I’m not a “fashion” person. My wardrobe only contains clothes that I’m comfortable wearing (physically and morally) and could best be described as utilitarian (less kindly as dull).
Except when it comes to scarves (and coats, but that’s a whole other session on the analyst’s couch).
I buy scarves the way I buy art; and for the same reasons. This one came from a work trip to Wellington about 30 years ago, when a male colleague and I found ourselves with time to spare before a meeting. I dragged him into a department store (ignoring the muttering that his wife never made him go shopping) and after about 15 minutes, he found this. I’m still not quite sure if he genuinely thought it would suit me, or if he was just desperate to get away, but I loved it, bought it, and have been wearing it ever since (not constantly, in case you’re wondering).
The fringe is a nuisance; catching in my earrings (my other adornment obsession), but the scarf wouldn’t look nearly as good without it.
I love old machinery. Wheels, cogs, bolts and rust; it’s a dream to photograph.
I love words like flywheel, crankshaft and torque. But no matter how many times well-meaning mechanically minded friends have tried to explain transmission systems and gearing ratios, it’s still all geek to me. So I fall back on a communication system that relies heavily on lots of arm-waving, pleading looks and references to “like, you know the big round thingamajig that sits on the whatsit. You know, the one with the little doodads attached.”
You understand, don’t you?
Whatsit from a doohickey. Image: Su Leslie 2020
Detail of thingamy from whatchamcallit. Image: Su Leslie 2019