To socialize or talk informally preferably over a drink. Word forms: 3rd person singular present tense hobnobs, present participle hobnobbing, past tense, past participle hobnobbed.
But honestly. Hobnob is a safe space for women who prefer iced coffee over a perfectly curated wardrobe. It’s a daycare center for women who are intrigued by trends, but also don’t care. It is an open bar for those who swear on vintage Chanel and whose pension funds hang in their closets.
While the rest of you have been enjoying early signs of spring or late winter setbacks with ice skating on frozen lakes in bright sunshine, I’ve gone underground like a vampire with the mission to completely empty the archive storage space I’ve had for many many years. All the hours you’ve spent browsing catwalk pics from this season’s just-finished fashion shows and clicking home those perfect sneakers and trench coats for warmer days to come, I’ve been on my knees ( in a sturdy pair of workwear pants from the Acne x Fjällräven collab) for all the work that has to be put into emptying my 50 square meter storage space filled to its capacity.
Ever since I was informed by the landlord that I had to move out, I’ve basically spent every spare moment going through everything single piece that I have collected and stored here over the past 20 years. There’s my small but naggingly good collection of Japanese designer (Commes, Yamamoto, Watanabe) drop crotch harem pants in shades of black cotton, silk, wool and polyester. I really don’t think I’ll ever use these pieces again, but since I’m not 500% sure, I’ve had to save them. There are rolls of beautiful brocades and virgin wool fabrics which I most probably bought when this intense feeling of “as soon as I have time to spare, I will make my own pattern and sew that Balenciaga cocoon coat for myself” crossed my mind. But what requires the most time and mental strength is going through in detail quantities of 50 x 70 cm design portfolios with my own sketches, patterns and collection presentations. To have the courage to throw away at least 99%. It’s a lot. It’s hard work. Like going through twenty years of therapy without a conversation partner and having to shelter everything that comes up; anxiety, longing, dread and delight.
Moving is never about shifting from point A to point B. Moving is often a process and a mental journey that means taking things with you, but also about leaving things behind. I remember a wise colleague once said, kindly but firmly, to our team:
“When moving out from a space, as opposed to only focusing on what to pack and bring with you to the next place, think about what NOT to take with you. There can be physical stuff you don’t need anymore, but there will definitely be abstract things such as bad behaviours and attitudes that you should leave behind.”
Going through the tons of boxes I find myself seeking company in listening to comforting local, P1 radio programs. And it’s not directly uplifting programs I choose, on the contrary, I’m drawn to depressing titles such as “Parents that Kill their Children”, “The Disappearance of Jack Ma”, and the Sunday Interview featuring a well-known journalist who was not only misdiagnosed with Alzheimer’s but was also declared healthy from that condition the very same week he learned that he suffers from an aggressive form of cancer that will be his death. Heavy subjects indeed, that are puzzling enough, somehow counterproductive and help ease my mind and deal with my situation.
Going through your life, sketch by sketch, tissue by tissue is for sure a struggle. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’ve been very close to throwing in the towel many times. But who would pick it up for me? That’s right, no one would. Bottom line is that I need to own my hoarding and promise myself that my new life ( and storage space) does not have physical, mental or spiritual room for careless accumulation of objects.
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