What are we without our clothes and what are our clothes without us?
Does matter have a soul? One of its own; that of its creator or maybe that of its user? Can a garment narrate a story? A story of birth or death, love or hate, pain or fear, joy or sadness? Pieces of fabric dress our naked bodies. Pieces shaped after our bodies, still bear their warmth and smell, their curves and breath. Clothes that are empty but still full; full of life.
Full of soul; mine or yours, a mother’s, an actress’s who was sweating to move you, a boy’s who was aroused when he touched you, a grandmother’s who came out of the kitchen while cooking for her grandchild. A room empty of people but full of their clothes that could tell their stories and reveal a part of their soul. Besides the smell of the flesh, what light of our soul remains on our clothes every time? Can artificial light and the shadow it creates, reveal whatever remains from ourselves and make clothes speak as they do when we wear them?