Issue 17

My love of clothes interests me profoundly: only it is not love; and what it is I must discover. Virginia Woolf

 

It is wrapped in tissue paper infused with small, silvery discs that are a cross between sequins and glitter.

 

A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know. Diane Arbus

 

There is a black and white photograph of my mother aged seventeen. Her gaze is direct, yet soft, her mouth smiling a little, but not too much.

An icy southerly funnels along Princes Street into the Octagon, where the sun gives an illusion of warmth just as the sparse daffodils give an illusion of spring. It’s lunchtime but no one is lingering on this Monday in September.