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Marie Juliette's Profile

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I used to believe in magic. Thankfully, Grand-Maman's chiffonier provided a porthole to my boundless imagination. By tugging on its reluctant drawers, inhaling a mélange of Chanel No 5 and naphthalene, I would emerge as H.G. Wells traveling companion. As I ceremoniously wrapped myself in discarded cloth, silk dresses brittle as spun sugar, tattered crinolines and gossamer shawls would dissolve in my feverish hands like cobwebs. Basking in the afternoon light, I would stand, regal and triumphant - Queen for a day.

Although my childhood aspirations to rule a small kingdom waned as years went by, my fascination with hand-me-downs soon became a fixation. Often, as I roamed the cobbled streets of Québec, in search of frayed choir boys surplices and torn petticoats, I would convince myself that the persona of the former owners would seep into my pores…

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  • Female
  • Born on December 18
  • Joined May 6, 2010

Favorite materials

Linen, silk organza, wool and the ubiquitous cotton

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About

I used to believe in magic. Thankfully, Grand-Maman's chiffonier provided a porthole to my boundless imagination. By tugging on its reluctant drawers, inhaling a mélange of Chanel No 5 and naphthalene, I would emerge as H.G. Wells traveling companion. As I ceremoniously wrapped myself in discarded cloth, silk dresses brittle as spun sugar, tattered crinolines and gossamer shawls would dissolve in my feverish hands like cobwebs. Basking in the afternoon light, I would stand, regal and triumphant - Queen for a day.

Although my childhood aspirations to rule a small kingdom waned as years went by, my fascination with hand-me-downs soon became a fixation. Often, as I roamed the cobbled streets of Québec, in search of frayed choir boys surplices and torn petticoats, I would convince myself that the persona of the former owners would seep into my pores and possess my soul. Nothing would deter me from the ultimate accoutrement... not even a World War I French soldier uniform, still ripe with the scent of fear and gun powder. Relentlessly, to my mother's horror and consternation, I would bring home bits and pieces of a dubious past, cast away kittens in search of a home. She would shriek, "Marie, you don't know where these things have been!" while half heartedly attempting to burn my mildewy plunder in the furnace.

Hand-me-downs are the new "It" girls. Like caterpillars, they have emerged from their cocoon to be renamed "Vintage." Seasoned pieces of textile, they are barcodes embedded with prized memories. Yet, like mother, I often wonder where these things have been. And that's the magic of it...

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