This time last year, I took my first local morning walk instead of my regular commute by train into central London. The sun was shining, although there was still a chill in the air, and the path was lined with flowers - violets, celandines, dandelions. I took photos of the blackthorn blossom and pussy willow. It was a rare moment that week when I didn’t feel distracted by uncertainty, worry, or the need to constantly check my phone for news. A week later, a total lockdown of the UK would be announced, and I would be furloughed for six months. A year later, here we are again, still in lockdown, tentatively looking for signs of spring, but with that loaded reminder of what it signalled in 2020, and all that we have lost over the last twelve months.
Like many people, I have found solace in nature during the pandemic, and I’ve discovered a remarkable variety of wildlife in my small corner of London. I’ve counted over fifty different bird species, letting their songs and calls soundtrack my walks in order to immerse myself more fully in their world. I have contemplated the positive things their presence says about the quality of water in our local river, the amount of available food in patches of no-man’s land. I wish I was writing a positive post today.
Experiencing bereavement in a year where over 130000 people have died in the UK as a result of the pandemic isn’t unusual or, sadly, unexpected. But experiencing two bereavements in as many days, during a lockdown where I am not allowed to hug, or indeed physically see friends who are suffering this grief more acutely than I am, feels unbearable. We are forced to grieve everything privately, touch-starved, confined to our Zoom window.
As I was writing this post and making this dress, I’ve witnessed public displays of grief being violently suppressed in London. I’ve struggled to manage my private sadness for personal losses alongside the public outpouring of rage and anguish over the murder of a young woman, and the systemic violence that led to her death. How do we mourn, when a public act of mourning is now a crime?
As someone who studies the history of fashion, and as a former teenage goth, I have always been fascinated by Victorian mourning customs. While unsurprisingly I’m not wild about the compulsory or restrictive aspects of mourning dress (and grief is physically painful enough as it is without having to wear uncomfortable, scratchy fabrics), being able to show the world you are grieving through your clothing (if that would be helpful to you) feels like a powerful thing. Our online presence is often edited to show only the positive, photogenic parts of our lives (which I honestly don’t mind - no one is required to share the sad or difficult things they’d rather keep private), but a visual shorthand for “I am feeling many terrible emotions which I am struggling to put into words” might be helpful, even necessary, as people come to terms with the terrible toll that the last year has taken on our mental health, and our need to grieve as a nation. Keeping a stiff upper lip and pretending the whole thing wasn’t that bad really is a terrible way to deal with our emotions.
Corvids, and crows especially, are associated with death in many different folklore traditions. But in recent years they have captured our imaginations again as scientists reveal the extent of their intelligence. Corvids can recognise individual humans, and assess whether these humans are treating them fairly. They are able to hold grudges against humans that treat them badly, and even pass this information to other birds. If a corvid dies, others will gather around to assess any potential threat so they can avoid it in the future.
I understand the desire, even the desperation, to go “back to normal” as soon as restrictions are lifted and put the horrible memories of the pandemic behind us. But trying to ignore or suppress this collective grief will be terrible for our mental health in the long run. We need time to grieve in whatever way feels appropriate to us, and we also need to remember. Not only those who died, but the reason why. The mismanagement of the pandemic that led to so many deaths, the dire warnings from scientists that were ignored time and time again, the corruption that wasted billions of pounds and left frontline workers at risk. Holding grudges may not be productive, but we need to hold the people in power to account. I agree with and abide by current Covid restrictions, but I am furious at the government’s inability to learn from its mistakes, and the way it regards certain sections of the population as acceptable collateral damage.
The Corvid Dress was made from two and a half metres of pre-pleated black viscose, from my haul of vintage fabrics found near Watermeads Nature Reserve, and part of my ongoing Wandle Wardrobe project. The simple shape of the dress (a zero-waste rectangle gathered with drawstrings and elastic) is similar to several of my favourite 80s dresses; they are very easy and comfortable to wear. Rather than meeting in formal settings to pay our respects to those we’ve lost, memorial meet-ups are likely to be informal events in parks for the next few months at least. Clothes for these events will need to have an element of practicality. I’ll be wearing this dress as soon as I can meet up with a certain group of friends - a reunion that will sadly be a time to mourn those who won’t be joining us. My thoughts are with everyone else who will also be experiencing these bittersweet meetings in the weeks and months to come. I hope you find a way to remember your loved ones and celebrate their lives, and to feel and express your grief with the support of your community.