Visiting With Liz

I grew up country with fashion being functional and not something that changes your mood. Wrangler jeans were used to let you move around in a saddle while feeding animals. There were special occasion spurs that sparkled, but the spurs were still used to direct the horse. Fashion wasn’t something I considered much beyond function. And then I met Liz, who wore gorgeous fabrics at the age of 75, out to breakfast to eat by herself. 

Liz taught me that having a sense of style is essential. You can change what you wear when you need to change yourself. When you walk into a room, your wardrobe speaks on your behalf. So what would you like it to say? 

I instantly fell in love with her when we first met.  She was a spitfire with a fascinating soul, and we quickly became family. When she decided to stop cancer treatment, Liz’s son asked me to sign papers saying she was of sound mind. It broke my heart, but I knew Liz wanted to die in style.

She always had style.

Liz had an elegance about herself. She studied art and design, and you could feel it when you walked into her home. The way she arranged the furniture always felt right, even when changed twice a month. The art hanging on her walls was strange and beautiful at the same time. I aspired to be that cool.

You never knew what to expect from Liz… a popped collar for breakfast, a new tattoo right before she passed, and a mother-in-law who was a hooker. She would often give unsolicited advice with crazy storylines that somehow seemed needed.

Liz loved linen in the summer and a tailored wool coat in the winter. I never knew the delight of cashmere socks until she gifted me a pair. She came to my family’s holidays, and I went to hers, sometimes even in matching lipsticks. We would dress up to drink coffee in the mornings at cozy cafes until it was acceptable to go home and open a bottle of wine.

She taught me that a good tailor is your best friend. When your clothes fit, people notice. You feel good when you look good. Putting together different fabrics, patterns and, textures can start your morning out with an art project. You can paint the day ahead and create the palette with intention. Liz had four closets, and I watched her do this often. It was art.

After she died, her family invited me over to claim belongings of hers I’ve loved. I inherited an oversized Rolex watch she wore every day. I love the small hand-beaded clutch from France that she purchased when she was a teenager. I also received all of her silk scarves and colorful shawls. They are worn but placed back into the air-tight container when not in use. I can still smell her scent when I wear these pieces eight years later. My favorite thing I acquired from her is a painting, though. It’s a watercolor of a woman squatting to pee in a urinal, wearing fancy socks with perfect curls, under a framed image of an armadillo. It’s gorgeous. 

Liz was effortlessly cool and showed me how lovely it could be to express yourself in classy ways. I continue to practice this and with what feels like much more effort than she put forth. Each time I pop my collar, though, I think of her, and a bit of courage hits me, thinking she’d be proud.