AT SEVENTY I FELT I WAS BEGINNING, maybe, to achieve a sense of my own personal style. Before that, there seemed to be no ordering principle to be found within my roles and directions. Even now, “Denise style,” if it exists, is probably better defined by others than by me. As for fashion, what’s in it for me? Which items around me can be adapted to my body or my experience? I fantasize about a clothing catalogue that offers selections from other catalogues to customers like me, ranging from elderly to ancient. It would cater to tastes from sassy to conservative and to various forms of ambulation. Might a wheelchair user appropriate a Spice Girl’s tutu and wear it over slacks to lend color to her lap and a twinkle to her eye? I doubt I’ll see this fantasy realized, because the populations who “own” the images would feel dispossessed. My catalogue, even if profitable, might diminish
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