Dear Unknown:
My friend says, "It doesn't matter what you wear. Clothes are totally hollow. Just because you were a suit doesn't mean you're good at what you do. A spray-painted mohawk doesn't make you cool." My friend says it with some vituperation, which I lack the punctuation sufficient to render here. My friend wears all black: shirt, slacks, shoes and socks.
What do you think? The clothes don't make the man, I know. But does it matter what you wear?
Today on the train I left my black cotton sweater. I didn't particularly like it: it was heavy and not very warm. It was solid black but somewhat faded, and had a V-neck that had been filled in by the manufacturer; a last minute fix before the sweaters hit the production line, I reckon.
I forgot about it, without remorse. But then it's cold this time of year (where I am). What sort of warm outer layer should replace it? A sweater, a jacket, a windbreaker, a parka, a fleece, all possibilities. What shall I get?
Why not—I thought in my whimsy—get some rag that might, somehow or another, project some splintered hint of who I am? Why not, well, advertise myself a bit? Living in a city, I see countless people everyday who contrive to spark my imagination. This woman here with her light, loose, pressed pants that flap in the wind, and heavy furry collar, who walks with her nose high; what does she get engrossed in when alone? What does she find funny?
This tall chiseled man in the biking outfit, what driving force allows him to wear such tight spandex on the way to work?
This woman here, a neat, narrow skirt, totally wrinkled; what form of elegance does she have in mind, and why dress up if she doesn't mind the wrinkles?
This one, with her short quick steps, and what looks like a batik sari? Is she rooted in tradition, or making obeisance to it for her parents' sake? Her fierce steps, are they from determination or nervousness? Is she patient?
Here's a contemplative fellow, walking slowly, with lines of worry in his face, and looking up as if at the executioner's axe. But with a tight red T-shirt, bands of color at the sleeves, and some lost slogan across the chest. Is he witty and up-to-date? Or perpetually tired? How does he behave in the swift drop of a roller coaster?
What about these strip&eacut;d stockings here? A quiet pluckiness I see in them.
Each day I have these conversations with people who I never meet—or at least, they 'say' a bit to me. What am I saying to them? If I could speak back—ambiguously, of course, without precision—might some verbal conversation sprout between us? Late at night on an empty bus alone together?
Maybe I'll 'project' something, then. Do you know the mathematical meaning of 'project,' my Unknown? A transformation from a larger space into a smaller space, which thus loses information.
"Everyone in this room is wearing a uniform, and don't kid yourself." (Frank Zappa)
I don't know how seriously one can take the "clothing doesn't matter" rant from someone who goes out of their way to dress a cretain way. Or, for that matter, from a t-shirt tucker-inner like myself.
I see alot of guys who grew up in the 50's who wear the impossibly archaic chinos, leather shoes, and short-sleeved shirt with white T-shirt underneath look (pocket protector optional). What are _they_ trying to say? What will _I_ be trying to say when, 20 years from now, I'm still wearing Levi's 501's and hiking shoes?
I myself, go by shape rather than color (everything goes with jeans). Does this shirt, or these shorts fit the body-image I have for myself? Do these pants make my butt look big?
I can't even articulate the quality-without-a-name I seek in shoes, appearance-wise, but it's particularly difficult for me to find shoes that project me. I'd wear Converse high-tops all the time (which say "slacker!"), if a) they were still made by free people (I mean not by those enslaved by Nike) and b) they were adequate for the amount of walking I do.
Also, the mathematical projection of which you speak is the semiotic triad (a la C.S. Pierce): representamen, interpretant, and object. The representamen, in this case, is the attire ("The clothing makes the representamen."), the interpretant is the impression on the observer ("Gawd!"), and the object is what you intended to project ("I'm hipper than shiznit!").
(P.S. I think "The Representamen" would make a lovely band name)
Ezra - if my DNS weren't down forcing me to do my websurfing via ssh and
lynx, i would post something about "pick a wardrobe for ezra"
on my blog but I guess I will instead have to confine myself
to, for the time being, hoping you can pick up one of those
thrift store herringbone jackets while you're still young enough to look ironic
not professorial in them. as for staying warm, i can't recommend my
dorky land's end fleece highly enough. It was like $20 and zips up all the way to the neck, but it really is dorky.
Jim, I'm sure you've seen my pair of hempen Converse high-tops—originals, amazingly enough, bought in '02 or '03 from the Army-Navy Surplus on Pike St. They somehow had a couple dozen pairs (not all hempen, of course) from the original factory. They might still have a few.
Is it really Nike, or some other shoe company? If possible, I'd be interested in documenting that fact. I sometimes find myself bringing the Converse-not-Converse-anymore religion to people who stare at me blankly.
Also, word: http://www.peirce.org/. This guy sounds pretty cool.
Lasik Panda (har!):
Zips all the way to the neck, eh? I do find my neck and collarbone (and 'Almasy bosphorous', perhaps—wink nudge wink), are too often revealed. A neckward-zipping fleece might be quite a boon to me.
By 'pick a wardrode for Ezra' do you mean a sort of three-panelled flip chart wherein the bored child can choose independently a top, pants/skirt, and footwear? If so, I can only hope your industriousness will not be diminished by lynx nor ssh! The world needs just such a device!
Nearly one year ago:
http://www.forbes.com/2003/07/09/cx_jw_0709nike.html
http://www.fool.com/News/mft/2003/mft03071006.htm
http://dorky.tensegrity.net/ezdressup.jpg
Jim, the resemblance is shocking. How'd you know what color my underwear is?
I took off your tux, of course.