Mysteries in Matching

ALL OF US AT TSP were quite enamored with the initial story (or lack thereof) of mysterious twin sisters Maurine and Noreene, found on Flickr but unidentified beyond their first names and spunky sense of fashion. The photos belong to Roz Lebowitz, a New York City artist and collector who purchased the series of found images, depicting twin sisters clad in matching outfits throughout the ages (from the 1940s to the 90s). The Sister Project wanted to do our part to chase down the mystery of who these women were. And after Margaret Roach’s initial post on The Sister Project homepage, “Whose Twin Sisters are These?” we were delighted to receive a response from an amateur genealogist, Kevin, who had dug up a high school yearbook photo of Maurine and Noreene, along with other tidbits about their life and deaths. Even though the mystery was “solved,” we still couldn’t stop mulling those sisters over in our minds. The story sent TSP’s Marion Roach recalling a winding path she’d been down, pondering her own genealogy and redhead roots. For me, it’s all about the clothes: I can’t seem to push those matching outfits out of my own thoughts.

Me and T wearing whatever we want

While T and I have always liked to dress up, we never were ones for matching (although I understand that there’s less allure when you don’t have a twin, let alone a twin sister). Our mother is of the firm belief that children should have the freedom to pick out their own clothes—a reverse reaction from the days when she was forced to wear exclusively red, white and blue garb sewn by her own mother. The results of that belief are comical and somewhat embarrassing (see left). Left to our own devices, T and I wanted to look as little like each other as possible, using capes and colors, hats and snow boots to set ourselves apart.

My mother’s older sister, Gerry, somehow didn’t stray the course. She followed in my grandmother’s footsteps and sewed many-a-matching dress for her two daughters. Being much older than I am, I don’t have any memories of my cousins Heather and Jennifer in those dresses (or in their fabled Little House on the Prairie matching caps), but I was aware that they existed from a very young age.

Whenever I’d start to complain about how bad I had it at home (inevitably about something like the lack of Jif peanut butter in my life), my mother would come back at me with: “You don’t know how good you have it! At least I don’t pick out your clothes for you. Your cousins wore what their mom picked out for them until they were in HIGH SCHOOL! How would you like that?” At this point I’m sure I tuned her out.

My cousins, Jennifer and Heather, in identical frocks and caps

But the drone of those conversations came flooding back to me when I looked at the photos of Maurine and Noreene, embracing each other in identical gingham yellow. Since their mother was a seamstress, I’m sure they wore what she made for them while they were young. But the sisters clearly took an enormous amount of pride in their look-alike game (seeing as they bought the same clothes—at least sometimes—for more than half a century). Their separate identities run into each other and overlap like the very satin ivory of their gowns. It’s an intimacy that’s enviable in its simplicity.

Yet Kevin’s research revealed that the twin sisters’ lives weren’t necessarily as simple as they looked at first glance—they lost their brother and a husband, and possibly their father at a young age (it looks as though their mother remarried when the girls where still children). I tend to think that the childhood ritual of dressing alike became the center of Maurine and Noreene’s identities as adults, as they struggled to cope with tragedy and even growing pains. There is an element of make-believe in their attire (and that, I can certainly identify with), a sort of Never Never Land that comes playing dress-up—whether you’re in a cape and hat or go-go boots, whether you’re 8 or 85.

See the full set of photos here, on Flickr.

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