The Emotional Power of Clothing to Inspire Writing

 An old acquaintance sent me a message a while ago. A photo of my ex’s jacket, draped on the back of a chair.‘Is this blah-blah’s? Did he leave it here after dinner last night?’She’d made a mistake. Got the wrong Elaine. My ex had subsequently married a woman with the same name. The image haunted me for weeks. I saw his shoulders, his broad back. I smelt him, felt him. I was in love with him, all over again.In a small suitcase, in a wardrobe in my office, I have my late husband’s brown leather, Bass Weejun Penny Loafer’s. With coin still in place. They are a death mask of his feet. In the same wardrobe I have my daughter’s hand-smocked, Tana lawn, Liberty cotton baby dresses; my sons blue and white striped Osh Kosh dungarees and brightly-coloured Nipper sweatshirts. I say they are for prospective grandchildren. But they are momento mori of a past life. When I wear a pair of my late mother’s flashy gold earrings, I say a prayer of guilty gratitude; remembering how often I would silently mock some of her more outrageous fashion choices. I used to sleep with my husband’s Gap grey T-shirt when he first left to work in Germany. In 30 years I had never lived without him and I wrapped it around me like a swaddling cloth.The emotional power of clothing and of accessories is impossible to over estimate.  Still, when I very rarely buy something new to wear from a proper shop, I have to let it settle into my life before I can wear it. It has to hang around my bedroom, waiting to be introduced - like those rigid, crepe-soled, daisy-punched Clark’s leather sandals, bought in preparation for my autumn return to school.Every garment in my wardrobe has a story to tell; where I bought it, why did I buy it, where have I worn it? Who have I worn it with? I have a ‘lucky’ pink bra that fits me perfectly, bought from a charity shop with the labels cut out so I’ll never be able to replace it. I have a marmalade panne velvet dress, made when I was a fashion student in the 60s and taught by Antony Price. I have the Chelsea Cobbler stack heeled court shoes I got married in, I tottered ‘round the sitting room in them last week and marvelled at my past dexterity.  I have a short sleeved, screen printed, white, Haines Tshirt bought on a buying trip to New York for Fiorucci in ’73. My daughter wore it clubbing in her teenage years and then I did again in my Mad Brighton Widow incarnation in the early ‘00s. It’s in my chest of drawers, ripped under one armhole, ready for it’s next slice of life – probably at Port Eliot Festival in July this year. If ever I had a talisman, if ever a story needed a final chapter, this will be the garment to provide it.I include workshops on the emotional power of clothing on my writing retreats in Spain and Wales, for more info and on how to book: http://write-it-down.co.uk/This article was previously published on That's Not My Age