Dear Diary,

Some moments feel like they were meant to be paused. A frame in a film, a line from a book, a stranger’s look across the street. They linger not because they’re finished, but because they feel like the beginning of something.

That’s the way I think about clothes. Not as answers, but as fragments. A garment can hold a question. A scene. A suggestion of a story that someone else — the wearer — will carry forward.

When I imagine a piece for Storyteller’s Closet, I’m not picturing a shirt. I’m shaping a moment.

Anouk in her orchard, Mia with her cigarette and book, Lucy’s red car curling around a mountain road. They’re not illustrations so much as interruptions — as if the narrative has been frozen mid-breath and pressed onto fabric.

It’s less about what you wear and more about what you step into.

Maybe that’s what I mean when I say “wear a scene.” To me, it’s a kind of time travel — slipping into someone else’s myth, or letting a character’s silence echo into your own day.

We don’t just carry stories in our heads. We carry them on our bodies.

And when you catch yourself in the mirror, or when someone stops to ask about your shirt, that’s the scene playing itself again. It’s a reminder that fashion doesn’t always have to decorate; sometimes, it can narrate.

Until the next scene,

A Modern Storyteller

 

P.S. Some stories are told. Others are worn.