HELENA'S CLOSET

Y’all KNOW I don’t do politics or FASHION, so little knowledge or interest I have in either, but sometimes . . .

I have an almost-everyday delve into an incisively-witty, fun blog by two smart, savvy fashion mavens, TOM AND LORENZO. They mercilessly skewer the pompous and self-involved, the old-enough-to-know-better and the rich-enough-to-hire-advisors, and are so clever with their words, I cannot resist peeking in, though as you know, I’m NOT THERE FOR THE CLOTHES.   It's the writing and the sumptuous bons mots and witticisms flying faster than light. 

ANNNNNDDD . . .They simply adore Helena Bonham Carter.   There’s just a sweet spot in my heart for her, in ANY role.   She simply has such a flair for being herself, such a self-confidence and blasé disconnect from What Would THEY Think? (the absolute standard on which I was brought up, sternly conscious of other folks’ opinions and standards of decorum and dress, and though I’ve breached them one and all on several occasions, at my age now, I require only that my attire be clean, preferably cotton, and good coverage. Perhaps that’s why I love her slapdash, outlandish outfits and devil-may-care attitude so much.

I once wore a “pair” of shoes like this to a fairly formal party in college.  Mammaw had insisted on my getting both colours of the pumps I particularly liked, so I just wore each on a whim to an afternoon tea at the Chancellor's House. 

This is just like me (well, sans purse and shopping---I have an abiding hatred for both).   But I am known to wear two-pairs-at-once on my head, and wander around searching for them.

And I wonder what her closet must be like---I imagine it’s an enormous closet---a cavernous closet, with an inconspicuous door opening inside a charming apartment, and stretching

out and back into the distance  like the Weasleys’ Quidditch tent.   The theme is inordinately dark, whimsical, lit by torchieres and glowing eyes, and all the dresses move idly in the dim breeze.  Daywear is held  suspended from the beaks of crows, with evening attire the ravens’ domain, and an entire wing of the cavern is populated by small blackbirds, whose delight in life is to organize and maintain the vast drapings of jewelry, eyeglasses, shades, glasses-chains, belts, whimsical hats and gloves and scarves.     

 Griffin-doorknockers hold long rows of purses, swaying  like small sides of beef in the cool keeping-room, and shoes make their own way back to their allotted stairs, reaching out of sight above the raiment below.  And fully a hundred mighty rocs suspend the hangers for the fabulous, the fun, the frayed and the fanciful coats awaiting.  And somewhere in the darkest high rafters hang flights of wistful small bats, each responsible for the keeping of a forlorn little sweater---cardigan---jumper, to hug close around her body as the eyes and lenses of the world assail her spirit.



 I firmly believe that somewhere WAY back in that closet, after many twists and turns, it intersects briefly with those of Miss Havisham,  Belle Watling and Miley Cyrus, taking one sharp turn at The Last Chance Goodwill. 

   Just one nebulous idea, one inkling of a look, a feeling for the day, and the mist stirs, with some garments whirling and sparkling,  and others creating their own black holes of darkness in the dim, as nine unrelated items magically whisk to the forefront, encircling her body more effectively than Stark’s red suit.

Or some days, she just runs laughing through the entire domain like a child under clotheslines, clutching and clasping and grabbing in glee, and emerges into the daylight a Thing of Wonder, beyond description, for ordinary mortals to ponder and discuss.