trunk show
At the end of a busy, busy week... I am thinking about trunk shows.
After a v. hard (but pleasing) day yesterday, I was recruiting my strength and resting my brain by flipping through the February Vogue, whereupon I came upon an article about Isaac Mizrahi taking his new Liz Claiborne line on a series of trunk shows. The OED doesn't have an entry for the term, but it means that a designer takes his or her wares on the road to display; the designer opens his trunk, et voila, there is treasure. (We hope.)
When I think of the word 'trunk,' I think of those boxes of treasure, memories, art. (The OED reminds me that I should think of trees, which I generally don't. The OED reminds me also that I should think of elephants, which I do... which reminds me of Heffalumps, too, with those long flexible appendages ready to scoop up Animals with Very Little Brain.)
I've always wanted a steamer trunk -- although actually traveling with a trunk would require porters and the ability to summon same with a gentle wave of a gloved hand, which, wow, not going to happen in my life. The stickers on the outside could be a record of treasures seen, even if the trunk itself is sadly empty. Inside, there is space, and space, and space for more.
A steamer trunk's public in some way, however. It's something to take to a trunk show. It's the conveyance for someone born in a trunk, someone born to the business of show. Your treasures are portable (by porters, by a gentle wave of a gloved hand). Your treasures you always carry with you.
Trunks in attics or storage spaces, though... private treasures, not for show. Who knows what might be happening under the lid of a filled trunk? Other than moths, of course.
Old love-letters might unribbon themselves, a dainty yellow-ivory page slipping out to find another page with rakish black letters. A folded dress might unfold, swirl itself out in the confines, call up a breeze from long ago. A paste diamond still gleams, even though its setting is tarnished. Boxes within boxes open with a shriek of release, but what's inside is cold and broken and angry, old pain kept for no reason. Then a child's kaleidoscope turns by itself, and the colors escape the circle and pour over love-letters, clothes, tarnished memories, old pain.
The trunk show is inside, then.
What do you carry in your trunk, and what would you show?
After a v. hard (but pleasing) day yesterday, I was recruiting my strength and resting my brain by flipping through the February Vogue, whereupon I came upon an article about Isaac Mizrahi taking his new Liz Claiborne line on a series of trunk shows. The OED doesn't have an entry for the term, but it means that a designer takes his or her wares on the road to display; the designer opens his trunk, et voila, there is treasure. (We hope.)
When I think of the word 'trunk,' I think of those boxes of treasure, memories, art. (The OED reminds me that I should think of trees, which I generally don't. The OED reminds me also that I should think of elephants, which I do... which reminds me of Heffalumps, too, with those long flexible appendages ready to scoop up Animals with Very Little Brain.)
I've always wanted a steamer trunk -- although actually traveling with a trunk would require porters and the ability to summon same with a gentle wave of a gloved hand, which, wow, not going to happen in my life. The stickers on the outside could be a record of treasures seen, even if the trunk itself is sadly empty. Inside, there is space, and space, and space for more.
A steamer trunk's public in some way, however. It's something to take to a trunk show. It's the conveyance for someone born in a trunk, someone born to the business of show. Your treasures are portable (by porters, by a gentle wave of a gloved hand). Your treasures you always carry with you.
Trunks in attics or storage spaces, though... private treasures, not for show. Who knows what might be happening under the lid of a filled trunk? Other than moths, of course.
Old love-letters might unribbon themselves, a dainty yellow-ivory page slipping out to find another page with rakish black letters. A folded dress might unfold, swirl itself out in the confines, call up a breeze from long ago. A paste diamond still gleams, even though its setting is tarnished. Boxes within boxes open with a shriek of release, but what's inside is cold and broken and angry, old pain kept for no reason. Then a child's kaleidoscope turns by itself, and the colors escape the circle and pour over love-letters, clothes, tarnished memories, old pain.
The trunk show is inside, then.
What do you carry in your trunk, and what would you show?