First my dad died, followed by my gran, the resulting trauma forced me to quit my job, the love of my life left and before I knew it I was an only child who didn’t know who they were any more. All inside 18 months. I didn’t recognise the person who showed up at social gatherings, spoke for me or stared back from the mirror. That vanished person really enjoyed playfully dressing up but the new me only felt comfortable wearing black – an unconscious tonal shift to match life’s darkness.
As a kid I’d often be deep in my puppeteer mum’s dress-up box, and she gave me a small clothing allowance from an early age (which I’m sure she sacrificed her own needs to provide) that gave me autonomy over my image. I was the only boy in my high school sewing class and for a time I wanted to be a tailor. I’m straight but my choice of clothing became a target for homophobes and it was often used as an excuse to inflict violence on me, with varying degrees of success and embarrassment for myself and the perpetrators.
One time in my mid-20s, after I attended a Girl Talk and Crystal Castles show, a man punched me in the face on Brunswick Street because he didn’t like my tiger skin-printed leggings. Another time in Wellington two teenagers called me a gay slur because of my skinny jeans and tried to start a fight, so I spanked one with his own shoe under the premise of “street justice” until 20 of his friends jumped out of their cars and beat the shit out of me. The nickname Street Justice has lasted 15 years longer than the beating. If anything, these altercations gave me more resolve to continue dressing however I damn well pleased.
Before Dad died, Covid lockdown monotony had driven me to search out colour where I could and I’d become fascinated with 90s baroque silk shirts. Not able to afford real Versace ones, I’d find vintage knockoffs on eBay emblazoned with zebra stripes overlaid with gold acanthus leaves; or leopards mounting Ionic Roman columns.
While travelling in India I had a summer suit tailored from kantha cloth, a type of raw silk embroidered with patterns, in thread made from recycled sari silk. Mine has a cream base woven through with blue, black and orange zigzags that’s now also embroidered with painful memories. I wore it when I spoke at Dad’s wake and haven’t put it on since.
In the three years since I hung up that suit I haven’t felt funny, playful, cheeky, quick-witted or confident. Someone I dated years ago and thought might be interested again told me I’d “lost my spark”.
The veil I felt I was looking through incrementally solidified into thick drapes like the ones my mother used to hang in her theatre. I retreated behind grief’s folds and externalised the darkness. I once rolled my eyes at severe Melburnians dressed head to toe in void-core and yet here I was, silk shirts largely shunted to the back of my closet, looking like an extra from The Matrix.
My accidental mourning uniform was a long black leather coat, pleated black trousers, light-consuming black merino T-shirts and intimidating, silver-mirrored Oakley sunglasses that stopped anyone from seeing the emptiness in my eyes.
A pair of earrings my ex had given me stuck around – small but chunky gold-plated hoops with Greek key detailing – but I’d lost one while DJing. I reached out to the Naarm-based visual artist Olivia Chin, who makes jewellery under her Chin Wai San brand, asking her to fashion some replacements. She requested two design references and I offered “salty ocean air” as a reminder of the coastline where I grew up with Dad, and David Cronenberg films because I’m a body horror nerd.
I think freeing my earlobe from the weight of my failed relationship was the moment when enjoying the way I presented myself started feeling like an option again; I began noticing how much fun others had with their clothes (particularly a stylist friend, Amelia Wilkes, who styled this article’s photoshoot).
Soon eBay beckoned and my saved searches – L, 50, men’s clothing, *insert designer name*, <$200 – began unearthing bargains (I pretty much only buy used clothing). First came a pair of boot-cut Gaultier jeans covered in intricate, bleached floral patterns and appliqué pinstripe patches.
Next, a baby-blue Moschino business shirt, with pink floral patch pocket and cuffs; then some Raf Simons/Calvin Klein trousers in a brown woollen houndstooth, with a blazing stripe of fluoro orange running up the leg; a distressed Y2K Emporio Armani denim cap; and a wild 90s Gianni Versace Versus vest, covered in an undulating, psychedelic chequerboard print, with bright, contrasting bunches of pastel flowers running under its big ornate cat buttons and silly little white plastic zips for pockets.
It’s hard to explain the horror of losing yourself: disoriented and dislocated from the world you’ve built around you, unmoored from your identity and struggling to relate to people you knew intimately. I’ve only been able to scrape by on my freelance writing commissions because of dwindling savings and cheap rent, but choosing to embrace colour again has been an investment in my sense of self.
I can feel my inner world blooming like the flowers on my new vest – stepping out the door feels fun and dates feel exciting again. Given the right occasion, my Indian funeral suit might just make an appearance before the end of summer.
Until then, I’ll be taking life one stupid outfit at a time.
