On Dressing, Scent, and Memory

I once walked in a peach orchard in the south of France late in August, late in the day, when the branches of the trees quivered with the warm weight of the fattened fruit. The sun pressed down. A round, full, honeyed smell wove its way between the trees, a lazy river of perfumed air, and I knew I would remember it forever. From that moment on, any whiff of peach conjured every atom of that scene: every laden tree branch, every grassy path between the trees, every touch of sunlight, the horizon, the bowl of sky, the man I was with, the mood I was in. It’s miraculous, isn’t it, to be transported like that? To have a memory so accessible, a replay of life right at hand? The texture of every experience we have is both the present, as it is happening, and a portal to the past as well as the future, layers upon layers of gathered moments folding into themselves. 

Scent is the first of the layers we choose to wear. It is invisible and evocative, a ghostly magic; it is utterly fluid, mingling differently on each body. Then we choose the next more substantial layer: Maybe a shuddering silk, or a toothy cotton, or a plush wool. This is an additive art, this presentation of ourselves to the world. It isn’t concealment; it’s communication. We wear scent not to mask but to annotate: Here I am, accompanied by the hint of a rose garden, or the seaside, or a late-summer garden, that amplifies my sense of myself. This dress doesn’t hide me: It emphasizes me, tells you who I am, celebrates the artisan’s hand that crafted it, revels in the kind of beauty that resonates with me. 

Each decision we make about what we wear is complex and intriguing. Why this color? This fabric? This shape? This floral note? What did the designer picture as she sketched this? Pressed against our bodies, clothing and scent are the most intimate things we select, and at the same time, they are also the most public. We dress for ourselves, with the most private of reasons, but we know that at the same time how we look conveys a narrative to the outer world. Maybe that’s why how we present ourselves in public is endlessly interesting. It’s like overhearing a whispered conversation that is just loud enough to discern but is loaded with all sorts of private messages. How we dress is part mystery, part manifesto. We compose ourselves every day looking to the past and the future, beckoning memories and imagining impressions, conjuring a vision of ourselves fresh with each layer we choose, exulting in each one as we tell our story anew. 

Susan Orlean for Ulla Johnson