What Holds Us Together
Contemplating The Humble button During A pandemic
A button tin is equal parts time capsule to change jar.
Interspersed amongst new fangled plastics, antique glass, pearl flats and military shanks I've discovered more than a few stale chunks of food, stray diaper pins and petrified erasers. Bonus belt buckles, strands of hair, pieces of broken costume jewelry and a surprising number of orphaned board game pieces create rough sketches of collectors who seemingly saved it all.
Some collections arrive glisteningly clean in ziplock bags with an occasional hot glue assemblage in the mix, but it’s the ones that stink of mothballs or vinegar and leave my fingertips brown with dust that hold the best stories. True, stumbling across a clump of cat hair is a bit uncanny, but like a lead in a detective novel, the debris of human life has a way of making strangers feel less strange.
Over the past year, I’ve found buttons to be an oddly reassuring material to work with alongside a humble needle and thread. Whether there are two holes, four holes, a shank or a toggle; their language is simple. The approach is direct. Most often stitching a button takes place when a piece of clothing is being mended, extending its longevity and utility. Conversely, removing buttons from worn out garments can feel like harvesting seeds. When a button is picked out of a tin, its next incarnation begins.
My personal button collection fits in a small latched tin. After twenty years of not being able to throw away complementary packets of spares accompanying new clothing I’ve amassed about two cups of mostly plastic buttons in a miniature metal lunchbox. Simple math suggests I average about a cup of spare buttons a decade. As a reluctant participant in the era of fast fashion, I've sidestepped replacing buttons and mending my clothes- save the rare favorite sweater. My approach to my great grandmother's button box then, has always been rooted in the fascination of their practical application.
Perhaps it’s the shift towards all-things-stretch-waist or the ease of velcro that has decreased the size of contemporary button containers. Or maybe it’s how affordable replacing clothing is. Looking over my petite button collection it is clear some bolstering is needed to fit my plans, so I’ve been honing my skill as a remote estate sale aficionado.
Fun facts: In any given tin, ziplock bag or shoebox I’ve bought, nearly half of the buttons will be white. This includes near whites, yellowing plastics that were once white, and a mix of glass, shell and bone. A quarter will be black, or near black - shifting between hues of dark blue, deep purples and browns. The remaining pile will contain all of the colors of the rainbow including the pot of gold plate, silver plate and brass at the end. Some buttons are tossed in still sewn to chunks of cloth offering clues to the large fashion statement they were making. Others remain stapled in sets to original cards, like working class jewels awaiting their debut.
When I work with a pile of buttons I feel like I’m amongst a population. Perhaps it’s the long days of not seeing people in the same numbers, crossing residential streets to continue walking mask free, or just plain being able to casually go see live music that’s helping color this experience. Their visual confetti reminds me watching busy city streets from several stories above. Some glisten candy-like in matching in sets. Others remain completely unique. Matte and muted or bright and flashy- each collection reflects a diversity of trends within a closet or a family. As heirlooms they link generations through touch and function. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine the contents of a button tin lie in stasis the lid is closed.