Earlier this spring, a beloved family friend passed away. The mother of one of my Mom’s best friend from college, Audrey Hartzell peacefully rested her soul in North Carolina after ninety years.
When I was little, Audrey Hartzell seemed like the chicest, most cosmopolitan woman in the world. Even just her name – Audrey – evokes the glimmer of an analog charm. She’d arrive to holidays and vacations teeming with style ; an amalgamation of patterns and textures, handbags and elaborate jewelry. Every piece so clearly hand-selected, yet so carefree. Her style was passionate, full of love, and encompassed something deeply Southern. Her style, so just like her.
In late elementary school, I wanted to be a fashion designer. I’d sit at the kitchen counter and trace, trying my best to create something worth pinning on my bedroom bulletin board. From ruffles to pleats to denim stitching, I found something unbelievably comforting in a creative pursuit with so much structure (pun unintended, but kept.)
Once, when Audrey came to visit, I gifted her one of my most cherished designs – an elaborate ballgown, its skirt layers and layers of large, fluffy feathers. Took it right off the board and handed it to her. I think somewhere in my young psyche, I desperately wanted her to look at me and see something of herself, with the hopes that I could look at her and see me, too.
And the beautiful part is that she understood. She kept my design, and my Mom’s friends remind me over and over again that she cherished it for years. There was nothing elaborate or complicated about the love she gave to me, and to my after-school art project. She just recognized a little girl who was probably too precocious and clever for her own good, and enshrined her in a flimsy paper sketch.
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Somewhere along the way, being a fashion designer gave way to more practical pursuits. I’m writing this introductory blog post from my office – a downtown Chicago high-rise where I work for the State of Illinois on consumer protection legislation. Yes, my parents are very proud of me and yes, I am a certified Girlboss TM.
But over the years, I’ve found myself drawn back in over and over again. I discover myself sitting in committee hearings, doodling dresses as I wait for my bill to be called before legislators. I watch Project Runway on flights and long train rides, languishing that a designer so obviously should have added more tulle to a skirt (everyone’s a critic). And I find myself jealous – over and over again, sickly green jealous – of people I meet who are so unafraid to chase their creative pursuits, who see value in what they inspire in themselves.
In my 20-something adult life, I’ve developed a person style that I’m quite proud of. A friend once referred to my overall aesthetic as “preppy queer”, but I think it will take a whole other blog post to define that. I’m proud when the barista compliments my outfit, or when a coworker gifts me a pair of boho heritage-inspired block heels she doesn’t want to return because “You just always have that vintage look, so I thought you’d wear them.” I’m even smug pleased when I get a pixie cut and have to explain to the Gen X women in my life that I’m embracing a chic, discerningly-dainty form of femininity that can only be achieved by selectively rejecting stereotypically feminine traits. Like I said, smug pleased.
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But as I continue to build the life I want, I often find myself yearning for a more stable, consistent creative pursuit I can bring with me into everyday life. I write lots of poetry and go see lots of concerts and indie films and frequently take dance classes (don’t worry, we’ll also unpack all the ‘childhood ballet to fear of own body’ pipeline that’s no doubt enmeshed in this journey).
In all of this, there’s something missing; something tangible I can wrap my hands around or sink my teeth into or just simply play with. There’s something gnawing at the back of my brain telling me that I need to give more of myself to myself, and to show it to others. Not something smart or practical or polished, but something far messier.
As simple as it sounds, it’s actually really hard for me to grow-the-fuck-up and admit that maybe I should be a little more childish. Or rather, admit that maybe I’m doing something wrong by not believing in my own creative vision. I could blame it on my Type-A personality, or my Sun in Virgo, or being a successful product of the ‘Lean In’ corporate generation. But maybe I should blame it on me – myself- for not just starting.
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I’m sure my feather dress design got lost somewhere in Audrey’s house. But the memory – and the impact – of who she was to little me has remained for a long time. I’ve signed myself up for an introductory sewing class, and today I sketched in a virtual meeting where I didn’t need to speak. I came up with a design I particularly liked, and maybe at some point we’ll actually see it become reality.
Stay tuned as I share this little corner of myself with you.
If you’d like to learn more about Audrey Hartzell’s life, you may do so here.
Hannah's Wardrobe 