Reflections - cover2

Reflections
New York City
July 1982
She had never been beautiful, but she had something, not beauty perhaps, but something. Its precise definition had always escaped her, but the search for
it had occupied a lifetime. She had begun to realize that whatever she had was going fast. Along with this realization came the sobering thought that
perhaps nothing had been there in the first place.
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She had longed to be beautiful, to be admired – but even the longing seemed behind her now. At times, though, a great sense of loss overwhelmed her, a
feeling of having been cheated from her birthright. She had been born with the instincts of an aristocrat. She knew the feel of silver and fine linen, she
understood their soul. She knew the sense of power and control one feels when sitting in a chic sidewalk café with matched underwear or no underwear,
expensive little flats, purposefully mismatched but properly titled labels adorning recently tanned skin. The accoutrements, in and of themselves, are not
important, expendable, interchangeable—it is the power they represent that she longed for periodically. The power to BE – to be noticed, counted, dealt
with, admired, envied, remembered.
…
I stood looking in the window of Bloomingdale’s. I was initially struck with the beauty of the window design itself – the color, the mannequins, the overall
effect of richness and elegance – it was a work of art. I was stunned; it was a physical reaction. Clothes, like interiors, have never had for me the static,
inanimate quality they have for many people. For me, they live – they have a life of their own. I never see them still, but moving – how does the fabric
sway, gather, drape, ripple? The patterns of shadow and light are a constant source of pleasure or pain to my eye. Beautiful lace, real lace, especially old
French lace, is a particular delight.
After my first reaction, I began to notice the details. I could have stood there all day. Texture on texture, tweeds on linen, lace on leather, corduroy on
velvet, heavy sweaters over delicate blouses, necks wrapped with delicious mufflers falling to hemlines. Casual opulence – worn by people for whom the
cost is mere pocket money. To wear them would be an unbearably delicious, sensual experience. I don’t covet them because of the status their cost
implies, but because I want to share their beauty, to envelop myself in their pleasure.
I slowly became aware of a face being reflected in the window glass, of people passing, of the sidewalk café across the street. It was like watching a movie
on a transparent screen in front of those beautiful windows. The single face I had noticed looked vaguely familiar. It was a time before I realized that it
was mine.
What did I think? That time had stood still for me? It was the first hard, impersonal, detached look I had taken at myself in ten years. I was not happy
with what I saw. What I saw was ordinary, middle-aged inconsequence, made up of abandoned dreams and worn-out hopes, of forgotten joy and dried-up
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