The Myth of the Capsule Wardrobe

I’ve always thought capsule wardrobes were an urban myth, like women who aren’t embarrassed by what’s at the bottom of their handbags. Do you know anyone who has one? A perfectly curated, tightly edited collection of separates that interchange seamlessly and satisfy all of a woman’s sartorial needs? It sounds more like folklore than fact to me. It also sounds like another rod women are given with which to beat their own backs. Who doesn’t sometimes think: “I’m in my forties and I don’t have a capsule wardrobe - in fact, I have a chaotic closet - so my life must be in freefall and I’ve failed at being a grown-up”?

A capsule wardrobe, you see, is not the same thing as owning very few clothes, nor is it the same thing as having a defined style. Vogue deputy editor Sarah Harris, for instance, sticks rigidly to denim, tailored pants, shirts and tees in restrained neutrals, but her wardrobe certainly couldn’t be classified as a capsule; when Coveteur was granted a peek inside her blue leather-walled walk-in-wardrobe in her Notting Hill home, the writer commented that “there were enough Chanel jackets to reach collector status”.

A capsule wardrobe is a lofty thing indeed. It isn’t simply a collection of clothes, it’s like a carefully woven tapestry where each thread is a thing of beauty in itself but marries perfectly with every other item. But unlike embroidery, there’s no pattern provided. For many of us, striving to achieve that mythical, perfect capsule closet is like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube, but each time only ever completing the first face. It’s a deflating and time-consuming exercise.

Even The Guardian fashion editor Jess Cartner-Morley wrote recently that she’s never nailed the capsule wardrobe idea nor have many of the fabulous, cool, clever women she knows. Over the past few years, capsule wardrobes have been cited as one solution for a sustainable future, and as a way of combating consumers’ obsession with fast fashion. In fact, US brand Wardrobe NYC has launched a four-piece wardrobe (blazer, shirt, T-shirt and leggings) that can be bought online and delivered directly to your home for the princely sum of £1,500. But really, turning a woman’s wardrobe into something that’s as orchestrated and soulless as a walk alone in a pandemic can’t be the best route to take.

There’s a reason why the gateway to Narnia was a wardrobe; they have magical powers.

My wardrobe isn’t a capsule, but it’s not a homage to fast fashion either. Nor is it a place where the souls of dresses worn once go to rest in peace. It’s the sartorial equivalent of a bag of Pick ‘n Mix; full of colour and with different flavours to suit my different moods. When I open the doors, I am hit with what feels like a dose of dopamine. The variety, the textures, the hues, the detailing give me the same kind of zing I once got from chewing a fizzy cola bottle.

I also feel proud. I have dresses that make me feel like my very best self whenever I wear them, and I have sweaters that give me a cocooning warmth just when I need it, both physically and emotionally. Whether I feel subdued or enthused, bright and breezy or like death warmed up, there’s something in my wardrobe that will provide the yin to that yang. Can a capsule wardrobe really offer that kind of sartorial comfort?

We all make mistakes, in fashion and in life, but what I try never to do is make the mistake of shopping for a fantasy life that I don’t live. I’m not a beachy, sun-loving person, so there’s not a single kaftan in my wardrobe; nor am I a party girl so sequins are limited and worn mostly at Christmas; despite being 45, I will never feel grown-up enough to wear a pencil skirt, and so I’ve never bought one. Instead, my wardrobe is filled with sweaters, tailored trousers, midi skirts and dresses that can be layered over thin-knit polos - items that I can never have enough of - in autumnal shades that make me happy. And amongst those are the random bits and pieces which have probably had their moment, but which still make me smile, and so make me think they may have another moment in the future; like a gold, boat-neck, bat-wing top I bought in Warehouse 15 years ago. The last time I wore it was about five years ago and I was greeted with a “Wow” from the man I was having dinner with. It’s staying put.

We can still heed Vivienne Westwood’s advice: “Buy less, choose well and make it last” without limiting ourselves to an identikit uniform of one cashmere sweater, a button-front, midi skirt, a pair of black pants and a trench coat (read any article on capsule wardrobes and it is likely to include all of the above). The truth is though that most wardrobes have a few sartorial skeletons in them. Although I have no ghosts in my wardrobe with the tags still on, haunting me because they’ve never been worn, I’ve made plenty of style mistakes. But any ill-considered pieces I buy are delivered directly to a charity shop, giving the misguided purchase a positive spin, and ensuring the item has a long life, albeit with someone else.

What makes me most sad about the notion of a capsule wardrobe, however, is that it leaves no room for nostalgia. It gives pragmatism pride of place over sheer sentimentality. Memories are as important an element in my wardrobe as coats and shoes. I have pieces in my wardrobe that date back to the beginning of the noughties; a grey H&M dress, for instance, that I bought in London in 1999, with matching trousers (it was very Posh Spice at the time). I loved it so much, and it’s the outfit that most defines the years I lived in London. It still hangs in my wardrobe and it always will. I’m only raging I no longer have the trousers that went with it. I eventually got rid of them because my then-boyfriend didn’t like them; we do foolish things when we’re young.

The real magic of my wardrobe is that every time I open it, I’m treated to a wonderful trip down memory lane. Memories are woven into every seam and stitch within. So no matter how many articles I read telling me I’ll be a better dresser and a better person if I build a capsule wardrobe, I’m not buying into it. Like Carrie Bradshaw and the Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes, until I actually see a capsule wardrobe, I don’t believe they exist.

Marie Kelly, May 2020.