nothing new #6: finding the beauty of limitations

and collected clothes

Day 77/365. Nothing new. 

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Wardrobe update: Clean out complete.

*Currently ignoring the four clear crates of clothes packed up, waiting to be resolved.

Spring is known as the most optimistic season. It's when flowers bloom, warm days melt into cool, bright evenings, and my family watches the elm tree that tightly and gently wraps our house unfurl an abundance of tiny buds to reveal a green canopy that will protect our house from the harsh summer sun. 

Yet it's my least favourite time of year. Every year, it's the same, and every year, I forget how miserable I feel from August to October. And though I could create a list of the reasons why, I am here to confess that my mood of late has been slumped down in the depth of blah-ness, even on a rare lazy afternoon when I caught myself napping in the sun. 

My wardrobe is not responsible for my mood, but I have not been helping myself. With new clothes comes enthusiasm for styling new outfits. Without new clothes, my lack of effort to dress in exciting ways has meant my style has felt monotonous of late. Not due to my relationship with clothes but my silly habit of not prioritising something I know is important to me. It's like I've been sitting on the couch watching TV instead of walking in the sunshine. Silly little things I do when I get stuck in a rut. 

I've just realised that by the end of November, I will be a third of my way through this challenge, and while I start to envy the girls around me in real life and on social media, pulling together inspires summer outfits that I will never own. The beauty in the limitation I have placed on my wardrobe is that I am starting to take notice of details once unseen.  Like fleeting acquaintances that would walk through my life, the clothes I own have been temporary objects - objects that would serve a slight purpose before being thoughtlessly replaced. 

The beauty of limitations is having time to understand the nuance of your clothes—where they crease and crinkle, how they pull and push your body, and which fabrics wear in rather than out. 

The beauty of limitations is having time to make changes and increase the importance of each piece in your wardrobe - collecting and replacing buttons, re-hemming and reworking darts. 

I've never been good at customising my clothes, but I'd like to be. It feels like a valuable skill most of us have lost. 

Looking into my somewhat tidier wardrobe, I see limitless smooth textures - a clean-cut approach to dressing that does not evoke feelings but reflects a need I once had to dress in a 'practical' and 'classic' way. In contrast, the clothes piled on my bedroom chair - the clothes I slip on and off my body so much they are rarely really put away - are much more exciting. 

One of these pieces is a crochet cardigan. 

Bought in January in the small town of Manilla, NSW, this piece was collected in a way that outshines most pieces in my wardrobe. 

I grew up on a farm about 15 minutes out of town and was 16 when my family left - and as 16-year-old girls do, I harboured so much hate for the isolation of a small town that I had never returned. But over the summer holidays, on an extended road trip, I took my own family to show them my country roots. We stopped to have lunch in town before heading out to the property. My husband chose an antique store with an adjacent cafe and white toasty's melted; my fingertips and eyes traced the textures of many objects once owned and valued by others. 

I have always loved crochet. When I was a kid, my mum taught me the simplest version. So when I saw a BNWT 1950s cream crochet cardigan hanging from a hat stand, I wrapped my fingers around the coat hanger and went to find a mirror. It fit, I loved it, and on the way back to the cafe to show off my new find, the owner of the antique store stopped me. 

Geoff had recognised me as one of his daughter's childhood friends - he had two, and I am one of three sisters. It had been 22 years since my family had left. My husband and I were in disbelief as to this recognition, and though at the time I was probably thinking about whether I would recognise my now 5yr Poppy's BFFs given the same amount of time passing, I think this whole experience was being woven into the cloth of the cardigan.  We spoke a little, catching up on life's things. I bought the cardigan, and we continued on our way. I have probably worn that piece 30 times since. It's textured but neutral, looks great with black, and is now irreplaceable because of the way it was collected. 

Over these last few weeks, I have been thinking about collecting clothes rather than buying them—like the leopard-collared coat I found on my last day in Copenhagen this past April and the Balenciaga tee-shirt that I hunted for and was my only pre-loved item for many years—it says 'BELIEVE' on the front and 'IN SOMETHING BIGGER' on the back. Collecting clothes feels like connecting stems of dopamine into an everlasting daisy chain. Each time you wear something, that bond gets stronger, solidifying the reason it remains in your wardrobe. In a moment of clarity, I realise this is what I want all my clothes to be: beacons of meaning that take me through space and time, both physically and with a sense of connection, nostalgia, and memory. 

I am going to stop asking others' opinions on what I should wear. 

Whenever I have a public-facing event, I intend to wear clothes made in Australia - it's my way of trying to support the local industry. I did this once in June for an exhibition launch, and it felt so good that I vowed to do it again. Recently, I had an exciting event that I was speaking at, so to support Aus Made - I reached out to Friends With Frank to borrow an outfit for my speaking gig. I did the due diligence and went in the week before trying on sizes and styles to ensure the look was authentically me. But the night before the event, I tried on the final outfit and realised the samples fit totally differently, which was fine and sent me deep diving into my wardrobe. I pulled two looks. One was a steel blue suit with sneakers. The other was an almost all-black uniform look with 'said' vintage crochet cardigan. I started my day dressed in my preferred look - the almost all-black and met a few people to be photographed. 

Two hours before the event, I asked the girls on my team if I should change into blue suit. They all said yes, and I did it without question. Then, as people started to arrive at the event and I felt less polished than usual, I knew I would regret changing. 

There was nothing wrong with the outfit, but it's been on my mind ever since—a reminder that my opinion should be the only one I look to. Not because I know better, but because choosing what to wear is personal, and the only person who will have internal commentary following it is you. Unless you completely miss the mark, no one else will think about it again. 

I am deeply contemplating my first approved purchase - a rattan beret. 

I was initially getting this made locally as part of my spring-summer event uniform, but as conversations with one particular milliner dwindled, I didn't chase them. 

As past experiences haunt me, I admit I am afraid of getting something made. 

So, while I worked through my fear, I contemplated vintage and other local options, but in seeking the perfect shape, I have actually landed somewhere else completely. It hasn't happened yet, but it might. I'll keep you posted. 

I'm also working on an idea for our offline club - something that can be collected and will evoke memories of nostalgia or novelty, depending on which generation you come from.

This post is part of a larger body of work that explores Our Relationship With Clothes. Australia is the largest consumer of textiles in the world; we ask questions in the hope of encouraging self-reflection and change.