Shop Your Closet
I merchandise my closet to make it as visually enticing as any store
Pictured: A haven of creativity; the room where my clothes live also serves as a workspace, sewing room and writing room.
By Bethany May
Instagram
The. Iconic. Closet. Scene. You know the one. David Bowie directs us to, “Fashion. Turn to the left. Fashion. Turn to the right” while Cher Horowitz sits at a computer picking out her school outfit from her completely digitized wardrobe in the 1995 film “Clueless.” This was my dream. A physical and virtual space dedicated to imagining how outfits could come together with pieces that I already owned.
Pictured: I highlight the stylistic potential of the clothes I already own by displaying fully styled outfits on hangers and hanging them up around my room.
Visual merchandising in the window with props, on mannequins or spread across the tables is part of what makes clothes exciting to me in the store. I want to bottle that feeling and pour it all over the clothes I already own.
In the mid-00s, I had the virtual space. I used the now-defunct online mood board website Polyvore to upload all my clothes or similar versions of them. Then, I would pretend to be Cher, remixing my closet over and over while procrastinating on whatever college deadline was hanging over my head. In the many years since, the physical space I’ve had to dedicate to clothes has varied, ranging from a large suitcase with bursting seams the year I lived abroad to an actual walk-in closet in the extra bedroom of my last apartment. Until recently, my approach had always been a drawer, a door, a screen between me and the fabric. I was just trying to contain the collection and not make a mess in a room that I needed for another function. Storage was the approach although I still longed for Cher’s closet.
For me, the dream of “Clueless” was not only that Cher’s inventory included a scarlet Alaïa dress and a white collarless shirt from Fred Segal, but that she also had rotating racks and lighting installed in her shoe shelves. Her clothes weren’t in storage; they were on display. And for my clothes that I love, that I want to take care of and wear forever, I want to look at them and always see the possibilities I imagined when I first fell in love with them.
These thoughts, of display vs. storage, make me consider how the physical space I give to my clothes helps me put my consumption values into practice. It starts with wearing and appreciating what I already have.
To me, part of the aesthetic experience of buying new things in a retail store vs. sifting through an uncurated Goodwill or secondhand shop (which is its own kind of pleasure) is that someone folded everything just so and straightened the racks. When I worked in retail, I thought of these tasks as mind-numbing, but now I appreciate that care because a wrinkled shirt on my discard pile does not spark the joy as the same shirt steamed and hung under a jean jacket with the cuffs rolled the way I like them.
Pictured: A vast array of mask options; grouping similar items as collections eases day-to-day decision making.
A stack of denim with the buttons all lying flat and the seams lined up perfectly along the sides is a turn on for me. Is that too much information? An accessory tower hung with necklaces, sunglasses, bracelets, earrings, and silk scarves makes my heart beat faster. That’s normal, right? A wall, floor-to-ceiling, with coordinating patterns of mini skirts, car coats, twin sets, boiler suits, and dresses is like falling in love, especially when the hangers are evenly spaced. I know this sounds like I have a romanticized relationship with shopping. I’m just in like/lust/love with a good space that opens my mind to countless possibilities.
Seeing collections of like items lined up, stacked tall, or fanned out is so satisfying to me. Though most of my clothes come from the thrift shop, I appreciate the small boutique or even the big corporate box that layers ruffled silky camisoles with cropped blazers or under the right leather jacket on a dress form, mixing my favorite colors and textures in a way that makes me forget I don’t even like cropped blazers. When they hang next to an emerald green trapeze dress suspended by spider-web thin spaghetti straps, I suddenly see potential in the cropped blazer.
Visual merchandising in the window with props on mannequins or spread across the tables and racks is part of what makes the clothes exciting to me in the store. I want to bottle that feeling and pour it all over the clothes I already have at home. So I did.
Last year, instead of hiding my clothes behind a closet door or in my collapsing Ikea wardrobe, I finally mounted bracket shelves and bars on the wall like I had dreamed of since we moved in six years ago.
My partner and I each have a dedicated office space in rooms on opposite sides of our little house. I love a mahogany bookcase and academia-core as much as the next Rory Gilmore, but I knew I wanted my creative workplace to double as my closet/sewing/writing room, not just a desk and bookshelves. On TV all the talking heads host their Zoom interviews in front of a wall of books to show how smart and authoritative they are. Meanwhile, I’ve been logging on with a backdrop of what inspires me — clothes.
It’s not fancy. There are no custom built-ins, and HGTV would be appalled. But I’m proud of building a space that makes me feel like Cher, with my wardrobe on display and ready to be used. This is not a place where items get worn once then pushed to the back and forgotten about.
Pictured: Dress forms are perfect for planning and putting together outfits.
Collections
In a store, they have a full size run and multiples of everything. At home, I don’t. I have a bunch of sunglasses that make a bigger impact when hung all together. I have a dozen homemade cloth masks that are easier to grab and match to my outfit when they are together. I have a lot of shoes from the before-times when I wore high heels to work events and hot boots for date nights and patent things that only my girlfriends could appreciate. When they are all heel-to-toe on the shelf, I can “shop” for the kicks that work for the occasion (assuming someday there will be an occasion to choose mary janes over slides again). I group together all the things that I own in multiples (scarves, sunnies, a little stack of miniskirts) because decision making is easier when all the options are in sight.
I’ve also watched hours of The Folding Lady on Instagram and learned how to fold all of my clothes neatly so different style jeans still look uniform and my workout clothes will stay folded even when I rifle through them. Bonus: listening to a podcast and folding t-shirts can be really meditative.
Reuse/recycle
My boots stand up straight because I stuff them with rolled up magazines and packing materials. I keep all the pretty shoe boxes or packages and stack them to create a little table. A little espresso cup holds all my hair clips. An old vase is stuffed with a tangle of velvet ribbons. And I still have a moodboard of magazine clippings, fabric swatches and trimmings, clothing tags I liked, postcards and jewels that fell off accessories. I am the magpie that has trouble throwing away shiny things — even slightly crumpled cardboard pieces that I might be able to refashion into something useful.
Place to build
In my closet, the most effective way I use my space is by having dedicated spots to build outfits. Over the years, I have collected a squishy hanging dress form, a valet stand, a styrofoam head, another weird head and shoulders, and hooks on the back of every door.
When I was most short on space, I would always hang three things on the same hanger. I built my outfits digitally on Polyvore’s app for years. I’ve tried a few alternatives, but haven’t adopted one I love yet. (This Frisky Gatos post about using the StyleBook app is my next attempt at virtual styling, FYI.) Now, I layer outfits on every open hook, hanger, and vertical surface. Almost every blazer is hanging over a piece of clothing that I want to pair it with next time. Some oxford shirts have pre-rolled sleeves and are placed on the hanger under the sleeveless dress I want to layer together.
Pictured: I’m always creating new displays in this space. It currently features a vignette of fashion academia.
A feature
It would be weird to dress my closet window like a storefront, no? I accept that maybe I don’t have to take the display mindset to its hyperbolic ends and build a literal window display, but I do like to pick a theme and make a moment of things I’ve found and loved.
Right now, I have this little vignette of fashion academia set up on a shoe cabinet. It includes an old typewriter I found on Craigslist, a purse that looks like fairytale spines, an old Vogue sewing book, a paper doll cut-out book, a packet of perfume samples from Imaginary Authors that comes packaged in a little book, my head I call Wanda dressed in a 1960s bubble cap, mirrored glasses, and a tangle of necklaces including a Kate Spade locket that plays on the old editing bible, Strunk & White’s Elements of Style. I have a paper chain I made from an old textbook and a stack of books that all have to do with clothing or fashion.
I change up the feature when I get bored, adding a Santa Claus hat around the holidays and fur gloves, a sparkly clutch. Each time I change it, I build a little shrine to commemorate a new season of inspiration. It feels like the same joy of back-to-school shopping, but instead of consuming the new fall line, I create it.
Collecting, recycling, building, and featuring. These are the closet habits that keep me from buying new shit I don’t need. Is it absurd that I am creating a philosophy and aesthetic for the room where my clothes live? Probably, but that’s coping with a planet on fire and late stage capitalism, baby!
Editor: Iris Aguilar | Designer: Kelsey Wolf | Photographer: Bethany May | Copy Editor: Katie Frankowicz | Communication/Support/Outreach: Meg Chellew
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