When my mother died, I was given the task of choosing her burial clothes. It was a difficult thing for me to do. Her love of clothing was so great, her tastes so varied; I couldn’t imagine her deciding on one thing to wear for all eternity. Or at least until all of it decomposed in the earth. I remembered what she wore to my brother’s wedding, and the dresses she wore to our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. She was beautifully dressed, always poignantly elegant, artistic, and fragrant. I also thought of the clothing she wore at home, always extremely comfortable, flannel nightgowns and pajamas, soft robes, plush or woolen socks. I thought perhaps this is what she might want to wear to her grave. I didn’t have long to mull it over. I was in shock from her death, but I needed to decide. No one else could. Finally I thought of what she chose to wear, the last time she picked out her clothes. It was for a video that my brother wanted to make, of he and my mom dancing to music she loved, so that he could “have a dance” with her at his wedding. We all decided we wanted this on tape too, so that we could look back, and remember. My mom, barely able to stand on her own, chose to wear an exquisite lace dress, and that is what I decided to bury her in.
Since her death, my mother’s clothes have been a major source of consternation for my father and I. What should we do with them? For several years after she died, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the clothes. They were kept in her closet.
After awhile we decided to pack them away. My dad was going to reclaim that closet, as he was the only person still living in the room. I remember feeling sad about this. Often I had come home, and spent time in the closet, breathing in the scents of my mother, burying my face in her clothes. I felt surrounded by her, almost as though she were still alive.
I have childhood memories embedded in cloth, dizzying fabrics, rich fibrous clothes with the capacity to contain perfume for years and years, long after the one who wore them has been laid to rest.
Remembrances are triggered by the weave of a skirt, the sheen of a blouse, the delicate, diaphanous lace. This piece consumed my senses for many months, threatening at times to consume my very being, but I felt that was right. This was to be a tribute to the woman who gave me life, my best friend, the person to whom I’d felt closest in the world. As I worked, nothing I did seemed to be enough. I could never recreate her, or mimic in my messy stitches all the work she did for me, with so much love and temperance and patience. I could only work steadily, greedily, enraptured by the touch of her, heady with her scent, elated and horrified to find, at times, pieces of her hair embedded in an old flannel robe. I took the strands and put them in a plastic bag. Perhaps I would need to use them later.
The piece was constructed to easily fit my body, so that I am able to stand inside of it. Once inside, I am enveloped by her things…her clothes…if I look up I see a channel, leading to the ceiling and the hook from which my piece hangs. From the outside it resembles many things…it is mountainous in size, dwarfing me. In touching it I am reminded of clinging to my mother’s skirts as a small child.
With this piece, I had a chance to do something I never thought possible. I was able to collaborate with my mom on a work of art. I wonder what she thinks of it.