On one of my ambles, I looked across the street and saw a woman setting up the New York City version of a garage sale. The chain-link fence surrounding an abandoned lot was her display rack: a folding table on the sidewalk was filled with other wares. I crossed the street immediately. I could see, even from a distance, that everything on view was my size.
Up close, I discovered a menagerie of cocktail dresses. There were wasp-waisted, full-skirted dresses in shantung silks; a royal-blue summer dress with embroidery and cutwork; and jewel-toned shifts with matching boleros- almost everything made by hand. When I asked the woman where the dresses had come from, she answered, guardedly, that they’d belonged to “a lady who loved clothes.” (Later, I heard that they had belonged to the woman’s mother.) When I asked why she hadn’t taken them downtown, to the Chelsea flea market or a high-end vintage boutique, she said she’d wanted to “keep them in the community.”
Impulsively, I bought ten dresses and various accessories for $100. It was an absolute bargain, but I’d spent my grocery budget for two weeks. I took care of the collection, placing the dresses in their own wardrobe. Each time I put one on, I hoped to revive the spirit of the original wearer, though the only detail I knew of her life was the pleasure she took in her clothes.Rhodes-Pitts.
