Well, it’s not quite a confession,
but it’s something about an addiction. A good one, I may say. De Quincey wrote in his autobiographical book “Confessions of an English Opium-Eater” about his laudanum addiction. At a point he mentions that painters are not very fond of white country houses, except they are stained by the passing of time. I’m addicted to all the things that mark the passing of time: clouds, shadows on the floors, the sound made by the wall clocks to mark the passing of hours, the seasons, people’s physical traits and their change and the way men and women dress over the years.
Why I say it’s a good addiction? Because it has to do with happiness and serenity. It’s about receiving with love what the nature and the world is offering to all of us.
And here’s another autumn we have received that will soon reach its end. Autumn is always the same, but never the same. The leaves falling on the ground are not the same as the last year’s leaves. And we are not the same as we were in the past years. We have changed in our traits, in our feelings, through our experiences, and this is reflecting in the way we dress. Something we have liked last year and it’s still nice and fashionable doesn’t resonate with us anymore. We want to express our changes on the outside. As someone has said, style is a simple way of saying complicated things. And, I may add, style has nothing to do with fashion – meaning you don’t have to wear something just because everybody likes it. YOU have to like it. That “something” has to reflect YOU.
For myself, I may say that I like animal prints. For some days, for some moods. There are also days when I would like me to wear something like that, but my state of mind and soul are so wrapped in tenderness and contemplation that it would be too much for me to do so – in those quiet and strange days I could not be a hunter. So I choose something that connects me with nature in a softer way.
A red-brown dress combined with golden accessories satisfies my need to blend-in with nature in the autumn, just like a chameleon changes its skin. In days like these I am autumn and it feels as if no leaf would fall on the ground unless something bigger than us lets it do so. It’s all safe, and warm, even when it’s raining outside and I stay reading an old book with a cup of red-brown tea in my hand, in a country house stained by the passing of time.