Leandra Medine's Blog, page 606

A Love Letter to America

Get caught up on Michael Kors and Proenza, J.Crew in a sentence and street style.

The last day of fashion week in New York is bittersweet. That looming sense of getting back to reality — the e-mails and meetings you’ve put off, the pile of clothes in a corner of your bedroom, the dishes piled up in your sink that you have now have no excuse to ignore — lingers thick. But with luck, the domestic season closers: Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein and Marc Jacobs can suspend reality for a few more hours.

Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein brought the week around full circle, closing out Thursday with two collections that coherently and comprehensively spoke to the tenets of wearable comfort. The former continued an exploration in the theory that if an idea isn’t broken, why fix it? Gowns were striped seersucker. Button downs were formal skirt accessories. All the shoes had cork wedges (and some with thick script letters that read, “Ralph.”) There were those thick waist belts again. Primary bright colors offset darker shades on wide leg pants. Even a couple culotte jumpsuits. If anyone has been able to commodify what it means to be American and classic, it is no doubt Ralph Lauren.

And if any house has distilled American minimalism, that’s Calvin Klein. Yesterday’s collection was a knock out win. If Cher Horowitz were still dating questionable men while in her teens, there’s no doubt these are the slip dresses she’d turn to. They’re longer, a bit looser, possibly even a little cooler but speak to a subversive feminine power paired with their sneakers and in some instances, body chains, that seem to command a sense of ownership. While there was a quiet floral print sprinkled throughout, it was the exclusive black and white — sometimes sequined, often silk — that made you want to go home and change. And that’s what a practical and well executed collection does, right?

But if it’s thrilling, too, it doesn’t have to make you want to change. It just makes you think. Peps you up like an espresso shot. Your heart might flutter, your jaw definitely drops and in the case of the official closer of New York’s Spring 16 season, you are consistently reminded, though all 61 looks (with almost every one rendered in red, white and blue) that American fashion belongs to Marc Jacobs. His chosen venue for the spectacle was the Ziegfeld Theater and as we watched the feature presentation — sequined maxi skirts! American flags re-appropriated on ripped denim! Dramatic fringe! Cardigans paired with bras worn as shirts in poppy shades of patriotism! The kind of clothes that make you want to exclamate, and fine, some very articulate, vaguely soft gowns — I couldn’t help but think of something the late Ingrid Sischy once astutely pointed about the anterior Jacobs. He always delivers what you don’t yet know you want.

Last night, he gave us exactly what we needed.

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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The Fashion Week Diet: Leandra

There is a stereotype that says fashion girls don’t eat. I ask you to consider the following, though: if they didn’t eat, how in the good name of brocade Dries Van Noten boots would they be able to breast feed?

But I’ll admit that eating during fashion week can pose a challenge. How is one, after all, to stop for a meal when as the schedule goes, there are shows on the hour, every hour, from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. some days? I, for one, have mastered the art of keeping Quest Bars in my handbag, which are filling and taste pretty good but frankly can’t be good for you. After all, any bar that tells you it has less than a gram of sugar in it and yet tastes like the best bar of s’mores you’ve consumed since the last time your mom toasted a Pop Tart for you has to be lying, no?

It’s just not natural.

So this fashion week, because I’ve been told I should gain five pounds if I want to get my period back and then ultimately embark on that journey called The Black Hole of Never-Ending Financial Support: Parenthood, I have made a point to forgo the artificial bars and eat real food with a capital F. I am talking sandwiches and eggs and the appropriate amount of green food (holler at your matcha flavored ice cream) and I’ve even stopped for a glass of wine along the way (my friend Claire’s “healer” told her that a glass a day is medicine, so I’m going with it). You may remember the below photo from my fashion week diary. I ate the coconut granola with green milk two days running.

So that was my pre-breakfast. Around 7 a.m. For post breakfast, around 8:15 a.m., after reviews were written and shows (Suno) were coming, I walked to Butcher’s Daughter and got a smoothie called Mango Lassi because it’s named after the nicest dog in the history of K-9 cooperation.

Here I am drinking it. Coconutty, but also mango-ish and pineapple-ish and I think I taste banana.

I should have been a food critic, huh.

Anyway, shows start, I get going, I’m perfectly fed. Suno rolls around, Michael Kors comes around, Delpozo comes around and then BOOM! Hunger. It strikes again like a murderer in the night. Only no one dies! Unless, that is, you deprive yourself the gift of…

Tuna sandwiches. This one is from Grey Dog. You would be shocked at how profoundly difficult it is to get a plain old tuna sandwich — hold the melt, with no tomato. (Clap your hands above your head and do high-knees if you hate how tomato tastes on tuna!) If you’re wondering what the bland looking, but fierce-tasting sandwich feels like on my tongue, let me just say a lot of mayo (hEaVuN) with a little bit of sea chicken. I recommend this as part-three in a day called well-balanced eating because you get your protein and you get your grains and you get your white cream to match your trousers.

The rest of the day unfolds like this: show, show, I’m hungry but there’s another show, therapy (what?), show. That last show was Proenza Schouler, which was super extremely insanely awesome (I know, “awesome” is a very eloquent adjective, capable of expressing precisely what makes something good). Its Mediterranean underpinnings called for the resuscitation of Saturday night’s dinner line up a.k.a, the artist formerly known as Bar Bolonat.

Here is a picture of the fried cauliflower swathed in this creamy melon-colored dressing (very on trend for Spring). I have never tried rock shrimp tempura but this is what it looks like, which gave me great joy eating the cruciferous vegetable, no doubt depleted of its dense nutritional value.

Oh! And here are some tomatos and peaches worn with cheese and little seeds. It’s kind of like the culinary equivalent of wearing a sheer yellow mid-length dress over a pair of cropped jeans, but under a crew neck ivory knit with red sandals that throw you off (the seeds) because they’re not expected yet somehow make so much sense!!! I wish you would hear my inflection. I wish keyboards let me speak with my voice.

Not pictured: the branzino.

And finally, though this picture is from Saturday, it should be noted that I stopped at Snow Days in the West Village before Harper’s Bazaar and their “Icons” party for the same medley I had the night I tangoed with destiny: coconut shaved ice cream with crushed waffle cone and walnuts and banana and that same exact smile.

Illustrated by Max Dower of Unfortunate Portrait.

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VIDEO: Leandra Talks to Strangers in the Park

If there was ever any question as to whether or not Leandra is clinically insane, the proof is in the pudding — literally, because we once got lost on a road trip, found ourselves on Pudding Road and upon reading said street name, Leandra could not stop laughing until we got home.

Her lack of sanity was also pretty clear that time she ran around Bryant Park and flapped her giant blue wings at unsuspecting men while asking what they thought of her outfit. You do you, Leandra. Just don’t fly away.

Besides, who am I to judge? Judge for yourself instead by watching the video above as Leandra plays therapist to the wonderful people of Washington Square Park (shout out to all the NYU students who were late to class because of us!), and if you’re still reading this, then hop aboard your pink pet elephant because girl, you must be crazy, too.

Ask Leandra and the rest of team MR for advice in the comments below. We’ll answer back on Snapchat: @man_repeller

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How to Look Like Salvador Dalí on the Spanish Riviera

Let’s go ahead and assume that the first question you asked upon reading this here title wasn’t, “Why?” Because why on earth would you need a reason to look like Salvador Dalí on the Spanish Riviera?

However, if you’re open to the idea of sartorializing surrealism but need a bit more context, just know this: though summer may be a season, Dalí on the coast of Spain is a state of mind.

It’s also a shop on Bloglovin’ that we curated like a damn museum (or Instagram) if you insist on pulling us back down to reality.

Now fly back up! It’s way more fun on this sunny moon. We will answer the question of how with pleasure, however. Pleasure, a side of tuna ceviche and a pitcher of sangria.

Step 1: If you cannot grow one and you’re allergic to Super Glue, draw a mustache on your face with liquid eyeliner.

Step 2: Step into pompom pumps.

Step 3: Take back anything you may have just said along the lines of, “Why would I put on shoes when I haven’t put on pants?” This is surrealism, my friends! Stop asking so many questions. Have a sip of that sangria and san-go with it.

Step 4: Now you may put on pants. Only if you want! But if you do, keep ’em fringed: the more flair the better.

Step 5: Add a blouse. The man loved a good blouse.

Step 6: Daisy pasties! You can put them anywhere but we recommend your nips/anywhere they stick. It goes back to the flair clause and also, this:

Step 7: DALÍ? IS THAT YOU? Not quite. You need a beret. Too Picasso, baby? What about a boat hat. Lotta water off that Spanish coast.

Step 8: Wear a watch, but ask everyone what time it is. When they answer, answer back: “Time’s an illusion.” Try that on your boss when you’re an hour late.

Step 9: Throw a blazer over your shoulders to command the appearance of four arms.

Step 10: DIY the rest of your own Dali adventure here, and if you don’t mind, post a picture of yourself as Dali on the Spanish Riviera avoiding summer at all costs in the comments below.

The post How to Look Like Salvador Dalí on the Spanish Riviera appeared first on Man Repeller.

Watch Leandra Give Free Advice

If there was ever any question as to whether or not Leandra is clinically insane, the proof is in the pudding — literally, because we once got lost on a road trip, found ourselves on Pudding Road and upon reading said street name, Leandra could not stop laughing until we got home.

Her lack of sanity was also pretty clear that time she ran around Bryant Park and flapped her giant blue wings at unsuspecting men while asking what they thought of her outfit. You do you, Leandra. Just don’t fly away.

Besides, who am I to judge? Judge for yourself instead by watching the video above as Leandra plays therapist to the wonderful people of Washington Square Park (shout out to all the NYU students who were late to class because of us!), and if you’re still reading this, then hop aboard your pink pet elephant because girl, you must be crazy, too.

Ask Leandra and the rest of team MR for advice in the comments below. We’ll answer back on Snapchat: @man_repeller

The post Watch Leandra Give Free Advice appeared first on Man Repeller.

What’s in an Idea, Anyway?

I was leaving a show early yesterday and overhead an editor tell her friend that she’s bored with the fashion.

I overhear this at least once every season.

On occasion, I am the one saying it.

The editors come and they yell, “Give me a fad!”

The designers, I think, want to comply but have to bear in mind that without the continuation of ideas from seasons past (these often play a leading role in their collections), the contemporary market that is New York Fashion is at risk. So it goes that the editors yawn, the designers explain esoteric inspiration that is sometimes palpable but often not and then we go forward into Europe. Here’s my question, though (and don’t worry, I’m going to answer it, too): Is it so bad that a single idea should remain and carry itself out over the course of several years?

What if Freud had abandoned his theories — some of which, the basic principles of human psychology — every time the climate changed?

You know what they say, right? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Just look to Michael Kors. Yesterday, the purported king of American fashion showed his version of what next spring looks like. He pulled references from the early aughts (How does one know that the 2000s are back? Well, if you’re sitting at a show and feel like you’re watching Julia Stiles painting a clay bowl ca. Ten Things I Hate About You only in a more polished setting wherein she lives on an East Hampton compound, you can rest assured you’ve reached that junction.) — like white ribbed tanks, low slung prairie skirts, thick leather hip belts, ceramic beaded earrings and some case studies in the new-old wedge. He married these to what is always true about Kors: an unflinching sense of fresh Americanism.

I know, what the hell is an unflinching sense of fresh Americanism? It’s those fresh eyes, that sense of purity and cleanliness that is inferred by crisp khaki pants and a silk white blouse, the familiar and reliable idea that is always so clearly an underpinning you can spot at Kors.

Then again, though, you consider guys like Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez of Proenza Schouler who have this impeccable way of taking a very literal idea — one that seeks conversation, new opinion, the kind of reference that could modify it — and translating it to something not just really wearable, or viable, but that changes the way we speak about trends. Last night, the prolific designers showed a black, white and red all over collection that seemingly honored the Spanish Riviera with an opening triad of breezy naval looks that progressed into very smart, very new net dresses which ultimately became a tribute to Flamenco. All replete with ruffles — a leading theme this season. But nothing was so literal (how many collections have you seen to be inspired by Flamenco from the Mediterranean?) that even through its technical newness, you smell the old and think to yourself, Give me a fad.

Evidently, it seems the lasting ideas are those that are put out there and discussed to ultimately create new progeny, new theories and even trick you into believing that they are new ideas.

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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Suno, Delpozo and J.Crew in 200 Words or Less

If you initially fell in love with Suno because it felt like the American version of Marni with its subdued yet somehow wacky prints all mixed together but still fluid, you’ll feel great about the gingham medleys on display for spring, right next to some of the easiest “Oh this old thing? I just threw it on for coffee” tea length dresses and sets of separates (pants over dresses strike again!) — they feel vaguely Ukrainian and do this great thing with hanging draw strings complete with pom poms that dilly dally behind their wearer.

Meanwhile, at Delpozo, it ain’t over till the pants with big-thighs say it is, or so we’d been led to believe until a bravura of dresses — some rendered in black and brown, others in a unique dotted pattern that look a bit like an old game of Twister and a triad replete with the season’s big R: ruffles — came marching along through Josep Font’s collection, which was shown on a dock that insinuated a very charmed boat life where the pastries and dresses resemble one another.

And at J.Crew, where an ongoing case study in the daytime sequin was still in motion, there were single-strap, wood heel Dr. Scholl’s on display, a couple of gingham on gingham sets to bring the day way back around and as many draw strings as there are freshly pressed khakis at a prep school to tie or leave be at the wearer’s behest.

Up tonight? Proenza Schouler. Follow in real time via Instagram and Snapchat!

Photographs via Vogue Runway and NowFashion.com

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A Day in the Life of a Street Style Photographer

7:18 a.m.: NO.

7:19 a.m.: More sleep. Please. Victoria Beckham can wait?

7:36 a.m.: Well, now I’m really going to be late. Pants, you can do this. Get. On. Me.

8:44 a.m.: Pants are on, I’m in need of coffee and I took yet another wrong turn trying to get to this show. (I’m supposed to be shooting the models in hair and makeup backstage.) The financial district is so confusing.

9:45 a.m.: The good news: I got coffee, mini banana nut muffins, and Sunday Riley face oil backstage. The bad news: I assumed makeup would be on fashion time. It wasn’t. It was on real time. I got, like, 5 good shots before they kicked me out. The silver lining: David Beckham brushed by me.

10:24 a.m.: There are so many tourists outside the show. It’s impossible to move around and everyone is bumping into me, so I post up on a post (ha) and let the well-dressed come to me. It’s working.

12:03 p.m.: I’m sitting at the Ace Hotel waiting for my friend Emilia Petrarca. (She works at W now but used to intern with me back in the day at MR.) I actually don’t think I’ll be able to stand up. My body is doing funny things that involve creating extra strong gravitational forces. I probably need to eat lunch, but how do I get someone to bring it to me? Oh, right, I go to a restaurant.

2:30 p.m.: I left Hood by Air early to race back to the office to prep Leandra’s Day in the Life photos. What is it with downtown locations using tourist destinations? It’s so crowded. After dealing with this yesterday and the day before (and the day before that), I’m feeling pretty damn fine about hopping into a cab and high-tailing it to the office.

4:27 p.m.: I’ve been at my desk for two hours, drank a green smoothie, and now I need a nap. I’m currently editing my photos from yesterday and cannot believe there’s more tonight, but I think that’s why Amelia says this week’s a marathon, not a sprint. Still, I’m excited for Eckhaus Latta tomorrow. (Does that mean I’m getting in shape?)

8:30 p.m.: Home. I’m listening to music. Specifically, John Prine. I ordered a pizza and ate half then washed it down with an ice-cold beer. My pants are unzipped and I’m struggling to stay upright (and create coherent sentences). Remind me to set my alarm…

The coverage doesn’t stop here! If you’re signed up for our newsletter, you know that there are quick daily dispatches being deployed on the evening, every evening.

The post A Day in the Life of a Street Style Photographer appeared first on Man Repeller.

A Day in the Life of A Street Style Photographer

7:18 a.m.: NO.

7:19 a.m.: More sleep. Please. Victoria Beckham can wait?

7:36 a.m.: Well, now I’m really going to be late. Pants, you can do this. Get. On. Me.

8:44 a.m.: Pants are on, I’m in need of coffee and I took yet another wrong turn trying to get to this show. (I’m supposed to be shooting the models in hair and makeup backstage.) The financial district is so confusing.

9:45 a.m.: The good news: I got coffee, mini banana nut muffins, and Sunday Riley face oil backstage. The bad news: I assumed makeup would be on fashion time. It wasn’t. It was on real time. I got, like, 5 good shots before they kicked me out. The silver lining: David Beckham brushed by me.

10:24 a.m.: There are so many tourists outside the show. It’s impossible to move around and everyone is bumping into me, so I post up on a post (ha) and let the well-dressed come to me. It’s working.

12:03 p.m.: I’m sitting at the Ace Hotel waiting for my friend Emilia Petrarca. (She works at W now but used to intern with me back in the day at MR.) I actually don’t think I’ll be able to stand up. My body is doing funny things that involve creating extra strong gravitational forces. I probably need to eat lunch, but how do I get someone to bring it to me? Oh, right, I go to a restaurant.

2:30 p.m.: I left Hood by Air early to race back to the office to prep Leandra’s Day in the Life photos. What is it with downtown locations using tourist destinations? It’s so crowded. After dealing with this yesterday and the day before (and the day before that), I’m feeling pretty damn fine about hopping into a cab and high-tailing it to the office.

4:27 p.m.: I’ve been at my desk for two hours, drank a green smoothie, and now I need a nap. I’m currently editing my photos from yesterday and cannot believe there’s more tonight, but I think that’s why Amelia says this week’s a marathon, not a sprint. Still, I’m excited for Eckhaus Latta tomorrow. (Does that mean I’m getting in shape?)

8:30 p.m.: Home. I’m listening to music. Specifically, John Prine. I ordered a pizza and ate half then washed it down with an ice-cold beer. My pants are unzipped and I’m struggling to stay upright (and create coherent sentences). Remind me to set my alarm…

The coverage doesn’t stop here! If you’re signed up for our newsletter, you know that there are quick daily dispatches being deployed on the evening, every evening.

The post A Day in the Life of A Street Style Photographer appeared first on Man Repeller.

Ask Isaac: Can I Check His Phone If I Think He’s Cheating?

Hey mate,

Don’t look at your boyfriend’s phone. In my experience (and this is firsthand experience), if you’re looking for something, you will find it — and then what? “Hey, I creepily went through your phone, found THIS, now let’s talk about it,” does not a good relationship consultation make. Best to keep your hands clean.

But let’s forget about his phone for a second: This does not sound like the basis for a secure and healthy relationship. Your friends (PLURAL!) have no reason to lie to you. They’re telling you he’s behaving badly. That right there is a strong enough reason to seriously question what’s going on here.

His behavior is making you feel insecure. Insecurity leads to jealousy, low self-esteem and general life dissatisfaction. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: Relationships are there to add value to our lives, not take it away. There’s no value-add in this scenario.

You need to sit down and have a serious talk with this guy. A no-nonsense, no-bullshit conversation. If he tries to tell you your friends are crazy or jealous or trouble-makers, keep in mind that they’re your friends, and that they’re probably none of those things. In fact, I kinda feel like the only conversation you need to have with him is, “We’re done.”

And for the record, checking your significant other’s phone is extremely addictive. It’s like smoking crack. I don’t think that anybody ever does it just the once.

Follow Isaac on Instagram here, Twitter here, and check out his website here. If you have a relationship question for our Ask a Guy series, email write@manrepeller.com with ASK ISAAC in the subject line. 

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