The first thing to go was my ring. A small silver, braided loop that Jonny got me when we first started dating. I remember everything from that Christmas: The box from Macy’s, priced around eighty dollars, and already barely fitting my inherited chunky hands. In fact, it only fit my left ring finger. I took it as a sign that one day I’d marry him and, honestly, it’s really looking that way.
Somewhere along the way of growing up and out, of feeling my body soften around its edges, the ring constricted my finger like a snake. Fat rolling over its edges, threatening to turn blue. Taking the beast off was a game of flattening my bones, of pushing the metal deep against the knuckle and sucking air in as if it would make my whole body smaller. Once the ring was off, I no longer could fit it on. As if my body finally rejected its miniature corset. I took a deep breath, told myself I wasn’t going to read into the possible metaphor of growing out of the very first gift Jonny ever gave me (as I’m wont to read into everything), and placed it on a necklace my mother gifted me—Another sterling silver piece, this time with my (and Jonny’s) initial on it.
But that left, too, when life got busy and getting ready for work was akin to rolling out of bed and into the car. Later, the gold chain I wore everyday since college. The one with the St. Francis pendant my dad bought me in Florence, on the Ponte Vecchio. The one I rubbed whenever I missed my Nana, whose favorite Saint it was. My chain with the Star of David I stole from Zachary, my younger brother, when he stopped wearing the pendant after buying it in response to the Pittsburgh Temple shooting. I liked how the charms smacked against my chest, how they felt between my fingers. How I could twist and fidget, press the sharp corners of the star between my nail beds. In fact, I liked everything about wearing it.
So I don’t know why I stopped.
The first necklace I ever religiously wore was a small gold star I bought from Etsy after watching The Perks of Being A Wallflower for the first time. Emma Watson’s character, Sam, wore a similar one, and I liked the cartoon-character repetition of it always showing up beneath her shirts or front and center at prom. It became an amulet, a talisman. It was something unique to her, perhaps even quirky or edgy—all things I was trying desperately to be in high school.
I also liked, and continue to like, how the jewelry travels with me, absorbs its own stories while remaining a constant to ground me in any given moment. Even looking back on photos feels more nostalgic when I can notice the charms around my neck.
It wasn’t until recently, when I found a short video of a faceless voice going through their jewelry collection, that I explicitly realized the adornment my body was lacking. Her handle is @okay___fine on all platforms, and she’s been collecting jewelry for more than six years. Her velvet boxes are packed with golden trinkets and fidgety goods that jangle together against long chains. Their colors are juicy and drippy and the way she cherishes them is addictive—to watch, to emulate. So I pulled out the small velvet pouch I’d been keeping my collection in and once again draped the finery against my skin.
Early in 2023, my personal essay, “Wearing My Grief On My Sleeve,” was published in Catapult (quite literally a week before it shuttered). In the piece, I wrote about sewing a coat out of my late grandfather’s jeans, interweaving the narrative with research on mourning jewelry. For a while—as it goes with every piece I write about a certain niche topic or interest (friends and family, the mushroom paraphernalia is kind but I now have too much)—I started being sent any and all article/research/information on Victorian mourning jewelry, hair pendants, and brooches. It was fascinating.
And even though I’m merely dipping back into wearing my jewels, I’ve again found a deep interest in its history, its value—both economically and personally. Moon Honey Jewelry on Instagram is a goldsmith who focuses on crafting jewels using historic methods, and posts themed videos titled “Ancient History Jewelry Stories.” (I also loved this short newsletter by fellow Skidmore alum about charms with hidden identities and the fidget-y aspects of everyday wear.)
Things really clicked for me in this video, where she recalls a bracelet made of solid gold that was found in a homesite destroyed by Vesuvius. The artifact showed two snake heads with glass eyes meeting in the middle, biting a coin of the moon goddess Selene. The artist references an ancient historian who discussed the importance of this bracelet within the larger context of womanhood during that time: “Ancient Roman women adorned themselves with jewelry the way ancient Roman men adorned themselves with military insignia, creating recognizable identities.” It was a way to communicate their identity, that “accented and defined the real estate of their body” (quoted in the video from a Boston University article).
And, if I’m being completely honest, what’s helped my resurgence into jewelry has been learning about its inherent, growing value. That I—someone whose been told to make poor financial decisions since I was a young girl, which often just meant buying the “girly,” unnecessary, extraneous things I wanted like lip gloss and perfume and clothing and, well, jewelry—might actually be thinking ahead, building a sort of tangible portfolio that could, actually, deem me an adult.
Which leads me to this: Why is it that only when I’ve learned that jewelry can be a good investment, a good choice with my money that will only grow in profit and value, do I feel it’s now “okay” for me to enjoy it and cultivate a collection? Why does everything need to have some capitalist, societal purpose for it to be allowed? Why can’t I adorn myself with juicy, blisteringly gorgeous jewels that are weighty and unnecessary simply because I like them? Because they make me feel antiquated in some way, connected to a rich history of artistry, and I like the way it shimmers in the light against my skin.
What I’m really asking, of course, is: Why can’t I make art without worrying about its consumption? Without worrying about an outcome, and if it’s the right one?
I’d like to adorn myself for the sheer personal beauty of it. And any societal influence or accentuation made by the art itself is more a way of communication than an insistence of value. The value, the purpose, the beauty must come from myself, must not be influenced or validated by outside forces. My necklaces carry stories; I carry stories, too.