ELEMENTS OF STYLE

ELEMENTS OF GRIEF: PART I

〰️

ELEMENTS OF GRIEF: PART I 〰️

FEBRUARY 11, 2023

Imani Smith

08.21.2024

With the abrupt sickness then passing of my father at the top of 2023 came alterations to nearly every facet of my life- including my style.

My experiences with grief were extremely limited because this was my first major loss. I had no idea what to expect, and I never anticipated how multi-layered its effects would be. Every single thing in my life changed, including what I held nearest dearest to my heart, which was my ability to create. In turn, my style took a direct hit.

In the spirit of transparency, if I tell this story, I have to tell it from the beginning. It all starts with my father and the unique and sometimes complex relationship that we had.

I always loved my mother but for the first 13 years of my life, my father was my favorite parent and person. The overwhelming majority of my memories of him were positive. My childhood felt like a sitcom at times, and the privilege of being truly loved isn’t lost on me. I do recall him being very dapper, sometimes even receiving compliments from strangers. He was often concerned with the appearances of all of us in the household. He was a Virgo (if you know you know) and extremely particular and meticulous with all of his self-care rituals as well as everything else that he involved himself with. From where I stood, he was a perfectionist, but it was a part of his charm.

While we wrote his obituary, I learned so much about his history that I had no prior knowledge of. He was a captivating storyteller for as long as I could remember but a lot of these details were news to me. He had come from a family of artists. Before he died when my father was six-years-old, his father made his legal money as a painter and an interior designer while overseeing an underground gambling operation the side, which afforded the family a comfortable lifestyle. His mother loved the culinary arts and gardening all while supporting the family as a housekeeper for a wealthy family. Her mother was an oil painter and a seamstress. My father was steeped in art and gained an appreciation for everything aesthetically pleasing, including his own personal style. In the last 15 years of his life, he dove headfirst into woodworking and even sold some of his pieces before injuring one of his rotator cuffs.

With his love for the arts, he and my mother ceaselessly encouraged me to pursue any and every artistic endeavor that piqued my interest. Although I always felt his support in that area, our relationship evolved once my parents divorced, and he subsequently moved two hours away to pursue his new relationship. Unless it was over the phone, I could hardly hear the loudest voice in my life any longer. This move affected me in plenty of other ways that I still grapple with to this day. Even though I don’t have any memory of him criticizing my clothes or physicality growing up, I distinctly recall whenever he would come back to the city for a visit, I would find myself feeling compelled to look my absolute best. I still needed his approval.

As time passed and I matured into a woman with thoughts and opinions of my own, and of course my style began to reflect that. The combination of my lifetime in art school, my time as a fashion student, the expansion of plus size clothing offerings and my affinity with thrifting, all allowed me to express myself more broadly. Word would get back to me that he wasn’t a fan of my makeup or my tattoos. He didn’t understand me and never really made the effort to attempt to. He was more likely to lecture than listen. In my opinion, it boiled down to him still seeing me as that 13 year-old girl that he left in the full-time care of my mother all those years ago. Regardless, if I had a fashion show, he made the trip and was there to cheer me on.

Ultimately, his big move out of town didn’t turn out to be as grand as he’d hoped. The relationship wasn’t the storybook romance that he’d imagined, and he often ruminated on his loneliness and disenchantment. During that nearly 20 year span of time, he experienced several deaths in the family, including two of his older brothers. He didn’t handle the grief well. Our interactions devolved into either surface-level updates or just downright unpleasant exchanges of words. Because of all of those factors, the visits, either to or from him, decreased in frequency.

One of my last visits with him was to celebrate his 60th birthday along with his longtime girlfriend and her ex-husband. They all happened to be turning 60 that year and had birthdays within a few days of each other. It would be a small gathering with them, their adult children and grandchildren. The combination of the amount of time since I’d seen him last, the deteriorating state of our relationship, the fact that I didn’t mesh well with his new family and the abandonment that I felt all had me riddled with anxiety a full week ahead of the event.

  I recall rummaging through my closet to pull a look that would help to stabilize and empower me. I knew that it was going to be awkward. Plus, I still had that little girl inside who wanted to dress well enough to gain his approval. Needless to say, the visit wasn’t the best, but I found solace in being the best dressed person in the room. It next to nothing, but it was all that I had in that moment.

Whenever our finances, schedules and temperaments allowed and said visits did occur, I noticed the changes in his personal style. The looks were less thoughtful and more casual. The focus seemed to have shifted from fashion to function. Maybe it was because it was always on a weekend or because he was traveling or maybe he was no longer concerned with the opinions of others. Maybe he had more important things on his mind or maybe he was just getting older. This is something that we never had the chance to discuss, so I’ll never have those answers.

About a year before he passed away, he began experiencing extreme weight loss. He was no longer fitting into his clothes. He was conventionally attractive and aware of how his appearance positively affected his life. As a direct result of that, he was always preoccupied with maintaining his weight, so I just assumed it was due to dieting. Once it was revealed that he started having to replace his basics, down to his undergarments, it became concerning. After a few days without a response to a text message, we rushed into town to find him non-responsive, in the middle of dressing for work.

I hadn’t seen him face to face in nearly two years, so seeing him in his final moments was jarring. He was just a fraction of the man I’d known all my life, a shell of himself. No longer adorned in his classic newsboy cap and business casual basics by day or his off duty Nike separates and sneakers, but a flimsy hospital gown.

He spent 7 days in a coma, and we had no idea if he would survive. In a random twist of fate, he was revived. Although frail and malnourished, we were under the impression that he was on the mend. For about 2 weeks we were in and out of town visiting with him and planning for his recovery. One night we’d returned home to rest, the hospital called to inform us that he was no longer responsive, and they were struggling to revive him. At that point, they were just keeping him comfortable enough for us to say our goodbyes. I took this opportunity, an obvious blessing, to tell him every single thing that was on my heart about him, about us. I let him know that I never stopped loving him and that if it was time for him to go, then it was time. He finally heard me.

In hindsight, it wasn’t his recent diagnosis of type 2 diabetes but in fact, late stage prostate cancer that was the culprit. Whether he knew of the illness or not is still a mystery, which left me confused and at times, enraged.

As we cleared out his newly mortgaged home of all his belongings, most of which were in my childhood home, there were several pieces of art, books and albums that were his pride and joy. I was also able to see his wardrobe in its final form. Some of his newly purchased items in much smaller sizes and even a sweatshirt with the name of my primary school that he wore while chaperoning my field trips. I hadn’t been to the home, so it felt like I was a guest in a museum honoring my father.

While looking through his phone, I was able to see the final photos that he’d taken of himself. He was truly single for the first time in decades and was seemingly reconnecting with himself. In the photos I saw him start to dive back into making distinctly style-focused choices. He’d gotten into pork pie hats and seemed to be going for a sleeker, more monochromatic look when he would go out. He’d gone to see one of his favorite jazz musicians in a concert by himself for the very first time and he snapped a quick selfie with his tripod before he left. Had he still been alive and well for another 20+ years, I wonder where his style journey would have taken him.

Sometimes I wish we could have talked about fashion and style. I would have enjoyed hearing about how he liked to shop or about some of his favorite pieces. I wish he would have let me photograph him with intention or even let me help him find his angles when taking selfies. Sadly, that’s not where we were in our relationship. It was hard and painful for us to connect during those last few years. We clashed because we were so alike but our generational differences, communication styles and views on what we considered respectful drove an abominable wedge between us.

Fortunately, in circumstance but unfortunately in general, I was able to style him for the first and last time. I was excited, nervously working on borrowed time with a budget of borrowed funds. This would be his final look. I wanted to present him to all of his friends and family in a way that I knew would make him proud. I selected a rich indigo three piece suit with white windowpane plaid detailing. I paired it with a white and cool grey pinstriped mandarin collared shirt and a blue and orange abstract printed pocket square. The color scheme reminded me of his Mark Rothko print that he had hanging in the living room of our home growing up. I planned to accent it with his silver Cuban link cross pendant chain and matching bracelet but with all of the hustle and bustle of the funeral planning, I forgot them at home. I was devastated and felt like I let him down.

My mother reassured me that he looked great, but it was hard to get past. I questioned myself as a stylist. How could I forget a detail as vital as the accessories? On such a momentous occasion? With the events that followed both at the funeral, the gathering afterwards and getting all of his affairs in order, it was the least of my worries. I still wear his bracelet and chain regularly and I try not to revisit the more painful parts of this story when I can help it.

I had it in my mind that his passing would push me into creative overdrive and that I would turn all of my anguish into art in his honor. I tried to shoot his home and belongings in hopes of producing a retrospective. I imagined styling a series of looks inspired by some of the ones he’d worn in my favorite photos of him. I wanted to write this exact blog months ago. Instead, I was paralyzed and feeling guilty about it. My life was passing me by. The world was in full motion, but I was at a standstill. I had to work, exist and live out my purpose but the last thing I could motivate myself to do was create. Not an original look for myself let alone anyone else.