ABSTRACT
That’s my technique. I resurrect myself through clothes. In fact it is impossible for me to remember what I did, what happened to me, unless I can remember what I was wearing and every time I discard a sweater or a dress I am discarding a part of my life. I shed identities like a snake, leaving them pale and shrivelled behind me, a trail of them, and if I want any memories at all I have to collect, one by one, those cotton and wool fragments, piece them together, achieving at last a patchwork self.1
