use hard cash in every facet of my life.

At first, I can honestly say my experiment was very difficult. In order to buy my coffee in the morning, which I do regularly with my card, or go out with friends for dinner, I had to run to an ATM and take out money. It was a huge inconvenience that made me wonder why I was doing this to myself. I also accrued quite a hefty pile of coins by the end of the week, which is now sitting ominously on my bedroom dresser. I’ve never had so many nickels to look after. I was also not able to use a lot of the apps on my phone that require digital purchases or subscriptions, like using my Netflix app, my New York Times app, and my Spotify app (which all require monthly digital payments). To be completely honest, not having these subscription apps at my disposal for the week was the worst part of the experiment, and made my life quite grim. I felt deprived of all of the digital hobbies I have grown so accustomed to. I was forced to read the news from a non-subscription based source (I truly missed my precious NYT), and watch DVD’s instead of Netflix. My commitment catapulted me back into the dark ages of the early 2000’s, something I never realized would happen just from not being able to use my credit card.

However, even with all of the hassle cash entailed, I realized many interesting things about my digital abstinence. First and foremost, I spent so much less money than I normally would in a single week on frivolous items. Online shopping became something of the past, which led me to both spend less money, and also spend less time mindlessly browsing the internet. I was able to focus more on schoolwork and not worry about “this week’s best deals” or “an extra 15% off at checkout” which would normally tantalize me unremittingly. I also found myself much more reluctant to spending dollar, after dollar, after dollar. Having to go fetch more cash from the ATM every time I wanted to spend made me value my money a lot more, and made me rethink purchases a number of times before I would actually pay for things. I ended up spending a mere $27 dollars for the entire week, mostly on coffee  and gas, which is a number I am very proud of. I found myself able to budget a lot more easily. Without any notion of “virtual” money, my cash became a lot more real and tangible, and subsequently became a lot more dear to me.

The end of the week marked a milestone for me, proving to myself that I could in fact survive without a credit card. I noticeably feel quite torn about credit cards now; struggling with the ideas of both their convenience and their virtual artificiality. If I ever wanted to save money in the future, I now know how to do it, but at a sever cost of convenience. Ultimately the week was very education, and made me appreciate both the analog and the digital for how they affected my life positively.

The object I chose to research and analyze for our Historic Huguenot project is a quilt made by Sarah M Lefevre (11/12/1825 – 3/4/1902). Sarah was married to Joseph Hasbrouck, a notable figure of the time in New Paltz.

Object description: The quilt has a simple and cohesive pattern, laid out horizontally and vertically, consisting of a white background with pink and green design. These are feathered stars alternating with diagonally crossing oak leaf pieces making up the pattern that spans the entirety of the quilt. In the center of each feathered star there is also an additional 6-pointed star applique. The quilt’s backing is is made of white muslin, white seams, and a cotton backing. The quilt’s front is made of cotton; pink, green, and beige. The border surrounding the quilt is single, with butted corners. On the very end of the front “Sarah M Lefevre 1847” is appliqued in pink. All hand sewn and stitched.

After looking into the unique history of quilting, and how the art played an important role in the lives of 19th Century people, I grew interested in the industries surrounding quilting and textiles, specifically regarding how different textiles were valued and used over others. I researched further into Sarah’s quilt and discovered that many of the colors she used were actually considered very popular at the time, specifically the greens. I also discovered that the pink fabrics she used were at one time originally red, specifically “turkey reds”, and were part of a very complex system of old/new world economics.

The Fascinating History of Turkey Red

“Turkey red” was a very distinguished and vibrant color of red that was very popular in Britain during the 18th and 19th Centuries. The color was used in many different textiles to add vibrancy and regalness to designs, and proliferated quickly through the textile industry, especially in Scotland. Popularized originally as a colour-fast red dye that could withstand frequent washing and sunlight, Turkey Red was a long-standing ambition of dyers in eighteenth-century Britain. Coined “Turkey Red” because it originated from the Levant region of the Middle East (the Red Sea). The color’s original dying process, which was time-consuming and expensive, was based on the extraction of alizarin from the madder root, which was then fixed to fibre using oil and alum, as well as a number of other ingredients such as sheep excrement, bull blood, and urine. Because of its high-quality, in conjunction with its arduous and time-consuming processing, the color became extremely valuable and sought after, and subsequently caused a competitive and aggressive industry to emerge, all surrounding one simple shade of red.

According to the National Museum of Scotland, from their exhibition “Turkey Red: A Study in Scarlet”, The Turkey red dyeing and printing industry in Scotland was concentrated in the Vale of Leven, Dunbartonshire, and was brought to Scotland in 1785 by a Frenchman named Pierre Jacques Papillon. Papillon was hired by David Dale and George Macintosh, both prominent businessmen of Glasgow, and worked together with other manufacturers who saw the potential profitability of Turkey red. The color soon popularized, and a was printed for fabrics made for clothing and furnishings and, unlike tartan, another textile which was popular among Scots, many of the Turkey red fabrics were intended for foreign markets such as India, China, the West Indies, and North America. The Scottish firms at the forefront of the industry went to great lengths in ensuring their designs would be catered to foreign markets. They wrote regularly to agents in different countries and stuck to designs they knew were popular. For example, the “Peacock” was a pattern or motif made of Turkey Red which was popular throughout the nineteenth century and was often produced for saris and shawls for the Indian market.

As markets became more and more competitive, synthetic versions of Turkey Red began emerging to keep up with high demand; and all for lower prices. However, instead of remaining bright and vibrant over time as the Turkey Red was widely known for, these synthetic versions would turn a brown/pink color as they would age. This brown/pink is what we can see in the Sarah Lefevre Quilt, and delineates the demand and prestige of Turkey Red in the 19thy Century, as a sign of wealth and indulgence. Even though at that time, many of the people who must have seen Sarah’s quilt must have thought the Turkey Red was real. But now that some time has past, and the color has faded, we can tell now that it was fake.
Course Connection

Relating back to our class and much of what I have written about thus far regarding my own textiles and Oxford shirts; image, prestige, and ostentation played a large role in the popularization and proliferation of Turkey Red. As I have written previously about my own predilections to well known brands and quality textiles, Turkey Red found itself in the hands of many people because of its reputation, rarity, and prestige. Sarah Lefevre and other wealthy women of her time knew this, and incorporated it into their quilting patterns. I find it interesting to think about how Sarah was not immune to our seemingly 21st Century craze of branded goods, elucidating a connecting between our time and hers.

I decided for this week to change directions, and analyze an object other than my Oxfords. Looking around my room trying to find something worthwhile, my mind drifted towards my closet yet again. My consistent predilection toward the items in my closet seems to be a common theme; something I never expected to realize from this class. I’ve been drawn most strongly towards my clothing consistently throughout the semester, something that has both surprised me and worried me. Anyhow, perusing through my closet, I was drawn to my plaid scarf out of everything I saw, and decided to write about it in depth for this week.

My plaid scarf has always been a mystery. I had only recently acquired it over this past Winter intersession at home, going through old boxes in my basement. I saw it peeking out from underneath a whole bunch of my mother’s old clothes, and decided to take it (with her permission of course). It is curiously made, with horizontal seems that break the scarf’s length into several sections, which perplexed me. It is also frayed on its ends, a style that I knew definitely wasn’t popularized until at least the 2000’s, and so being that this scarf is from before that time I was confused. I didn’t really think much about it, and just took the scarf with me back to school for the Spring semester, where it is now hanging in my closet alongside my coat.

To help gain a better understanding of the scarf and its origin, I called my mother on Wednesday night and inquired about her formally abandoned scarf. It took her a while to remember the scarf I was talking about, I went on for 10 minutes describing it to her, and had to eventually just send her a picture of it from my phone. Once she remembered the exact one I was talking about, she divulged.

Apparently, the scarf was originally my grandmother’s school uniform skirt. My grandmother Joan, a sweet and quintessential Mancunian, used to wear it to her primary school in the late 1950’s. It was later re-purposed by my grandmother after she moved on to secondary school and her uniform changed. Its unusual hemming and frayed edges were just left over from the haphazard attempt of a 13 year old school girl to turn her skirt into a scarf. Maybe an act of defiance, or maybe an act of sheer boredom; I will never know. However makeshift, its convenient plaid pattern suited it well as a scarf back then, and even today too as the style has transcended time and is still considered urbane. After my grandmother used the scarf throughout her secondary school and university years, my mother inherited it as a child growing up in London. Since then it has found its way to New York City, and into a tattered cardboard box in my basement where I ultimately found it.

Have dug deeper into the origins of my scarf, I wear it now with a better understanding of its past. With both a weird and interesting connection to my English roots,  the scarf is one of the only real things I can think of that I have in my possession from my mother’s side of the family. It connects me, in whatever form, to my grandmother as a young child in her school years, and to the entire era surrounding her life back then. I also think it’s very interesting how it is a recycled piece, and wonder whether it was re-purposed out of need, because of the culture back then, or just for convenience. Anyhow, I wear it now with a better appreciation for what it actually is and where it comes from.

Bizarre hem

For this week’s blog post, I decided to continue my analysis of my object that I discussed last week; my oxford shirt. To get a better sense of the history and function of my shirt in a broader sense, I did a bit of research regarding the origins of the Oxford. With this information, I hoped to be able to better understand why the Oxford style has been so enduring, and what it means to me now in my own personal life.

According to TM Lewin, a British Dress company based in London, the Oxford was originally just a specific type of textile design, and not necessarily a style of shirt. Ironically, the Oxford shirt isn’t actually from Oxford at all, but rather originally from Scotland. Apparently during the 19th Century, Scotland had a big boom in textile manufacturing, and each different company in the region sought out to have their own signature fabric. With that came much experimenting with different blends and techniques, and consequently the Oxford style was born. The Oxford was recognizable by its unique weave, which is a combination of two different yarns in a basket-woven pattern. The Oxford was actually part of a series of new textiles, each named after four different prestigious universities; Harvard, Yale, Cambridge, and Oxford. Since then, the other three in the series have gone out of production, with the Oxford style being the only textile to persevere.

Back when it was first being produced, the Oxford was seen as a luxury because of its expensive price. Because of this, manufacturers of the shirts tried to make them as functional as possible, with their cuffs and collars detachable. To make the shirts last as long as possible, one could simply replace the collar and cuffs with cheaper fabric, and subsequently get as many years out of the body of the shirt as they could. This functional property has become obsolete due to cheaper pricing, but helps us understand the shirt’s original purpose.

Today, the Oxford shirt comes in two different styles, the Button Down Collar (for casual dress), and the Pointed Collar (for a more formal look). This difference also delineates an interesting difference in functional quality. The shirt was groundbreaking because of its versatility in an era when objects and money were scarce for many, allowing men to dress-up and dress-down with the same shirt. Men could wear it with a suit, or untucked with more casual pants.

After learning about this history and the legacy my Oxford shirt carries with it, I understood the more functional and purposeful use of a style I have come to love so much. It was interesting for me to see how the style has come such a long way, and has endured mostly because of its versatility; something I too enjoy from it even today. Getting to know the personal story of my shirt better, I understand the life inside of it, and the impact it has had for generations. Now, every time I put my shirt on, I also put on a history of functionality, innovation, and style.

http://tmlewin-blog.com/2015/01/history-oxford-shirt/

For this week’s blog post, I decided to analyze my favorite Oxford shirt as a follow up to my original blog post on the Konmari Method. After reading the “describing objects” article for this week, I sat down with my Oxford and asked myself the various questions posed in the article.

What is it?

My object, most generally, is an Oxford shirt. A button down, which has the shirt divided down the center, and with a buttoned collar that rings the Oxford’s neck area. Made of cotton, the shirt is a checkered plaid in navy blue and sandy brown. Each square of the checkered pattern is about an inch-and-a-half by and inch-and-a-half in area. There is a single pocket on the left chest of the shirt with another button centered in the top of the pocket, to close and secure it. There is a velvety, and oval shaped elbow patch in a dark brown on either sleeve. The shirt is sewn together at its seems by a sand colored stitching, which lines the inside of the shirt. The shirt is a size medium. The textile the shirt is made of is moderately thick, which helps retain heat. The shirt has long sleeves that cuff at the ends, each with a single button to close the cuffs. The shirt tapers off with a circular shape, perfect for tucking into pants.

Where is it now and how did it get there?

My shirt tag says it is made Mauritius originally. I happen to have bought it from my local J. Crew store in the Columbus Circle Mall in Manhattan. When I’m not actually wearing it, it sits in my closet in my dorm room.

What is the object’s function?

The object is a business-casual shirt. It is used to cover the upper half of the body. Stylistically, it is worn in casual social environments. It contains a decent amount of functional qualities that are worth noting as well. The first one is the array of buttons that are all over the shirt. There are buttons lining the center to close the shirt all the way down. There are buttons on the collar to fasten the collar’s corner to the body of the shirt. There are also buttons on the cuffs and pocket of the shirt, to fasten those as well. There are also sizable elbow patches on either sleeve, which provide a heavy-duty work function to the shirt. The pocket itself also helps hold small objects like pens and coins.

Who made, owned, or used the object?

Since I have owned the shirt since I bought it, so far I am the only one to have used it. I am assuming the shirt was made in an industrial factory like most other ready-to-wear pieces, this one specifically in Mauritius. The person who made it was most likely an industrial worker, who was probably getting paid a bare minimum wage. The shirt will most likely be passed on to my younger brother when I grow tired of it, like so many other pieces in my wardrobe have.

Just to mention, after answering all of these analytical questions about my piece, I understand it now more as an object with its own unique story, rather than just something I wear. The shirt has traveled long distances, has sat on a shelf in New York City, until I happened to have picked it up and purchased it. Having analyzed the shirt in detail, I realize the significance of the shirt, even if it is mass-produced and fast-fashion. It is still my own, and part of my own individual story, not to mention part of the stories of all the other people whose lives it’s crossed on its journey to my closet.

The home as a force of agency and power is an interesting way to look at the places we all dwell in. Almost as if they are their own little ecosystems, our homes help us reflect who we are through their designs, their  aesthetics, and their ability to accommodate all of our stuff. Having this power, we use our homes as extensions of who we are, like all other objects, and create environments where we feel a sense of comfort among our endless belongings.

The first item that I thought of after I read Chapter 3 of Stuff was my grandfather’s living-room clock. Since I was a child, I have visited my grandparents in their 1970’s era ranch house in northern Georgia, and every time I would arrive I was undoubtedly greeted by their old and intricate clock that sat proudly above their fireplace. An antique piece originally crafted in the late 19th Century, the clock would stare at me as I’d pass through their front door; authoritative and austere. My grandfather would explain how the clock was very fragile, and that if I played with it and broke it, I would have destroyed a relic of our family’s past. To say the least, the clock scared the crap out of me. I would become a neurotic mess every time I visited their house, in fear that I might trip and bang into it, or carelessly close a door too quickly and cause the whole house to reverberate and move it.

My visits to their home, however pleasant they would end up being, were always overshadowed by the neurosis I would experience as soon as I saw that clock.  Most of my memories of their house still elicit that sort of fear and worry I experienced as a clumsy child, and still define the atmosphere and aesthetic of their home for me. Their clock, and all of the other antiques they collected, made everything I could touch breakable, and still overshadow much of how I feel about my relationship with them and their belongings.

The clock says a lot about who my grandfather is. A man trapped in the past, a time of opportunity and abundance for him. My grandfather keeps simple mementos of his past surrounding him, especially in his old age, to remind him of a better time. As a young person, invading that space and potentially breaking one of his pieces was unnerving to him, and so he would reiterate as much as possible how careful I had to be around his stuff. The clock delineates my grandfather’s neuroticism, regret, nostalgia, and sadness in his old age. It represents a sort of remnant of his past, and he clings on to that remnant as much as possible. This aura of regret, neuroticism, and sadness permeated every inch of the house, and created an atmosphere so staunch I can still feel it today, even hundreds of miles away.

Over the past few years, my affinity for preppy clothes has grown immensely. Since my freshman year at college, my collection of band t-shirts and tattered jeans has slowly dissipated and turned into a wardrobe filled with twill slacks and J. Crew Oxford button downs. I hadn’t really thought much about this casual aesthetic progression before, but after our discussions in class, and sitting down in my room to analyze my surroundings, my eyes went straight to my overabundant closet and the significance of the clothing I now possess.

My clothing and the way I dress have always been things I have been extremely cognizant of. Growing up in a relatively poor family in an upper-middle class area, I was always judged, and even bullied, for the clothes I wore. Subsequently, I have become extremely meticulous of how I present myself to the world through my clothing choices, and now use my clothing as a medium of self expression.

The J. Crew Oxford has consequently become a staple of my wardrobe, primarily because of the intrinsic aesthetic significance of the Oxford style shirt, but also because of the ascribed status of the J. Crew brand. (I am admittedly not immune to the trivial associations of brand named goods and status, like most people in society). I chose to work with my collection of Oxfords because of what they mean to me now, and how they resonate with my experiences as a poor kid in my past.

At first glance, my closet can be a tad overwhelming. After counting the shirts lining the span of it, my collection came to a total of 29 Oxford shirts. I was actually a bit surprised by this number, not realizing how many shirts I had accumulated over my past few years of sporadic online shopping sprees. After recognizing this number, I was eager to get rid of some of the shirts that I wasn’t too crazy about. I ended up finding 5 shirts that I’m going to be giving to my younger brother; freeing up some space in my closet, while also having a stash of birthday gifts for him for the next few years.

Emotionally, I was a bit torn. Even though many of the shirts I was willing to give away didn’t ignite the “spark of joy” Marie Kondo spoke of, I was still a bit reluctant to get rid of some of them. I thought about how important my collection of shirts was to me; how they helped me present myself meaningfully to the world, and how I used them as an extension of myself and my desires. I was however glad to recognize this unreasonable attachment to my shirts, and quickly bagged them up before I could change my mind. The collection I was left with was a bit smaller, but I honestly felt better getting rid of the Oxfords I wasn’t too crazy about. I feel as if my downsizing did help me hone my “joy” for my better shirts, and I ended the downsizing ultimately feeling more organized.

The most significant part of going through my shirts was in fact the thought processes I underwent throughout the haul. The main themes I thought about were regarding image and self-extension, both of which pertained highly to my collection. I thought about how society’s perception of people based on the way the dressed stylistically was so arbitrary, and how the association of style and status has defined generations for centuries. I also realized that my relationships to my objects were rooted in self-loathing, self-consciousness, and memories of bullying from my past. I used my J. Crew Oxford collection to detach myself from the poor, fat kid I used to be in middle school, and to obtain self-worth and pride from a silly label every time I button myself up in one of my pieces. I thought about how I use my Oxfords as a shield from people’s negative perceptions of me, because how can anyone think negatively of a boy in a nice plaid Oxford, right? My relationship to my shirts is subsequently dichotomous, serving as both a way to make myself feel good and clean and worthy, while also serving as a harrowing reminder of my past.

A small snapshot of my shirts