Monday, November 17, 2008

Venus in Furs

I've previously told the story about being given a mink coat for a long-ago birthday. When I moved to the West Coast, I sold it to the Ritz Thrift Shop, whose classic commercial ran for years on local TV.

I saw no reason to keep something I'd have little use for, given the change in average annual temperature. But I am a wuss about cold and always have been, and haven't really re-adjusted to New York winter yet, despite being back for a few winters now. As the mercury drops this season, I find myself thinking about the reliable warmth of slipping into someone else's skin. I have no compunction about minks, who are nasty, carnivorous little animals who would eat me if they could, but a fur coat isn't what I need at the moment.

I do, however, still have three fur items:
  • A vintage black lamb jacket with a fox collar, with "Theresa B." (which is not my name) embroidered on the lining;
  • A champagne-colored mink stole with my grandma Lillian's full name embroidered on the tattered lining, a reliable component of my Marilyn Monroe costume; and
  • A black fox neckpiece that once belonged to a dear friend's mother, a woman of fierce opinions and style now living in a facility for those with Alzheiner's and limited to a washable, elasticized wardrobe.
I like to think that all of them would appreciate my continuing the life of their styles, and thank them in absentia for sharing the warmth.

Post title from the classic book by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, who gave his name to an obsession, and to the song by the Velvet Underground, from this incredible album. Like wearing a fur with nothing under it, it's most fun to peel slowly and see:

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