After viewing the closet described below, Tan decides to subject her own to some Freudian analysis. Very funny—and apt.
At first glance the interior of the closet and its cabinetry of bird's-eye maple were merely impressive. An Eames bench sat in the center, where one might sit as if resting among exhibits at a costume museum. Cashmere sweaters and scarves, arranged by tonality, were aligned on sliding trays. Segregated sections contained jackets, black-tie gowns, cocktail-party dresses, business suits, and golfing attire-phalanxes of fashion organized by function, color, and texture, all of it hanging on the erect shoulders of identical mahogany hangers, a precision team at the ready for any occasion.
And then there was this: four banks of shelves housing four dozen shoe boxes, which had been wrapped in rough hemp mesh and coated with a thin layer of gouache. Affixed to the front of each was a small stainless-steel nameplate, on which appeared the names of the various conceptual artists: Giorgio Armani, Manolo Blahnik, and Jimmy Choo. In smaller type were notes with numbers and letters; those, I discerned through similar coding found in other parts of her closet, referred to the black-tie, cocktail, and business attire that coordinated with the shoes. This was the temple into which the woman entered to consider the existential question we all face each day: I am what I wear, I wear what I am. Who am I today?
|Fancy clothes AND fancy books!|