bezel
writer Blythe Drucker
Fashion loves to play with time: take a shirt from one decade, combine it with pants from another, add a belt from today.Transforming old to new, the various pieces receive a new history. A classic look may never die, and vintage clothing provides infinite opportunities for revival. In this temporal reorganization, we witness a cultural reincarnation, appeasing inevitable nostalgia. Yet, we must be careful. The boundaries of time are not to be crossed carelessly. All pieces have meaning, and must be put together logically, as is the case with any puzzle. Many of us begin to play this game of time and fashion at a young age. As children we would play dress up in our parents closet, rummaging through hats and scarves, and stumbling through hallways in shoes too large for our feet. And for many, the fun doesn’t stop as we get older. We occasionally ask to borrow a sweater or accessory. In our own homes we go vintage shopping, reviving pieces our parents have not worn since high school. This past winter, I sat in a hospital waiting room with my mother. She was waiting to have a central line placement put in for her upcoming bone marrow transplant. Wearing jewelry is not permitted during the procedure, so I would wear her engagement and wedding rings as I waited. At first, I was excited. Once again, I was a child, rifling through her jewelry boxes filled with history: my great grandmother’s costume jewelry, my grandmother’s pearls, and various pieces purchased at street stands in NYC from my mother’s time in college and medical school. After I placed the rings on my finger, I felt a fleeting rush of excitement. But as I gazed at the glistening diamonds, my enthusiasm faltered. These rings felt wrong on my hand. Though the rings complemented the shape of my finger, they did not fit. All that the rings symbolized was wrong for me. They were for my mother, for her marriage. At 19, just beginning college, I was far from even considering marriage. I began to glance around the waiting room, taking part in the old southern preoccupation of attempting to discover the thoughts of those around you in regards to yourself. Did they see the rings? Did they think they were mine? Did they see it was wrong? In the game of temporal disorder, I broke the rules, crossed a boundary not to be crossed, and I could feel it. As I sat in the waiting room, all I could think about was taking them off. When the procedure was over, I hurriedly followed the nurse to the recovery room. As the nurse attempted to explain to me the many medical processes that I would never attempt to comprehend, my sole focus was removing the rings from my finger and returning them to my mother’s hand. I tried to place them on her finger, but her hand was still swollen as a result of the procedure. We placed the delicate accessories to the side as we waited for the swelling to calm. Resting on the yellow plastic tray next to my mother, the rings already appeared more naturally placed than before. They belonged with her, not me. Those rings have yet to fit my finger in the game of time. Maybe someday, but not now.
