I only sleep in silk. It's a bit of a dirty secret.
This isn't the kind of thing you'd want to admit to a friend, let alone a stranger. He is undemocratic. Polyester not good enough for you? Rayon, viscose, all the advances made in synthetic materials. Don't you believe in science?
The fine silk runs through the fingers like soft water. It covers without hiding its lines or curves, but, if woven with enough weight, it still offers structure. In the right color, it is sweat-resistant. With a little Woolite (and the stomach to ignore the “dry clean only” tsk-tsk), it will survive a hundred washes. Silk comforts and envelops, so light that it practically floats. I sleep in silk. I cook in silk. I clean in silk. I live in silk, it's all I wear when I'm at home. (And often an apron.) Why dress up to go out when you can dress up to stay home?
pamela dresses Versace panties and robe, Justine Clenquet earrings and necklace.
louis vuitton pajamas, Justine Clenquet earrings.
Like many immigrant families, the one I grew up in drew a clear line between underwear and outerwear. (Or maybe it's not about scripts, but just having some manners; as Phoebe Robinson says, “Please don't sit on my bed in your outdoor clothes.”) Outside, the world is covered in dog shit. Plus a good amount of pollen that will keep me up all night hacking. Inside, my bare feet walk on the qilim my mother “borrowed” me 15 years ago, and the air is laced with cardamom from my decaffeinated black virgin nightcap. Inside there is a lit candle and overhead lighting is prohibited. Inside there is one rule: respect the sanctity of the interior.
Pajamas, you see, are not just for sleeping. They are inside the clothes. This is a lesson the pandemic taught us all, but for some of us it has always been this way.
The word “pajama” comes from Persian/Farsi, as I learned in my medieval Persian seminar in college after a lifetime of speaking Farsi at home, but somehow never registering the echo of this particular cognate. A compound of “payment” or legand “jāma”, cloth (like in, clothes), the term first traveled to India through the Mughals, who spoke Persian at court. We are talking about the year 1500. A few centuries later, as a Dolce & Gabbana blog post also so kindly explains about “the pajama,” the word, and the corresponding style of baggy pants paired with a matching blouse, went to the West through the Raj: The colonial British stole the airy unisex. gaze of his subjects. In short, as an Iranian, I come from a long unbroken line of pajamas. Although probably cotton.
When I was a child, I also had a few nightgowns. My favorite that my mother had sewn for me. Puffed sleeves, peach and brown stripes. Memorialized, these days, in a snapshot of me and my childhood best friend on her family's sofa bed, Nick at Nite on television.
Historically, nightgowns, unlike pajamas, traveled from the West to the East. And they didn't start out as women: in medieval Europe, both men and women retired for the night in long, loose shirts. Nowadays nightgowns are practically dead. But there was a time when Dior could dress you so well in lace and pastels that it made you want to put on makeup in bed. Now few luxury brands care, including Dior. (Although it's the occasional exception, like this truly wild floor-length rhinestone-encrusted sheer ensemble from Dolce & Gabbana.) Probably for the same reason, I no longer have nightgowns. First wave medieval-feminist Muslim culture has finally crashed onto the shores of fashion, and women are wearing pants. Dresses can be restrictive. I like to rest with one leg up.
Since those childhood days of puffed sleeves, I've amassed a small collection of adult pajama sets. As I window shop to see my next outfit, I once again encounter the garment's colonial lineage. A matching Dior set (I'm clearly dreaming) presents a generic jungle scene like the house's version of Toile de Jouy (i.e., fussy French pastoral). Prints of “exotic” flora and fauna have become such a mainstay of luxury pajamas (see: Olivia von Halle) that we don't even realize the story behind them. I'm not calling for a boycott, but from time to time I like to see how sausage is made.
Inside you is your main audience. Joy is in freedom. Be extra. Become bold.
I like the simple. But always in silk.
Pamela wears Agent Provocateur lingerie and Wolford stockings.
Vivienne Westwood Phone Wallet.
My first silk pajamas came relatively late in life. Christmas in Fort Greene, I was in my twenties. She was snowing. The kind of snow that feels like the first snowfall even when it isn't, those light, shiny flakes that float through the air so sadly and beautifully you'd think you were on the set for the Christmas special, except you can feel them melting. on your chapped lips. There were so many firsts that year. My first apartment shared by a “we” that wasn't simply financial, it wasn't me and a roommate. My first, in the form of our first: Christmas tree. (I didn't grow up celebrating). And, surely just as momentous, my first foray into pure silk.
Black silk with black trim. Thick black buttons, curved lapels. Long sleeves, long pants. Men's. We had gone Christmas shopping in the snow at the Brooklyn Flea. When the skinny guy sitting in a folding chair on the other side of the cubicle saw me flipping through the package, he assured me that all his “girlfriends” wore them in size S, as if I needed an excuse to buy men's clothing and the women only came in one size. He quoted $50 for the game, a price that seemed fair and substantial at the same time. That night, back at the apartment, too lazy to iron the age-creased folds, I let more time and the damp heat of my body shake the fabric.
Going silk is what I imagine it felt like to enter the '70s and burn (i.e., throw away) your bras: there's no turning back. Now I have silk for every season, just a piece or two. Princesse tam tam camisole and shorts in cherry red: not the skin but the flesh, which is redder. Another Princesse tam tam camisole (black, bustling button detail) whose matching bottom I spent hours looking for in vain (that's what sales are like). A men's silk T-shirt from Cos big enough to double as a micro dress and I gave it to my boyfriend before I got it back. I actually gifted myself for a pandemic birthday a Classic Sleeper in high-shine satin, the color is a pleasure in itself: cream, farm-fresh and organic. And I must say that it requires too much maintenance. Like after having my own manicure: for hours, I can barely move a finger without fear of ruining something.
True luxury lies in tranquility. Like putting on those old black pajamas, day after gray and rainy day, last Los Angeles winter. Silk lasts. After over a decade of sitting cross-legged on the couch in these silk pajama pants, reading or watching something; after more than a decade of turning them around and around while creating and remaking myself in cities and careers that were miles and miles away; after more than a decade of washing them, not by hand like my other silks, but by throwing them in the monstrous laundry machine with regular detergent, and yes, sometimes even machine drying them (they come out soft as a caterpillar) – After Over a decade of use and abuse, I recently had to re-stitch a couple of the seams. This thing is strong as an ox. Twelve years of sweat and soap, and now, when the fabric ripples, the black turns gray, thick with light. You can't buy a patina like this.
Clothes are our closest home, our first layers of shelter. I guess most people think they're only worth investing in when there are strangers to impress. But I want to say that being inside, being alone, is important. You may not be a raja or a rani, but your skin may like the touch of silk.
Pamela is wearing a Vivienne Westwood corset, vintage purple underwear and a Justine Clenquet choker.
Production: Mere studies
Model: Pamela Holmes
Prop Stylist: Gina Caravan
Make up: Carla Perez
Photography assistant: Nicolas Mora
Prop Assistant: Jessica Ayala
Mariam Rahmani is a writer and translator. Her first novel, “Liquid, A Love Story,” will be published in March by Algonquin. It takes place between Los Angeles and Tehran.
