Moodboard: This Month The Mood Is Golden

Many of us spend far too much time and money on fixes and formulations to counter the cracks and creases precipitated by the relentlessness of ageing, engaged in the fight when we might, instead, choose its embrace. Figure in the topography of scars, the fault lines of fractures and tectonic brokenness of hearts and most of us are hot messes. I consider the application of night creams and morning make-up as kintsugi, akin to the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold paste, making a feature of it, a philosophy not shared by my husband’s 96-year-old Northern Irish mum, who deems cracked, obviously repaired, porcelain as “ready for the bin”.

Lately, visits to our wee mum have been punctuated by panic over lost things: a costly watch, a single gold hoop earring and a pair of diamond wishbone rings, all of which will eventually be found, in a drawer, a handbag, between couch cushions or maybe in a box under the bed. Ever the problem-solver, I source a bevelled mirror jewellery box that would look pretty on her dressing table. Sorting through bracelets, necklaces, earrings and rings, she points out tiny gold shamrock studs Dad had given her soon after she began dating him at 16. Nesting wishbone rings, two for double the luck and love they’re meant to bring, spin loose on her finger, skin and bone; in the shop, Billy decided he wanted her to have both.

I imagine I’ll have the rings one day, too soon, the shamrocks as well. And baroque pearls I’d regifted to our wee mum, first presented to my own late mom, bought decades ago in an ancient Neapolitan negozio selling coral and pearls. I like to think that dusty dim shop is still here, manned by the 88-year-old jeweller. I like to think my mom is still here too, getting dressed up to go out in leopard print and those pearls. I like getting Michael’s mum dressed up to go for coffee, draping the pearls over a pink blouse I’d picked out even though she won’t take off her coat, also pink, as she’d be too cold; skin and bone. Stacking her wrist with bracelets, I hand her a pair of elegant purple leather gloves I’d bought her, but not before I ask her how they fit. “Like a glove,” she’ll say, and we laugh at our little joke.

I started wearing gold leather slippers during my five-year stint living in Rome, golden years, bought at the same Via del Tritone boutique apparently frequented by then Pope John Paul II, who shared my penchant for golden slippers. I like to think that shop is still here, fitting Chicagoan Robert Prevost for Pope slippers. I picked up a pair of Maison Margiela distressed gold Mary Jane heels, also deemed “for the bin” by our mum, beauties not in spite of but because the lustre of gold benefits from wear. And a vintage croc-embossed gold leather Versace biker jacket, sourced from a Kyiv reseller; new friends silver, old friends gold. An old friend based in Miami touches up her loved-up gold loafers weekly; I scored her a brand spanking new pair of Jil Sander gold leather Oxfords from The RealReal. Both of us have eBay mid-century Daniel Green gold house shoes; we will surely wear them until one day, too soon, we will both be skin and bone. @susanzelouf