Countdown

Maybe it's the chill that's finally settled in or some shift in my mood as the days have gotten shorter, but as New Year's Eve (my favorite holiday, what with the bubbly drinks and the sparkles and the kisses at midnight) approaches, I've become less inclined to wear a party dress.

I will still wear one, of course, as my closet is overloaded with them. It will be my favorite of the moment. The one that's been seen more than once by my Boston friends but will be new to those in New York whom I haven't seen in almost six months. It's a strapless black minidress. Tulip skirt. Simple. It will be paired with sparkly black tights, layered over a silk sequined tank, and finished with heeled mary janes. The entire look says sexy and sweet and festive. It's rather good at drawing those compliments that make me both smile and cringe. But for some reason, all of that sweetness and all of that prettiness have been making me uneasy recently. I tug and pull at my A-line minis not because of their length but because of some discomfort that I can't describe.

I wouldn't say that I've become bored with all of those pretty girl dresses. Just that I've become tired of the acting that those clothes sometimes involve. The acting that I can't seem to help myself from undertaking while in them.

But I think that the impulse to put on the mask would fade away in slim-fitting pants like these from Stella McCartney

Offset with a pair of sparkly pumps from Miu Miu

And a Vanessa Bruno Athé sweater.

A black cuff from Aurelie Bidermann would sit on my right arm

While a Lanvin cocktail ring would adorn the finger that is supposed to remain bare.

Photos via, via

The Leftovers: Paris Fashion Week SS11

There have been seasons in the past when, upon looking at the clothes, I was left confused about what temperatures the designers thought we would be experiencing in the months to come. Leather skirts for summer. Barely there dresses for winter. However, this season, which was filled with color, lightness and occasional whimsy, never caused that confusion to arise.

That was until Paris where the story being told was a somber one.

At Neil Barrett

At Ann Demeulemeester

At Chanel

At Rick Owens

At Yohji Yamamoto

At The Row

At Stella McCartney

At Balenciaga

At A.F. Vandervorst

At Alexander McQueen

At Martin Grant

At Louis Vuitton

At Haider Ackermann

At Lanvin

At Roland Mouret

At Hermès

The clothes resembled a storm’s approach. Warning you not to play outside. And in this instance, that foreboding seemed more appropriate somehow. A closer representation of the times if not of the season.

That darker thread could even be seen in the trends that held over from the previous cities.


The White

At Gareth Pugh

At Pedro Lourenço

At Paul & Joe

At Chloé

At Rick Owens

At Sharon Wauchob

The Transparency

At Lanvin

At Giambattista Valli

At Valentino

The Prints

At Carven

At Cacharel

At Chanel

At Akris

At Alexander McQueen

At Manish Arora

The Color

At Haider Ackermann

At Lanvin

At Nina Ricci

At Damir Doma

At Paul & Joe

At Haider Ackermann

At Roland Mouret

In the end, I found myself most drawn to London and Milan. There are times when color and prints and whimsy and air are more necessary than anything else.

There are times when they are essential.


Photos via

Costume Changes

A few weeks ago I sat outside in the unseasonably warm air talking to a friend on the phone. As it so often does with us, the conversation meandered from topic to topic until it landed on the topic of a recently purchased pair of pants

Me: I bought a pair of grown up pants.

Friend: You are a grown up, but I get what you're saying.

The pants in question are slim, cropped and woolen. They've been worn on one interview since their purchase. Most days I consider them before remembering that I'll be spending most of the day in the library writing things of the cover letter and non-cover letter variety that most people will never read. At that moment, I grab one of the many, many pairs of jeans I own or, if I'm feeling feisty, a miniskirt to be complimented by tights and boots. When I'm feeling particularly lazy and listless, I pair my chambray shorts with black tights and call it a fucking day.

I've spent the past few years avoiding real pants. Where would I wear them? Jeans would get more use. Skirts and dresses would never remain hidden. Real pants would sit in my closet taking up space with dresses from various high school and college formals and that cardigan with the floral embroidery that I need to get rid of because even looking at it causes nauseating flashbacks to how much of a grandmother I must have looked like in it.

But I told myself I would stop saying maybe later to things because of some perception I have of what my life is now. That better things will come and then I will deserve them.

So I bought them.

But still, sometimes, they remind of all those things I don't have that I wish I did.