Heidi Julavits

‘Women in Clothes’ collects a sprawling project interviewing (mostly American) women about what they wear and what clothes mean to them. Reading it is inevitably a rather fragmentary experience, as each snippet is only a few pages of the five hundred total. There are also plenty of illustrations, giving the air of a lengthy, intellectual magazine. At first I preferred to read only a small amount of it at time, before getting immersed. I think what makes the project compelling is starting show more to reflect on how your own perceptions and experiences are similar and different to the project’s contributions. A few seemed insufferable, while others were wise or tragic, but the vast majority were thought-provoking. Visually, I particularly liked the photocopies of women’s hands and accompanying discussion of the rings they wore. Also the photos of mothers before they had children, which addressed the generational elements of style and dressing. By contrast, I found the diagrams of clothes scattered on the floor horrifying, as I am very tidy and would NEVER leave clothes on the floor. (Whenever past housemates left their clothes on the floor, I picked them up.) The strongest element and the backbone of the whole project, however, are the survey responses and interviews. The wide range of voices give a fascinating overall impression.

As previously mentioned in my review of [b:The Curated Closet: A Simple System for Discovering Your Personal Style and Building Your Dream Wardrobe|28364022|The Curated Closet A Simple System for Discovering Your Personal Style and Building Your Dream Wardrobe|Anuschka Rees|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1465676327s/28364022.jpg|48435763], I think about clothes quite a lot already. Nonetheless, ‘Women in Clothes’ inspired me to further reflection and even action. One interview mentioned the futility of keeping garments that will only ever have sad associations, reminding me that I have a purple dress that I wore to my beloved Nana’s funeral last year. I haven’t worn it since and think of the funeral whenever I look at it. Yet I kept it, because I like the shape, colour, and fit. Now I realise that I never want to wear it again, so must give it to charity. I have other things to remind me of happy times with my Nana, rather than the distress of her funeral. The book also spurred me to look through past years of outfit photos that I used to take regularly. Recalling 2013, 2014, and 2015 through outfit selfies was a striking experience. What I wear, what we all wear to some extent, is mediated by how we feel. I started wearing a lot of big, soft woollen jumpers in 2014, during my PhD, because I felt unhappy and they were reassuring. The interviewee who talked about how garments feel on the skin really struck a chord with me - I care a great deal about clothes feel on my body, perhaps more than I care about how they look. Indeed, I think the two are linked.

As well as the individual importance of garments, the book engages somewhat with the fashion industry and the damage it causes. There is a moving and horrifying interview with a survivor of the Rana Plaza factory collapse, a catastrophe in which more than a thousand people died. Several other interviewees focus on the ethical quandaries of dressing. One of them reassured me by stating firmly that second hand clothing is the way forward - we need to stop buying so much new stuff. This is my policy and I rarely buy new clothes, just underwear or the occasional item that I’ve failed for months to find second hand a couple of times a year. Buying ethical new clothes is fraught with difficulties: limited sizing, lack of availability, and the ever-present suspicion of greenwash. I have bought organic cotton items from H&M, although I know that their fast fashion low price ethos is fundamentally incompatible with ethical, environmentally responsible production. I always feel guilty about new purchases. Buying clothes from charity shops, by contrast, is about fun, discovery, and experimentation. Worst case, you’ve given a few pounds to a good cause and can donate the garment back if you don’t wear it.

‘Women in Clothes’ is a broad project and I’m not sure how many readers would think it worth going through the entire write-up. It would be ideal to dip into, though, and I think anyone with even a modicum of interest in clothes, make-up, perfume, embodiment, or femininity would find a lot to think about. The survey responses have a sincere, honest air. Although some across as pretentious or over-privileged, they all have something compelling to say. (I can probably come across as pretentious myself when talking about clothes.) I was tempted to try and answer all the survey questions myself, as well as reflecting on garments that I’ve known, loved, and love still. To me, and certain interviewees, clothing still retains the quality of dressing up in a costume that it possessed during childhood. A tiny pleasure that enhances the mundane working day is to choose an outfit to be someone slightly different, a character in some story more dramatic than your office job. It needn't be perceptible to anyone but you. I took to heart a comment I once read online: Dress for the dystopia you want, not the one that you have. show less

May 7

Today I begin reading the new book by an author I adore. It's a non-fiction work in diary format, a departure from the author's normal tales. I look forward to my time in these pages. How often have I wanted to better know an artist whose work I love? This is my chance. I feel I am being invited to the author's residence for coffee and am allowed to ask anything. What insight will this author have? What are her deepest fears and most unspoken desires? What is she like when she isn't show more “being a writer”? I'm about to find out.

June 23

Today I finished trudging through the book I started last month. While my opinion of the author's talents regarding writing has not changed, my opinion of the author herself most definitely has. I had stated that I felt like I was being invited to the author's residence for coffee; I was wrong. While reading this book—this diary—I was transported to the author's residence, but it was for a formal dinner party, the kind where you feel awkward the entire time, wondering if everyone is staring at you because you put your fork down at the wrong angle on your plate. But no one at this party was paying me any attention, because the author was the center of the show. That's okay. It's what I expected. I wanted to know more about her. But what I'd hoped for was an intelligent conversation full of insight, humor, and heart. What I got instead was an intelligently-written drunken tirade. You know the dinner party where the hostess holds her wine glass at an angle and tells you about the time she urinated in a plane's airsickness bag and constantly reminds you how she's happy and stable? How she's glad she cheated on her first husband with her second, but keeps bringing it up every few minutes as if it haunts her? How she's proud to teach her eight-year-old daughter how to look more “fuckable”? How life is great because she spends the summer in Maine *sip* the winter in New York *sip* how she's been to Italy *sip* Germany *sip* France *sip* Morocco *sip*? That's the dinner party I just came home from.

I feel bad saying such things, because I really do appreciate this author's talent. While others have bashed her fiction (her four major works of fiction average a rating of 3.08 on Goodreads), called her writing juvenile and stilted, and written her off as an untalented hack, I have stood by her side. I have defended her brilliance. Ironically, it is this most recent work that maintains a rating that borders four stars. Apparently, I am in the minority.

What is it about this diary that others love? Is it the anecdote-laden short passages that are about nothing and everything? Is it the gossip? Is it the extravagant lifestyle? The constant abandon the author shows? Or the author's curious love of the reality television show, The Bachelor? Whatever it is, I want none of it.

I think what irritated me most is how the author repeatedly mentioned her woes and talked about her inability to buy things she wanted. In fact, a huge chunk of this book is about eBay shopping. When combined with her many mentions of her foreign travels and her dinner parties with elite artists, this book seems to be about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Maybe the author wishes for more than second-hand Internet shopping. Maybe travels to Europe are not enough. But as someone who knows what “starving artist” means, as someone who gave up full-time employment and security to write a novel and stay home with my kids, as someone who can't afford a vacation outside of the state of Kansas, and as someone who saves and saves and saves in order to buy $50 shoes from Famous Footwear, I find the author's complaints about $500 boots repulsive. There are much bigger concerns in the world, but the writer seems unaware or uncaring.

I hope the writer can forgive me. I did love the cadence and beauty of many of the sentences in this work. Maybe there is some brilliance in the parallel drawn between the juvenile diary of an adolescent girl and the juvenile diary of a middle-aged woman. I am still a fan. But my dearest author, I do not wish to be your friend. I hope you will continue to write many wonderful works of fiction, but please do not invite me again for a dinner party. I will come to your readings. I will continue to defend your novels. But friends we cannot be. And please know that your confusion of the Library of Congress classification with Dewey Decimal is unforgivable. For everything else, I'll accept apology in the form of a new novel. show less

At the start of Heidi Julavits' intriguing novel, 16-year old Mary Veal disappears from her private school one afternoon in 1985. Three weeks later, she reappears claiming to have little memory of what happened to her. In the months that follow, numerous psychiatrists attempt to discern whether Mary is a victim of abduction and rape or a liar who engineered her own disappearance for mysterious, sixteen-year old reasons.

Julavits novel switches back and forth between a narrative entitled show more "What Might Have Happened" that speculates on the events of those lost weeks, notes from the analyst who treated Mary after her reappearance, and the story of 30-year old Mary's return home after the death of her estranged mother. Of these three threads, the first is by far the most compelling. Here Julavits masterfully teases apart the complex motivations that underlie the developing relationship between Mary and the strange man whose car she climbed into that fateful afternoon.

Unfortunately, the other two narrative threads did not hold my attention to the same degree. 30-year old Mary just wasn't as compelling a character as her younger self, and her interactions with her bitchy sisters and other parts of her past dragged at times. While the analyst notes depicting the cat-and-mouse game Mary played with the therapist who was hoping to resurrect his career off of his theories about her were somewhat more interesting, they were also obscure and Freudian to a degree that I found maddening at times.

I finished this book with a mixture of admiration and frustration. The underlying questions about identity, sexuality and repression in this story were fascinating to me, but I closed the book feeling unsatisfied. Though Mary finds resolution at the end of her tale, the author simply did not provide enough information about for me to feel the same. show less

The Vanishers is a fantastic novel, using absurdist humor to explore grief and illness. Julavits has some interesting things to say about illness, our perception of illness, and our perception of our own emotional lives. The tempo of the thriller / mystery novel allows you to get pretty deep into the protagonist's mind, laughing at her hapless adventures (As this unusual customer beelined for my desk, however, she caught her toe on the corner of the jute rug and departed the floor, kraft show more tray outstretched and then released so that it collided with my chest as I'd been uttering in Arabic to no one, "I'll transfer you to the sales department." p. 50) and then suddenly you realize that you're having a great many insights into the nature of emotion. I particularly liked the description of anger as women often conceive of it — something ugly, feral, something that must be defended against, something that originates from the hate and jealously of other people.

There was some material about performance art and mid-century modern furniture; if I happened to share those particular interests, this probably would have been one of my favorite novels of all time. Sadly, I know nothing about either. So we'll call it 4/5 stars for fantastic writing, unerring humor, an intelligent message about the human condition, and if you know what a Barcelona chair is, boy are you in for a treat. show less