I find it interesting that some of the most expensive clothing brands, The Row for example, are now selling ensembles that highly resemble the things I chose to wear for Halloween from the basement laundry room. Not closeted, but simply hung from a horizontal pole. It was a selection of work clothing, not unlike what hung in my grandparents’ basement. All basically the same size – big — and almost exclusively damp. I never questioned who wore all these clothes. Who worked them into a state of supple? I just assumed every house had them. And my theory was substantiated by the amount of bums and hobos that walked up and down VanDyke road in the dusk of October 31st each year.

It makes me smile, because we thought ourselves too poor to purchase the pre-packaged costumes that hung from the end caps at Peterson Drug, but as it turns out, we weren’t poor, just simply ahead of our time.

I love how everything changes. Fashion comes and goes. Lines get blurred, nearly obliterating perspective. And we just choose what feels right. From the length of our pants to the hearts on our sleeves, we pick, we find our comfort — not because someone told us, influenced us, or pressured us, but because we became.

I can tell you the different paintings that I was working on, by the color palette left on my pants. My shorts. My shirt. Through the years, I have been asked which designer manufactured my paint-splattered jeans. That would be me, I reply.

Don’t get me wrong, I love fashion. All of it. I want to be a part of it, but not so much to impress you, but to joyfully comfort me.

In the summer’s of my youth, usually at least once, the skies would cover in an almost greenish gray, and the breezes that lilted anything on wind would quiet. Alone in the yard, I would hear the land line ring and run. Wrapping myself in the cord and winding myself into the garage, so happy to hear my mother’s voice. “Grab the transistor radio,” she would say, “and go down into the basement.” She didn’t warn me about the possible tornado. Maybe I knew. Her work voice was calm and directive. The plug of the radio hit each step on my way down. I climbed up on the washer to reach the outlet. Between updates and alerts, I danced to the music, weaving in and out of the work clothes. And I was saved.

I feel beautiful wearing my mother’s blouses today, with my tattered, well worn jeans. Is it the fashion, the sound of her voice, the security of her leading me? Yes.

I hear the phone ring again. I race from the basement to a clearing sky. And I become.