Complementary Pairs

I’ve watched many a movie where a protagonist gifts the object of their affection or obsession something ridiculous. First editions of books that would likely cost thousands or tens of thousands of dollars as well as ones that simply don’t exist. Cavernous libraries with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling. Publishing companies. It’s a common trope and one that, with the exception of that library from my childhood, usually leaves me rolling my eyes in response. I am a Taurus in most of the classic ways, but one trait rises above them all.  I love pretty things. Shiny things. I would drape myself in cottons of the highest thread count and the softest of silks at all times if possible. And yet the idea of receiving a glamorous gift from a lover makes me scoff. Who knows my tastes better than I? Besides, I am perfectly capable of buying my own presents. And I frequently do. Dresses and fancy flats and piles of books. But in Notting Hill when Anna Scott leaves that Marc Chagall painting in William Thacker’s bookshop, I forget all about my qualms and nod my head in agreement at the rightness of it. 

The painting is always the first thing to pop into my mind when the movie is mentioned, but after long moments of considering that image, of how "it feels like how love should be, floating through a dark blue sky," my thoughts move on to a more expected realm, Anna’s clothing. I think of iconic costuming moments often, of green dresses and angel wings, but I also feel personally removed from many of them somewhat. This is understandable. The places they inhabit and the people they clothe live in worlds far flung in time or space, and I'm often not looking for surface-level relatability when it comes to the stories that I consume. Besides my ability to appreciate their beauty and their function in aiding the tale being told is not tempered by that distance. Not that the world of a movie star as seen in Notting Hill resides within any proximity to the life that I live. Not even here in my corner of Los Angeles where in The Before I sometimes saw them pondering orders at coffee shops and grabbing popcorn before movies. That world existed even further away in distance and experience 21 years ago when the movie premiered. I was 16 then and married to the fashion trends of the era (no matter how poorly they worked on my body or how little they aligned with the person I thought I was at the moment) as well as the fantasy of a future life centered on the east coast. The costumes that most often caught my attention in those years were those that filled the many teen movies and television shows I was consuming, and those looks were as dedicated to fleeting trends as the items that were hanging in my bedroom closet. 

It wasn’t until my 30s, a decade of my life that feels as if it has only just begun but which I somehow find myself over seven years into, that I began to look at Anna’s clothing more closely. Knowing the movie’s every beat helped as it allowed me the freedom to shift my gaze away from the plot. It’s not as if the looks are timeless, but then timelessness when it comes to fashion is often bullshit. You cannot divorce most looks from the eras in which they were crafted and worn, and the costumes of Notting Hill are firmly situated within the style narrative of the late 1990s. Everyone’s pants are roomier. Anna wears two anklets during the movie’s final moments as Elvis Costello sings us home. And every formal look we see her in is accompanied by a matching shawl. 

Anna and William on their wedding day

A certain writer about to attend her junior prom almost exactly a year after the movie's release

On top of not being "timeless," her wardrobe is neither remarkable nor groundbreaking. There is a normality to many of her looks that borders on quaintness. At times certain pieces, like her boxy, oversized leather jacket or her questionable sunglasses, make me chuckle in remembrance. What were we doing? 

No really, what were we doing?

Others make me long for a put-together ease of dressing that I've never truly mastered. After their orange juice-fueled meet-cute, she changes into a black crop top with a jeweled neckline and a black, sparkling midi skirt. Unassuming for a night out but as she walks into the afternoon light of Notting Hill, it takes on a different feel even when dressed down with the Vans she had been wearing for her somewhat anonymous jaunt. She is a movie star and it is in the small details here when she suddenly looks like one as if to remind the audience and William whom exactly we are dealing with.

It's two other looks that represent the biggest shift in thinking from the Samantha who existed as a teenager to the one who now worries about her taxes and number of viable eggs. They are a pair, two suits worn when dealing with the press in an official capacity. How I learned to stop worrying and embrace suiting is a tale that I've already told, but here was an instance that, if I had been paying attention, could have pushed me in that direction far sooner. Why do I love these suits so much? They are simple when compared to the vast range of ready-to-wear and couture women's suiting that we thankfully have now. But I love a piece that is well-fitted and classic. The first is a business-like gray that she pairs with a purple, patterned tie and a sleek ponytail. The second, worn at a press conference, is softer by design. No tie and hair down. A light blue that calls to mind the many blues she wore in the scene in which she made her declaration of love. The pair shows some of the range of what suits can be aesthetically. They are not all one thing. They can instead be many. 

And what were they here in that time? Well here they gave proof to the lie that rested beneath the movie's most iconic line (after William saying whoopsie-daisy twice after failing rather spectacularly to climb over a fence). 

Calling it a lie is unkind of me. We all have many selves and while sometimes they can clash in opposition often they merge to form the complete story of whom we are. "I know she's an actress and all that, so she can deliver a line," William says when telling his friends of her sudden appearance and the Chagall she has left with him. Maybe that's more what I mean here. In the relationship that she imagines for them, she is "just a girl," but she'll never be just that. She is a public persona, a star. Someone with enough clout to open a previously private park for all of her new neighborhood to enjoy. In the time in which the story takes place, the suits worn speak to the power of that piece of her. And that power can't truly be divorced from the rest.

Jumping In

Most of the years that I spent living at home in Boston bleed together. Did a certain event take place in 2010? Or 2012? Or 2013? Was I in a skinny phase brought on by distress or a larger one brought on by the depths of boredom? But inside that muddled timeline, there are those moments that stand out. In the spring of 2013, my mother came home with a clothing purchase. This in and of itself would not have been worth noting normally. At times she feigns ignorance about where my love of fashion comes from but I've never forgotten. It has always been her, the root and the source. What was noteworthy this time was the item purchased.

"Is that a jumpsuit?" Disgust laced my voice.

She hung it in a hall closet before turning to me.
"Yes," she replied.

"Are you actually going to wear it?"

"Of course. I used to wear them in the 70s."

I didn't question the latter but I had my doubts about the former. Although my love of clothes and shopping originates with her, the ways in which we pursue our conquests diverged long ago. My mother doesn’t try things on in stores. Instead she brings them home for the necessary testing before returning them if they aren’t quite right. There was a chance that in a few days the jumpsuit would return from whence it came. Or, less likely but still possible, that it would be consumed into the back of the closet, never to be heard from again. 

Sometimes I take to a class of clothing immediately. The moment skinny jeans became The Thing, I knew that I had to have a pair. With others, it takes time for me to come around. For years suits on women made me recoil. The options were limited. The manners in which I saw them worn were either uninteresting or unflattering. Now I cheer for them, the sharp and woolen as well as the luxe and velvet. I write long posts full of my favorites. I do celebratory dances in my bedroom when a woman walks the red carpet in one.

And yet, I haven’t bitten the suiting bullet myself. The last suit I bought was a gray, pinstriped Michael by Michael Kors number from the old Filene’s Basement that served me well during that first blush of post-collegiate life. It was an interview workhorse. A well-fitting workhorse, not like the shapeless rectangles that made me turn my nose up at suits for so long, but a workhorse all the same. On its last outing, I stood looking out at Boston Harbor from the well-appointed waiting room of an upscale insurance company that a staffing agency had sent me off to see and considered the possibility of a suit-wearing life. That was three moves and more than a decade ago.

My initial disgust at the jumpsuit’s rise was mostly logistical. I had worn many impractical clothes in my nearly 30 years but I hadn't had to strip to use the bathroom since the bodysuits and overalls of my 90s childhood. And my body had changed a lot since the age of 10. Puberty had left me busty but still somewhat slight of hip. Finding a single, pants-dominant piece that would fit both halves of me seemed impossible.

My mother kept the jumpsuit and even wore it a few times before I moved across the country the following spring. With the move, I suddenly had time that was my own and some disposable income. It was then that I began my quest for a jumpsuit.

Well I didn't know it was a quest when I started but I think that's usually the way of such things.

While my mother tries on nothing when in a store, I try on everything. It's not only about fit. It's a form of playing dress up. I don't linger too long, always take care not to damage the clothing in any way, and, because I cannot be helped, often leave with something even if that wasn't my intention. I like to know if I'm being too quick to judge a new trend, and the only way to do that is to put it on my body. To slowly turn in front of a mirror and examine it from all angles. To be able to categorize it as simply not for me, maybe only for me, or definitely not for anyone.

My time working in apparel retail only reinforced this habit. At the beginning of each new season, everyone would have to do a fit session to better acquaint themselves with the product and provide feedback to corporate. And so while on the clock I would take all of the major pieces of the new collection into a fitting room and test them out. Even now that the retail chapter of my life has ended, I continue to wander into stores for fit sessions. I live tweet my mall journeys and post pictures, always tilted slightly one way or the other, of suits and skirts and dresses and jeans.

I spent most of 2014 being "kind of blown away by" or "maybe [sold] on" the occasional jumpsuit seen on a celebrity at a red carpet event. I was warming to them outwardly but inwardly I struggled. I rarely took pictures of myself during jumpsuit try-ons. Something always felt off. The leg was too wide. It was too tight across the thighs. The crotch did unpleasant things. The top made my chest look as if it were bound. And yet I kept trying them on. It only took one pass at an off-the-shoulder top last summer to know that that trend was not for me. But in 2014 and early 2015, I couldn't shake myself free of the jumpsuit.

It took many frustrating months for me to find that first pair of skinny jeans, but I kept at it because I wanted them. I needed them. And what did I need nearly a decade later? A jumpsuit. I didn't know why. If I'm being honest, I rarely do when it comes to clothing with this strong a draw. There's no logic. Only longing. 

Almost exactly two years ago, I stepped into an H&M fitting room with a black, white, and gray jumpsuit covered in a big cat print. The color scheme was all me but on the hanger everything else about it was wrong. I rarely wear graphic prints. And it was, of course, a jumpsuit. I was years into my denial about them and happy to stay there. But then I put it on.

Today in Texts: "So this jumpsuit happened today." "Omg, you are basically Solange." pic.twitter.com/gK5V8PQrqt

— Samantha Powell (@sdpowell1) April 10, 2015

It was over. In an instant. Like magic. I couldn't find a single fault. More importantly, I was no longer interested in searching for one.

I am currently outside in a jumpsuit.

It's a brand new day.

— Samantha Powell (@sdpowell1) April 11, 2015

Suit Up

Memories can fly in out of nowhere. A few weeks ago I decided to enjoy the last breaths of summer by walking from the South End to the waterfront. The plan was to sit on the stairs outside of The Institute of Contemporary Art and watch the boats and be absolutely silent for as long as I liked. It was a good plan, although not a new one. And as so often happens when I walk this city, I found myself turning onto little streets that opened into corners long forgotten. On that day as I strolled through Chinatown, a memory tumbled out of a rarely visited part of my mind and I started smiling at no one in particular.

Any of my close friends can attest to my love of the birthday non-celebration, but that craving for intimate parties didn’t start with my tumble into the late 20s. The roots stretch much further back. At age six, I decided that I wanted to have a fancy dinner at one of the restaurants in Chinatown for my birthday. No children. Just my mother and some family friends. And for that dinner I would wear the most fabulous of outfits. A marker of the warm, summer temperatures that often followed my early May birthday. A seersucker suit.

Little Samantha was just as quiet as, but far sassier than, Adult Samantha.

I don’t know how we came into the seersucker suit. I do know that I was a peculiar child with peculiar tastes and after six years my mother had become adept at finding ways of dealing with me and all of my weirdness. The evening exists in my mind only in fragments. The edible flowers that adorned my plate. The strange looking fish in the restaurant’s aquarium. The start of my years-long struggle with chopsticks. And the suit.

I only recall wearing it the one time, although it probably ventured outside once or twice more before needing to be retired. Unlike the patterned tights that resembled a rainforest’s canopy or any number of pretty, little girl coats, the life of the suit was heartbreakingly short. I was growing like a weed, on my way to becoming almost as long-limbed as my mother, and suits do not take kindly to such spurts.

When I decided that I hated suits on women, partly because the ones that I saw people walking around in were boring woolen rectangles and partly because in my early and mid 20s I chafed at the idea of a suit-wearing life, I should have known that I would come back around on them. Because somewhere in the back of my mind was an image of what a suit could be. And just like any other piece of clothing, it could be whatever I wanted.

Favorite of the Day: Nina Ricci

The prominence of The Lady on the runways of every city two season made me giddy, and it was with sadness that I saw her fade away. So it was no surprise that my most recent favorite, Nina Ricci, featured her so heavily. She was of the mid 20th century variety, the type of lady who inhabits the movies that I've been devouring over the past year or so.

She was lovely and sophisticated and quietly sexy.


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Favorite of the Day: Dolce & Gabbana

I find myself complaining about some of the same things every season. Collections featuring more than 50 looks rank high on the list. After all of the production and hoopla that goes into planning a runway show, I understand wanting everything to last more than eight to twelve minutes, but being able to edit down the number of looks into a cohesive story is something to be lauded. Nothing is worse than a group of dresses that seem to have no home within the larger theme.

The Dolce & Gabbana show is never less than 60 looks, and yet my usual gripes rarely surface. They never try to cram all of the looks into a single narrative. Instead there are several, interlocking stories being told. This season, there were prints that recalled religious frescoes. There were lady-like dresses, suits, and coats in heathered grays. There were stark blacks and demure whites and blood reds.

And when you have that many looks and that many models, you can end your show on this note.

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Favorite of the Day: Lisa Perry

In terms of fashion and style, the 1960s have always been my go-to decade. So as the Fall/Winter 2013 season began, it wasn't a surprise that I found myself coming back again and again to the designs of Lisa Perry.

I often turn away from designers who are one note, who have a very specific niche and stay there, but this season the clothes at Lisa Perry sang to me. 

They were fun. They were colorful. They were all that I needed in the dreariness of February.

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Favorite of the Day: Christophe Lemaire

The most obvious interpretations of spring and summer are full of lightness and florals and frothy femininity. But at Christophe Lemaire, wide leg trousers with gentle pleats and easy jackets dominated.

In this collection, spring and summer were about the laid back ease that can sometimes be found in menswear.


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Favorite of the Day: Haider Ackermann

Some designers seem to hold no regard for the season. Each collection tells their story without much care for whether the clothes are meant for August or January. In most instances, the results can be off-putting. But when the designer is a strong storyteller, one wants to come along for the ride no matter what the time of year.

At the Haider Ackermann show on September 29th, almost none of the clothes spoke of the warm weather months.

But from the beginning one realized that none of that mattered because they spoke of so much else.


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Favorite of the Day: Carven

Carven is a favorite among fashion "It Girls" and up and coming young stars, so I was surprised to see that the collection shown on September 27th almost overflowed with austerity.

But only almost. There were still pops of color and print and the occasional touch of unexpected skin.


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Favorite of the Day: Anthony Vaccarello

I tend to shy away from clothes defined as sexy. Yet there are some, those that play both sides, that draw me in. Those on display at Anthony Vaccarello played that game.

Short and loose. Long and tight. And never boring.


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Favorite of the Day: Dion Lee

While the London collections are known for their play prints and patterns, there are designers who employ a quieter method to garner attention.

On September 15th at Dion Lee, the prints were there, but they were joined by other looks.

Looks full of sex and laser-sharp tailoring.


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Favorite of the Day: Calvin Klein

After a foray into the red spectrum last season, the Calvin Klein collection presented yesterday played instead with extremes. The clothes were many things. Black. White. Hard. Soft.

But never boring.


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Favorite of the Day: Michael Kors

The mod look of the 1960s grew out of the London scene and has been a constant source of inspiration for a number of designers since that time.

At Michael Kors, all of the classic pieces were there.

But instead of simple copies, he infused it all with his classic American sportswear aesthetic.

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Favorite of the Day: Tanya Taylor

Wednesday was New York Fashion Week's soft open. There are always a few shows and presentations here and there on that day, but most people save their excitement and anxiety for Thursday.

While picking through yesterday's collections, I came across some of those shown on Wednesday. Among them was Tanya Taylor.

The clothes had a matronly foundation tempered by a youthful edge. It was as if a young girl went searching through her great aunt's closet and remade her finds with the help of a pair of pinking shears and a dusty sewing machine.

The hemlines were higher. The silhouettes tighter. And occasionally a bit of skin peeked through.


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