Never have I so craved the summertime.
Photo via
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
May Showers
After two days of gray, all I can think about is the light and airy.
Never have I so craved the summertime.
Photo via
Never have I so craved the summertime.
Photo via
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Homecomings Revisited
After I finished writing about my evolving relationship with color, one passage in particular stuck out to me.
But during the past year, I've begun to change. Slowly and with much deliberation but change nonetheless.
Moving back to Boston almost one year ago has affected how I dress more than any other event in my life. From the beginning, I was steely in my determination not to change back into the girl I had been before. I wanted to continue on the path to adulthood that graduating from college and starting my first real job and moving to a new city had forced me on to. To most clothing would have little to do with such growth, and, to those people, this probably sounds silly. We’re just talking about dresses and shirts and skirts and shoes here. They can’t mean all that much. But for me they are an outward manifestation of all that has changed internally. Injecting color. Shortening hems. These were all ways to stop myself from retreating back into the cozy shell that had at once been so comforting and stifling.
As recently as a few months ago, I thought of most of the clothes I come across in stores, in magazines, and on the various blogs that I peruse daily as items for later. Or for fantasies. I was always too much of one thing or not enough of something else to pull them off. There was no room for them in my life or my closet. They were for those bold others.
In more ways than one, I’ve tired of not being one of those bold others. And though New York changed me somewhat in that respect, I became lazy in a way. My style followed suit. I grew to a certain point and then stopped because further growth wasn’t necessary. Because I was an adult. Living on my own. Staying out as late as I liked. Choosing what to do with my time.
Part of the package when one has to move back to that place one once called home is, in some ways, being forced back into the role of child. But nothing will cause you to become more of an adult than fighting against that as hard as you can.
Last week, on one of my window shopping adventures, I tried on the black and non-sequined version of this 3.1 Phillip Lim dress while in Barneys.
When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I didn’t, as I had done in the past, shy away from the woman looking back at me.
I was, and am, done with that.
Photo via
But during the past year, I've begun to change. Slowly and with much deliberation but change nonetheless.
Moving back to Boston almost one year ago has affected how I dress more than any other event in my life. From the beginning, I was steely in my determination not to change back into the girl I had been before. I wanted to continue on the path to adulthood that graduating from college and starting my first real job and moving to a new city had forced me on to. To most clothing would have little to do with such growth, and, to those people, this probably sounds silly. We’re just talking about dresses and shirts and skirts and shoes here. They can’t mean all that much. But for me they are an outward manifestation of all that has changed internally. Injecting color. Shortening hems. These were all ways to stop myself from retreating back into the cozy shell that had at once been so comforting and stifling.
As recently as a few months ago, I thought of most of the clothes I come across in stores, in magazines, and on the various blogs that I peruse daily as items for later. Or for fantasies. I was always too much of one thing or not enough of something else to pull them off. There was no room for them in my life or my closet. They were for those bold others.
In more ways than one, I’ve tired of not being one of those bold others. And though New York changed me somewhat in that respect, I became lazy in a way. My style followed suit. I grew to a certain point and then stopped because further growth wasn’t necessary. Because I was an adult. Living on my own. Staying out as late as I liked. Choosing what to do with my time.
Part of the package when one has to move back to that place one once called home is, in some ways, being forced back into the role of child. But nothing will cause you to become more of an adult than fighting against that as hard as you can.
Last week, on one of my window shopping adventures, I tried on the black and non-sequined version of this 3.1 Phillip Lim dress while in Barneys.
When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I didn’t, as I had done in the past, shy away from the woman looking back at me.
I was, and am, done with that.
Photo via
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Color Commentary
I love your shoes. I see you walking, and then all of a sudden it's like BAM!
Or so I was told by the rather perky salesperson in the Saks mens' shoe department as I made my way to the escalators in the back. The canvas sneakers in question are a shocking, eye-searing pink. I bought them on a whim a few months ago while browsing the sale section of Urban Outfitters, but the shoes represent more than just a fun talking point for people who run into me as I walk through Boston streets.
My closet, when opened, leads you into a world of grays and creams and navies. There are a few departures. The year when I bought what was for me an abundance of yellow. A stray orange and white striped shirt. Multiple pink dresses that I usually leave in the dark in favor of their black compatriots. The Dress. But during the past year, I've begun to change. Slowly and with much deliberation but change nonetheless. And it is that off the cuff statement from the Saks salesperson that I try to live by.
I like my colors to be accents. I find allover color to be overwhelming on me. Or, more truthfully, I am overwhelmed by allover color on me. Yet I understand that those brights look beautiful against the color of my skin. How many times in my life have I heard friends, acquaintances and strangers lament their inability to wear the colors that I could so easily pull off? Annoyance was my gut reaction to such statements. Mostly because it's not as if they would want my dark skin in any instance that didn't involve having access to a wider range of clothes.
But once I got past my discomfort with the comments of those around me, I began to realize that I should capitalize on this advantage. Not by ridding my closet of its grays and creams and navies but by learning how to combine the colors with what I already own and love. Now I seek nail polishes and tights in vibrant shades of pink. I buy friends to take up residence with The Cardigan. I bring color to my face not with makeup but with vibrant scarves carelessly wrapped around my neck. I spend most cold days in a bright red peacoat.
The light leaks in slowly as the teals and peaches and lavenders take root in what was once a dark place.
Or so I was told by the rather perky salesperson in the Saks mens' shoe department as I made my way to the escalators in the back. The canvas sneakers in question are a shocking, eye-searing pink. I bought them on a whim a few months ago while browsing the sale section of Urban Outfitters, but the shoes represent more than just a fun talking point for people who run into me as I walk through Boston streets.
My closet, when opened, leads you into a world of grays and creams and navies. There are a few departures. The year when I bought what was for me an abundance of yellow. A stray orange and white striped shirt. Multiple pink dresses that I usually leave in the dark in favor of their black compatriots. The Dress. But during the past year, I've begun to change. Slowly and with much deliberation but change nonetheless. And it is that off the cuff statement from the Saks salesperson that I try to live by.
I like my colors to be accents. I find allover color to be overwhelming on me. Or, more truthfully, I am overwhelmed by allover color on me. Yet I understand that those brights look beautiful against the color of my skin. How many times in my life have I heard friends, acquaintances and strangers lament their inability to wear the colors that I could so easily pull off? Annoyance was my gut reaction to such statements. Mostly because it's not as if they would want my dark skin in any instance that didn't involve having access to a wider range of clothes.
But once I got past my discomfort with the comments of those around me, I began to realize that I should capitalize on this advantage. Not by ridding my closet of its grays and creams and navies but by learning how to combine the colors with what I already own and love. Now I seek nail polishes and tights in vibrant shades of pink. I buy friends to take up residence with The Cardigan. I bring color to my face not with makeup but with vibrant scarves carelessly wrapped around my neck. I spend most cold days in a bright red peacoat.
The light leaks in slowly as the teals and peaches and lavenders take root in what was once a dark place.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Movie Night
Stripes are having a moment. Though, in all honesty, it feels like stripes always have a moment when the weather warms. In that way they are like espadrilles. Identified as a trend when they are merely a seasonal style.
I've been having a stripes moment for at least the past five years. Horizontal and vertical. In sailor-like tops and sweater dresses. In fact, I often have to consciously instruct myself not to buy another striped item because I don't need anymore. I'm pretty sure this one-sided conversation has been witnessed many times by sales associates in various stores. At a minimum, it must be entertaining for them.
Though many of the striped pieces one sees during this time of year conjure images of sailboats and sweater sets, I originally drew my stripes inspiration from elsewhere. My freshman year of college I was taking French, trying to get my language requirement out of the way so I'd never have to care about the subjunctive ever again. I came to regret that bit of folly, but lamenting the loss of my French skills is neither here nor there. As is common in language classes of all levels, we were occasionally required to watch movies. But instead of the ridiculous videos that often accompanied my high school language textbooks or the silly teen movies, like La Boum, that we repeatedly begged our teacher to let us watch, our professors wanted to expose us to something more substantial.
One night near the middle of the spring semester, we all gathered in a classroom to watch Breathless on a much too small television. Disgruntled about spending our free time in class instead of studying, or finding any way possible to not study, we were not enamored with the film. In fact, during the end scene, we yelled at the main character, asking for it to end so we could return to more important tasks.
It was rather juvenile of us, and all I remember from a film that I should rewatch now that I'm older and less impatient was Jean Seberg. There she was all pixie haircut and slim pants and stripes.
She played with the line that separates the feminine from the masculine. The whole look had an ease to it that I still strive to accomplish. For brief moments, I sat up and paid attention.
During that year, and all of those that followed before graduation pushed me out into the real world, there were more revelations of this sort to come. This was one of the first.
Photos via, via
I've been having a stripes moment for at least the past five years. Horizontal and vertical. In sailor-like tops and sweater dresses. In fact, I often have to consciously instruct myself not to buy another striped item because I don't need anymore. I'm pretty sure this one-sided conversation has been witnessed many times by sales associates in various stores. At a minimum, it must be entertaining for them.
Though many of the striped pieces one sees during this time of year conjure images of sailboats and sweater sets, I originally drew my stripes inspiration from elsewhere. My freshman year of college I was taking French, trying to get my language requirement out of the way so I'd never have to care about the subjunctive ever again. I came to regret that bit of folly, but lamenting the loss of my French skills is neither here nor there. As is common in language classes of all levels, we were occasionally required to watch movies. But instead of the ridiculous videos that often accompanied my high school language textbooks or the silly teen movies, like La Boum, that we repeatedly begged our teacher to let us watch, our professors wanted to expose us to something more substantial.
One night near the middle of the spring semester, we all gathered in a classroom to watch Breathless on a much too small television. Disgruntled about spending our free time in class instead of studying, or finding any way possible to not study, we were not enamored with the film. In fact, during the end scene, we yelled at the main character, asking for it to end so we could return to more important tasks.
It was rather juvenile of us, and all I remember from a film that I should rewatch now that I'm older and less impatient was Jean Seberg. There she was all pixie haircut and slim pants and stripes.
She played with the line that separates the feminine from the masculine. The whole look had an ease to it that I still strive to accomplish. For brief moments, I sat up and paid attention.
During that year, and all of those that followed before graduation pushed me out into the real world, there were more revelations of this sort to come. This was one of the first.
Photos via, via
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Jacket
For the past month the weather has flirted with extreme warmth. Days worthy of shorts have popped up between weekends ruined by end times-like rain. But now we've settled into a more pleasant pattern. I am loathe to say this for fear of jinxing myself, but I believe we have seen the last of winter. So with that, the heavier coats of the previous season are slowly finding their way back into my closet.
Near the end of college, when I was taking my first steps in removing my closet of its frumpy elements, I bought a jacket. It is a military green with, if you really look for it, a hint of blue. There is a waist-defining belt. Epaulets with buttons sit on the shoulders. More pockets than I could ever use line the front. It combines a masculine inspiration with a feminine cut. And even five years later, I wear it constantly.
The Jacket's place among my favorites has more to do with its utility than anything else. There was no love at first sight, like there was with some of the others. Instead there was the way it went with everything from the many pairs of jeans that litter my closet to the numerous cocktail dresses that I've accumulated from years of school-related formals and semi-formals. It adds sharpness to my casual pieces and toughens the flirtier aspects of my wardrobe. I wore it a week ago with a white, pinstriped full skirt with box pleats. I wore it on Saturday with pegged jeans. I pair it with colorful scarves and my many headbands and sparkling bracelets.
On one of its recent outings, someone mentioned how much he liked it. How it reminded him of things he'd seen in magazines and in stores. I told him that it wasn't new. That it was almost five years old now. That I liked that it was back in style, but that that wasn't my reason for wearing it. That I didn't plan on buying a new one.
Near the end of college, when I was taking my first steps in removing my closet of its frumpy elements, I bought a jacket. It is a military green with, if you really look for it, a hint of blue. There is a waist-defining belt. Epaulets with buttons sit on the shoulders. More pockets than I could ever use line the front. It combines a masculine inspiration with a feminine cut. And even five years later, I wear it constantly.
The Jacket's place among my favorites has more to do with its utility than anything else. There was no love at first sight, like there was with some of the others. Instead there was the way it went with everything from the many pairs of jeans that litter my closet to the numerous cocktail dresses that I've accumulated from years of school-related formals and semi-formals. It adds sharpness to my casual pieces and toughens the flirtier aspects of my wardrobe. I wore it a week ago with a white, pinstriped full skirt with box pleats. I wore it on Saturday with pegged jeans. I pair it with colorful scarves and my many headbands and sparkling bracelets.
On one of its recent outings, someone mentioned how much he liked it. How it reminded him of things he'd seen in magazines and in stores. I told him that it wasn't new. That it was almost five years old now. That I liked that it was back in style, but that that wasn't my reason for wearing it. That I didn't plan on buying a new one.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The Leftovers: Paris Fashion Week FW10
Better safe than sorry.
This mantra is one that has ruled many facets of my life. Now as I watch my late 20s fast approach, I realize that it lacks merit. It’s a statement that I've used as a crutch to avoid the failure that comes from taking chances.
Paris, as is its way, forced me again and again out of the safe zone that I love so much. That place that is comfortable and warm and filled with navies and dark denim and at least seven black dresses. (I gave myself only 30 seconds to think of the dresses. The number would have been higher if the entire minute had been used.)
There were those designers, as there always are in Paris, who took chances one didn't see in other cities.
At Gareth Pugh
At Haider Ackermann
At Balenciaga
On the day Alexander McQueen died, I was on my way home from a long day at work. Disconnected from the world at large as I had gone without access to my phone and computer, I was unaware that anything had changed as I trudged home and pulled out my cell phone. It was then that a friend told me, assuming that I already knew. It's weird to think that your life can be affected by the end of someone's who you've never met, but as I sat down later that week and thought of which shows had caused me to fall deeper and deeper in love with this world, three of the ten were McQueen. Only he could make chessboards and holograms and alien/sea creature amalgams at once beautiful, haunting and awe-inspiring. The pieces shown in Paris only displayed the kind of innovation we will be missing in future years.
The trends that dominated the previous fashion weeks were, of course, all over Paris as well. The minimalism that originated at Céline last season found its way onto almost every runway and in every city for Fall/Winter 2010.
Stella McCartney showed clothes that spoke of the season while also being seasonless. Pieces that will never find themselves in the far recesses of your closet.
Alber Elbaz at Lanvin took his exquisite hand to this trend as well. Sharp tailoring in muted colors reigned.
With the occasional flourish.
But no one really did it as well as Phoebe Philo did and continues to do.
Then there was of course the military...
At Junya Watanabe
At Isabel Marant
At Sophia Kokosalaki
The 70s..
At Kenzo
At Yves Saint Laurent
At Chloé
and the fur.
At Nini Ricci
At Costume National
Chanel featured a parade of girls stomping around an iceberg in their shaggy fake fur boots. Once one got past the spectacle of it all, there were beauties to be seen.
And like London before it, you'll only be needing one piece in Paris next fall.
At Chloé
At Hermès
At Giambattista Valli
Photos via
This mantra is one that has ruled many facets of my life. Now as I watch my late 20s fast approach, I realize that it lacks merit. It’s a statement that I've used as a crutch to avoid the failure that comes from taking chances.
Paris, as is its way, forced me again and again out of the safe zone that I love so much. That place that is comfortable and warm and filled with navies and dark denim and at least seven black dresses. (I gave myself only 30 seconds to think of the dresses. The number would have been higher if the entire minute had been used.)
There were those designers, as there always are in Paris, who took chances one didn't see in other cities.
At Gareth Pugh
At Haider Ackermann
At Balenciaga
On the day Alexander McQueen died, I was on my way home from a long day at work. Disconnected from the world at large as I had gone without access to my phone and computer, I was unaware that anything had changed as I trudged home and pulled out my cell phone. It was then that a friend told me, assuming that I already knew. It's weird to think that your life can be affected by the end of someone's who you've never met, but as I sat down later that week and thought of which shows had caused me to fall deeper and deeper in love with this world, three of the ten were McQueen. Only he could make chessboards and holograms and alien/sea creature amalgams at once beautiful, haunting and awe-inspiring. The pieces shown in Paris only displayed the kind of innovation we will be missing in future years.
The trends that dominated the previous fashion weeks were, of course, all over Paris as well. The minimalism that originated at Céline last season found its way onto almost every runway and in every city for Fall/Winter 2010.
Stella McCartney showed clothes that spoke of the season while also being seasonless. Pieces that will never find themselves in the far recesses of your closet.
Alber Elbaz at Lanvin took his exquisite hand to this trend as well. Sharp tailoring in muted colors reigned.
With the occasional flourish.
But no one really did it as well as Phoebe Philo did and continues to do.
Then there was of course the military...
At Junya Watanabe
At Isabel Marant
At Sophia Kokosalaki
The 70s..
At Kenzo
At Yves Saint Laurent
At Chloé
and the fur.
At Nini Ricci
At Costume National
Chanel featured a parade of girls stomping around an iceberg in their shaggy fake fur boots. Once one got past the spectacle of it all, there were beauties to be seen.
And like London before it, you'll only be needing one piece in Paris next fall.
At Chloé
At Hermès
At Giambattista Valli
Photos via
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Fading Out
This Marc by Marc Jacobs dress has everything I need in a summer dress.
Cinching at the narrowest part of me.
Pockets.
A carefree feel.
And sundried colors.
Photo via
Cinching at the narrowest part of me.
Pockets.
A carefree feel.
And sundried colors.
Photo via
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