To accompany the play, LOVE, LOSS AND WHAT I WORE, the Cherry Center is launching an exhibit of local fashion-related artwork that examines the make-or-break challenges associated with getting dressed. Curated by Peter Hiller, the local artists include I.B. Bayo, Rachel Clark, Sarah Loveland, Heather Suzanne, Dawn O’Regan and the students of Sally Russell. The exhibit will be displayed from May 20th through June 26th.
Every item in a woman’s closet holds a memory. Some are sweet, some are funny, and some are oh, so sad. Written by Nora and Delia Ephron, based on the book by Ilene Beckerman, and directed by Michael Bond, LOVE, LOSS AND WHAT I WORE is a sweet and saucy collection of life-changing stories triggered by memories of specific accessories or articles of clothing.
The Carl Cherry Center for the Arts and Off the Rack Production are pleased to announce the revival of LOVE, LOSS AND WHAT I WORE, a play about the challenges of the heart–and the closet. The play opens Friday, May 20th and continues through June 12th.
Tickets are $20 and can be purchased at www.brownpapertickets.com or by calling 831-624-7491
Outfitting Dreams and Dressing Our Wounds
We knew before we could explain it, and we knew it needed no explanation – it was right there for everyone to see: the dress was magical. Our mother slipped into the dress – not the plaid cotton shirtwaist or striped shift or corduroy jumper – it was that soft black chiffon, that shimmering black taffeta, that mesmerizing black lace — and suddenly, magically, domestic wrangler Mom was transformed into the alluring woman over whom Daddy was bent, fastening her necklace with his lips at her ear.
We knew the magic would work for us, too. Oh, we might have to wait till we were twelve or thirteen, we already knew the rings and wristbands and jeans jacket kept his eyes tracking us in school. And by fifteen we knew the great T shirt and the right jeans and must-have-these-boots-in-California-summers were what made us shine, what would prove, without fail, completely enchanting.
Of course we helped, gave just a boost to that little dress with spaghetti straps: we wore just the right heels, added just the most diaphanous scarf, carried just the tiniest of bags. And naturally, he was charmed.
We remember just how he fell in love that night. We can point to the record. Right there in the corner of the closet floor. Those heels, which also yielded blisters, are boxed along with all the pointy-toed/square toed/round-toed/open-toed/high-top-sneaker high heels. We danced. We laughed. We kicked them off.
The shoes lifted us into the clouds, or at least high enough to gaze into his eyes. And that dress: slinky, soft, thin as air, almost not there. When he placed his hand on shoulder, waist, hip – well — it was like skin to skin. And that black/red/cream/floral/velvet/jersey/spandex sheath is hanging in the far right corner of that closet where we go to cry over John and Paul and Chuck and Alistair. Where we go to assure ourselves that he loved us then. Where we go to reset the clock, incant the mantra that the little outfit could entrance anew.
And then we take courage, go out, and find the next little piece of magic for the next transformation.