Fear and clothing: Where is my mindfulness?
A weekly reverie on the vagaries and charms of fashion
A few years ago I visited the Serpentine Gallery when the self-described grandmother of performance art Marina Abramovic was in residence. On entering the gallery I was given a key to a locker and told I had to leave my devices inside. Then I was led through a series of rooms and installations that encouraged what has come to be known in the popular parlance as “mindfulness”.
Mindfulness is bloody hard. Staring at a wodge of blue or yellow on a wall with sound-blocking earphones on is trippy. Standing in a circle staring at strangers in silence is worse. Blindfolded, wandering in large vacuum-like spaces where people – some of whom may or may not be Marina Abramovic – touch you on your arms and hold your hands is downright awful. I did not like mindfulness at all.
This week I was reminded anew of this essentially horrible state. I lost my phone on a Greek island. I think I had tucked it into my book (which in itself should tell you something) and it fell out in a beach towel moment...