Some women like shoes. Some dig purses. I love coats. And I have lots of them.
I own a vintage Biba coat, which means nothing to most people, but I bought it for 5 pounds at the antiques market on London’s Portobello Road in the late 70’s. Though I have a few designer coats, it isn’t about the name for me at all. It’s about covering up and looking good when I am probably wearing sweats and looking faintly homeless underneath.
I screened a documentary about my dad the other night, and in a little speech before the movie I stated that some chicks in this town spend on a purse what I spent on the whole budget of my film.
One day, my son Oliver had these friends over. The girl made a passing remark that she liked my coat. Boy, was she sorry. I said “If you like this, you might also like this,” then I came out to the pool where they were talking wearing a different one. She oohed and aahed. At that point, I just went into full-blown modeling every single coat I owned, or at least the ones I adore. She was a model herself, so I thought she might like my show. Only, it took over an hour. An hour of her life and mine spent digging in my closets to find stylish coats that I’ve purchased over the years. Poor Oliver.
Each year on my birthday, my husband either goes hunting for a new coat on his own or he might go with me to pick out a cool one. And then I wear the shit out of it. If you see me in the market, I will be wearing that year’s model, and you can only guess what’s under it. Not pretty, trust me.
Recently at a party, I sat with my friend Lynne and we stared out at the crowd, commenting on this person or that. Pointing to the old lady parked on the couch that never moved the whole night, I said, “Look Lynne, that’s me in the near future!” She said, “Yeah, but you’ll be rocking a cool new coat.” (more…)
