In The Sphere Of Scarves

The scarf is a fascinating article of clothing. It never really gets involved with the body. Even when it’s wrapped around the neck, it remains loose, casual, fanciful and aloof. It’s all about attitude. This is why wind and scarves go so well together. Neither are staked to a principle or bound to a skeleton. The two other main articles of clothing are shirts and pants, blouses and skirts. Shirts have sleeves and buttons. Once one’s arms have traveled through the sleeves and buttoned up the front, the shirt feels affable, like a hug. It compensates for the carapace we don’t have, or friends or fur. Pants have two tunnels for the legs to travel through and a zipper at the crotch. Skirts fasten at the waist and offer protection and privacy to the upper legs while allowing the lower parts, the shin and knee and calf and ankle, to be seen and admired. Then there are shoes: shoes are more like tools than clothing, adding traction and armor to the feet. Pants, shirts and skirts are all busy doing things, functioning as dignitaries and cocoons for the legs, providing warmth and privacy to the upper torso, and a parachute that fastens at the waist in case you ever walk off of a plane still in flight. Above the waistline, the torso and head rise vertically, purposefully, without impediments or restrictions. The scarf, on the other hand, is little else than an embellishment, a function it acquits with elegant insouciance. There is nothing the scarf is required to do but hang from the neck like a humor, a reckless display of nonchalance. This makes it the most charismatic article of clothing. Pants and shirts and shoes – shoes especially - are all about efficacy & use. These qualities are appreciated. But they’re not sexy. They’re too invested in functionality to be sexy. Scarves are sexy. Scarves are a nod to utility, not its slave. Their genius is incidental. The radius of a moment, the ambit of a hand.