Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
WHEN I WAS ABOUT four years old, my parents and I went on a summer vacation at a resort. My mother loved dressing me up for the various events of the day, pulling together ensembles for swimming, lunch, dinner, and whatever happened to be going on in between. As she dressed me and made her final adjustments to my outfit, she would stand me on an orange crate she must’ve found somewhere on the premises.
One night during this ritual, as I was later told, I began to scream, howling my head off, which led to all these people running into our room to see what sort of abuse my parents were doling out. I was shrieking like I was being attacked by a madman with an ax. Yet fellow guests and resort staff found me alive and well and dressed beautifully, as usual.
“It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match!”
My mother had put a ribbon in my hair that didn’t match the rest of the outfit, and I just went bananas.
Later I realized, as usual, that Mama knows best, because now I hate matchy-matchy. But I didn’t know any better then.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
Photo Credit: One Kings Lane
I don’t like a minimalist look for myself. I like stuff; I like being surrounded by a lot of things that give me pleasure to look at.
