IWMT
Lately I’ve been writing a dissertation on consumer satisfaction and all the processes that lead us to and inform making a purchase.
Reading tones of journals and papers on emotionally durable design, sustainable relationships between consumers and products and demand for goods-signifiers for our beliefs, I got to think about all the objects I possess. Over the last three years, I have only kept what I can fit into my suitcase, most of the time in my backpack, which allows me to build strong relationships based on memories with all of my possessions.
Taking part in S4S (a sustainability project between the universities of Wolverhampton, Exeter and Falmouth, in partnership with Fashion Revolution and a number of Cornish museums and art galleries) has formed in me a real love for every object, hence acquiring new goods has become a long process for me, similar to acquiring new interpersonal relationships. Having said that, I am by no means claiming that material possessions could possibly replace meaningful connections with other individuals, however, the same way we avoid to cram our lives with too many people, we could avoid stacking our shelves with objects we cannot care for.
In order to inspire in others the same love and appreciation for their possessions, I decided to tell the story of one of my oldest and most used garment and how it defines part of my personality. Maybe reading this, people would finally realize that it is not the amount of objects we possess that makes us rich people, but the amount of memories we share with them.
The object I am dedicating this article to is my oldest pair of jeans – the 8-year-old Mango jeans I bought right after I stopped growing and which I’ve worn almost constantly ever since.
The rips they bear are not fabricated but are rather a product of countless memories I’ve had with them over the time. They tell a story in their own way… Here it is: (as they cannot speak I have used minimal words to convey the memories)
CHAPTER 1 – Ice Cream and Road Dirt
A lovely summer afternoon, just after year 7. My best friend, my twin sister and I severely sunburnt (by the 38C temperatures in my hometown), eating homemade ice cream from the shop on the corner of the main street. My best friend in the middle of a story about a boy she fancies. My sister wearing shorts and a striped pastel coloured top with hair blond from the burning sun. My knees on the pavement as I fall and my legs and elbows bleeding. Ice cream and blood on my relatively new jeans. Everyone laughing. We keep eating ice cream.
CHAPTER 2 – Water Fight
Late night. After a day on the beach. First year at university. My sister wearing my jeans and an old T-shirt. My sister and her new boyfriend at the time fighting with water in the bathroom, trying to involve me. Third-wheeling? Jeans are wet. They rip as she jumps forward. I break his photo frame full of blue glittery liquid as I try to escape. Doesn’t wash off. We watch Bridesmaids. Everyone falls asleep.
CHAPTER 3 – My First Time (Surfing)
Cornwall. Freezing. Everyone in the car singing to a song on the radio. Amazing scenery outside. Blond driver Jefa tells stories of her trip to Australia. Wind. Excitement. Swimming with a pair of seals. Wind blowing. My hands freezing, trying to keep hold of the board. Newbie. Shaking as I take off my wetsuit. Hands are numb, so are my feet and face. I rip my jeans as I put my foot through them. Can’t even feel it. Happiness. The most amazing sunset.
CHAPTER 4 – The Race
Just after midnight. Hazy. Rainy. My friends are drunk, lots of colours around them. Just eaten pizza, feel weird. Race with my friend downhill with my sister and my best friend on our backs. I win. But fall gracelessly on the wet ground. Jeans rip again. Dance all night, although my knee is pretty bad. I have a scar. My friend has a matching one on his knee. From the same night. Acquired in the same way. In a different place. Magic?
I keep thinking of these jeans of bearers of my own past, like photos, but in a slightly different way. All this memories are so clear in my head that I sometimes wonder: Would I still remember if I threw the jeans away?