Leandra Medine's Blog, page 613

Why Does the Internet Love Amal Clooney?

According to Google’s search feature, Amal Clooney has topped at least six best dressed lists in the past week. There’s a feature on Vanity Fair’s website detailing a gold dress she is wearing in Ibiza and USA Today has really taken to a cream-colored cardigan she wore to carry around a case of Casamigos tequila.

Not covered in these pieces are any number of the criminal law or extradition cases she has likely been working on through the course of the summer. And that’s fine — a metallic garment is far easier on the eye than extensive legal papers. But watching these lists (ushered by Vogue, the anterior Vanity Fair, People StyleWatch and the other multifarious permutations of tabloid magazines) place Clooney on a style pedestal has brought up a question we touched upon last summer: what makes someone a fashion icon?

Emilia Petrarca, who initially posited the question on Man Repeller in response to a New York Times piece that argued Beyoncé was a cultural icon but not one of style, surmised that “if someone’s style embodies any cultural zeitgeist, they can be considered an icon.” Gloria Steinem, a journalist and activist before an amber-lensed aviator-wearer, is a prime example.

But where does this leave Clooney? Has she in some way been forced into the category of style icon when really, as Mattie Kahn put it, she’s “an elegant woman who looks wonderful in mostly unadventurous clothes”? Does she consistently top these lists because before anything else, she’s an aspirational role model (that is, a smart woman with a successful career, who married into fame while never intending to command it, and who has built a style niche that is not at all contingent on her being an “insider”) who also extols a level of attainability? Here is a woman who has racked up clout dependent on her stratus as an excellent lawyer but who, in spite of that, has become publicly known not just as the woman who married George Clooney, but the woman who wears clothes.

The American way is such that we are constantly looking to identify public people as our homegrown versions of royalty. The Kardashians, The Z’s and One Direction pre-hiatus are all proof of this. Amal Clooney is proof of this. But what are we hoping to achieve in assigning these titles? Are they larger reflections of who we’d like to be? Does the emphasis we put on the package deal — lithe body parts, a symmetrical nose and Celebrity-with-a-capital-C cloud the more important traits? That is: honesty, humility, respect, a good work ethic and so forth?

Or maybe it’s something else all together. Does this all boil down to a war called Achieve the Highest Ranking SEO? If so, are we — the consumers who contribute to the analytics — precisely those who feed the beast that favors sellable content and their people? Or is it the other way around? Are we, in fact, feeding the beast, or are we simply hungry and thus eating from the beast?

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What’s Public, What’s Private and the Plane Break Up

On Wed, Aug 26, 2015 at 7:38 AM, Leandra Medine wrote:

Mattie! Do you want to cover:

A) Rowan Blanchard’s opinions on feminism, acknowledgement of White Feminism, whether her age (13!) is an indication that we are, in fact, moving in the right direction generationally or maybe you already have an opinion that’s better than these.

B) The #PlaneBreakUp debacle. The one sentence digest is: Girl on plane sees second girl sobbing, hears guy breaking up with sobbing girl on plane, proceeds to live-tweet the plane break up replete with pull quotes and photos, then the Internet accommodates Andy Warhol’s theory that everyone will be famous for 15 seconds with the tweeter’s rise to overnight fame and extensive media coverage. One more sentence: with extensive media coverage always comes backlash.

Original Plane Illustration by Charlotte Fassler.

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The Things We Learned: Long Live the Boy Band!

“Don’t cry because it’s over,” Pinterest tells us. “Smile because it happened.” This is often bullshit and generally unhelpful advice when it comes to vacations, but regarding the dismantling of boy bands like One Direction, it is flawless.

Like a mother watching her daughter sob uncontrollably over her almost-ex-boyfriend who has preemptively broken up with her before college (“But we’ll still have the summer to hook up together!”) I wish I could croon this sage idiom to the crowd of Directioners mourning the imminent loss of their favorite musical crew. Hush little baby. I know it hurts. Their wounds still fresh from the foreshadow of Zayn’s departure, the month of March will come sooner for them than any other.

But you and I — wizened adults who’ve experienced countless heartaches — know that eventually, both the heart and mind move on. Girlfriends, boyfriends and boy bands alike become distant memories of happy nostalgia; of notebooks filled with sappy gel-penned letters; of paint chipped walls stripped of color where Scotch Tape once held up multiple Tiger Beat posters.

Recall the chorus of Peggy Lee’s famous song: “Is that all there is to love?”

Now remember how just before that, she sings the truth:

“We were so very much in love.

Then one day, he went away and I thought I’d die.

But I didn’t.”

But I didn’t.

You never do.

Instead, you take out your phone and scroll through old photos and ask yourself instead how you once prayed to procreate with a man who had a better handle on white-after-Labor-Day than you do.

Or how you were okay with polygamy so long as everyone involved wore their clothes backwards.

“How,” you may ask yourself, “Did I love a Kangol hat and a tribal tat so deeply?”

But the real question is, when it comes to boy band fashion: how could you not?

You’ll never forget the baby blue everything, nor the abs.

You won’t forget the way it felt to sleep upon their faces (screen-printed across your pillow shams).

So let your takeaway be happy memories of love, yes. But also the fashion.

Always the fashion.

Because regardless of how we feel now, we always knew they were beautiful.

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Funny Fridge: Deviled Eggs and Dog Food

Cara Santana is an actress, a lifestyle blogger and the CEO of her beauty-on-demand app (which you can download here). Culinary skills, however, are not her forte. “I like to blame the no-cooking thing on my schedule,” she told The Food Life’s Lauren Levinger, “but I think it’s really just because I never learned. I have heard that if you can read, you can cook. So, one day!”

Certain members of the MR team attest that it can be as easy as reading the directions (Leandra), but certain members also understand there’s no point in cooking when you can just buy pickles (Amelia). Santana makes a strong case for the latter theory with this week’s fridge, and whether or not you like mayo, you’ll at least be intrigued by the eclectic choice of chilled contents below. Here’s what we learned.

1. Doubt unproven scientific theories, but don’t discount water as an accessory.

“It’s actually embarrassing that we have the empty pickle jar in there. We go to the farmers market every Sunday on Melrose place, and there is this guy who makes his own pickles. They’re the best thing ever.”

4. If there’s no ketchup, is it even a fridge?

Yes. “I don’t fuck with condiments, it’s just not my jam. The mayo is for my boyfriend, Jesse.”

5. However! Even if you think it’s gross, mayo comes in handy. 

“I make deviled eggs for my boyfriend — it’s fool proof. You boil an egg, which you can google how to do, scoop the yolk out, add mayo, mustard and pepper, mash it up and then put it back in the egg.”

6. Ice cream is a dietary staple, but freezers aren’t just for ice cream.

“The freezer is reserved for the dogs. They eat better than I do. Shout-out to Pure Dog Food. It’s pre-made and frozen. They have tuna, chicken and beef versions with quinoa, carrots and celery inside. It’s like a salad, but for your dog. I buy so much of it because on the weeks I don’t go grocery shopping, I just eat the dog food. Kidding! But in the beef one there are pasta noodles, so I have been tempted.”

Images by Lauren Levinger of The Food Life. Follow her on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

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What Your Breakfast Says About You

It’s possible that you love nothing more than an iced cold glass of freshly mowed lawn in the morning — bovines and equines have championed this method for centuries. However, it is also possible that if consumed first thing on a Monday, you are repenting for your weekend sins. Forgive me for that Fireball shot, for that 3 a.m. pepperoni pizza, for that 3:04 a.m. bonus slice of plain cheese…

You’re a doer, and the day doesn’t do until you’ve had your Greek yogurt, though it’s unclear (even to you) if you like the taste or have simply been manipulated by good marketing. Rarely is being a John Stamos not a phase, however: few can sustain a full six months of back-to-back yogurt breakfasts. There’s a limit.

Oatmeal’s your alternative once the thought of tart dairy makes you barf-y.

Ah, the brave Yoga Bowler. Like a downward dog into lotus frog, your daily açai bowl appears effortless, but has been known to send others to the hospital upon improper execution. (Let us not forget that the chia seed yin beside that blended Pitaya yang may cause a tree to grow in your Brooklyn belly.) You follow Kayla Itsines on Instagram not for her workouts but for the frozen-bowl-inspo she posts, although your teeth have developed abs to protect themselves against the enamel shock that comes with every chilled bite.

An understated morning bird, The Smoothie Sister is of the more tolerable early risers when it comes to She Who Makes Her Breakfast versus Grumpy Rushers. The latter group will empathize with your smoothie, assuming it means you, too, are “on the go.” It appears unfussy — you just threw a bunch of crap in a blender, pressed a button and hoped for the best, right? But it hints at aspirational adulthood: you visit grocery stores with mild to moderate frequency, whereas the rest of us are hoping our roommate the Green Juicer left a slice of Saturday’s cold pizza in the fridge.

Speaking of cold ‘za…

You wake up starving and know that eating something is more responsible than not, but you’re a consumer — not a planner, and you’re late — so if there’s something you can grab with one hand while the other searches for the same phone that you’re already on (nice shoulder/ear move there, Wolf of Call Street), you’ll eat it. If it requires a toaster, unspoiled milk or one less hit on the snooze button, however, The College Kid would rather go hungry.

The New Yorker isn’t really a breakfast person. You’re not really a people person either, but the large black coffee makes the morning commute a little bit easier. Bonus points for the digestion regulation, too.

Peter Pans believe that breakfast, like “age,” is just one more societal construct intended to let the man win and keep you down.

JK. Cereal rules. You’re just finally old enough to eat a bowl of marshmallows without your mom telling you what to do.

The Boardroom Snacker forgets about breakfast until A) someone has a birthday, and you remember you love doughnuts, B) your boss is in a good mood and surprises everyone with bagels, C) there is an unattended muffin in the break room, no one is looking, and you’ve got two minutes to kill.

If breakfast is the meal of kings, then you are sunny-side up royalty. Like any good Windsor, of course, The Full Monty keeps it low key on the weekday. Monday through Friday your true identity is hidden behind the civilian crumble of a granola bar. Come Saturday morning, you put your crown-n-cape on: two eggs, sausage, hash browns (vote below: crispy or squishy?), toast and OJ. Oh, and a Bloody Mary. And an iced latte. Something sweet, too. This doesn’t count your friend’s waffle, which you convinced her to order so that you can have a bite or half.

As for what this says about you? You’re hungover. Hello.

Bacon egg and cheese on a roll (no commas, you’re in a hurry): the breakfast sandwich is the hangover cure alternative for those days you’re already five minutes late to work. Pro tip: Do not attempt to order this from a kosher bagel shop. This Breakfast Sammy writer learned that one the hard way.

The Corner Store‘s go-to: toasted bagel and schmear. It’s fast, delicious and most importantly, cheap; breakfast should never cost more than your metro card. You’re an unapologetic creature of habit whose favorite condiment (besides cream cheese) is gluten, and though you’d never say it out loud, you secretly relish in the fact that you liked bagels before they were in fashion.

The Rebel eats breakfast, alright, but you’re punk rock about it. Tuna sandwich? Classic. Burrito? I dare you. Last night’s pasta? Anarchy in the USA. Nothing’s off limits because you DGAF and laugh in the face of culinary convention. But you still need coffee with that burger and fries; this is breakfast after all — you’re not insane.

Illustrations by Alessandra Olanow. Follow her on Instagram!!! @aolanow!!!

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Man Repeller Podcast Launches Today!

If Man Repeller was stranded inside a deserted dictionary and could only use one word to describe itself, it would manipulate the notion of generation portmanteau and choose “Funtent.” This is a combination of fun and content, but the caveat here is that fun doesn’t just mean fun — it also means fucking great. Capital curse words and all. So, Man Repeller at its core strives to produce content that is fun(ny) and fucking great. Period

As such, it doesn’t matter how it’s presented — written word, photography, video, cartoon, smoke signals made of farts — but as far as I’m concerned, we haven’t done our job unless you’ve walked away feeling something: accomplished, enlightened, satisfied, nourished; even angry. Enter one more way to pull emotion out of you: the most recent medium we’re adding to the roster of ways to connect includes audio and our inaugural podcast, Oh Boy, hosted by our filmmaker, Jay Buim. In it, he sits down with cool women for one-on-one conversations about their life and work.

The first episode of Oh Boy bends the rules by foregoing the clause about cool women to feature one weird one, or the artist formerly known as me. Listen to it while you meditate, drive home from work, eat cereal, walk to the grocery shop to buy avocados, breast feed your baby or walk aimlessly through the streets near your home and then let us know what you think. We look forward to connecting with your ear lobes.

Also! Check back next week, same day, same place for a brand !new! episode. This is going to be a lot of fun.

Respect, waist bands and high-crown top hats,

Leandra

Oh Boy logo designed by Kelly Shami

Looking for Oh Boy on iTunes? We are, too! It should be live in the iTunes store imminently; we’ll update with a link once it’s up. Until then, enjoy above and on Soundcloud. 

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3 Birthday Parties, No Drinking

The only thing I complain about more than the way other people sound while eating is the alarming consistency with which I drink.

“Why don’t you just not drink,” you are probably wondering. The most honest answer I can give is: life. Per the words of Drake — you know how that shit goes.

Life really came at me in early August when three very important people in my world were having their birthday parties during the same week. Womb exits are complicated; even more complicated is existing for 27+ years, so I understand the very real need to celebrate. However, their shindigs came at a time when I was trying to A) grow abs for a beach vacation and B) not feel eternally like shit. It’s here that I had the brilliant idea to not drink for all three parties.

Then Leandra suggested I write about it. This meant I actually had to not drink.

Crap.

Hadn’t counted on that.

Birthday Party Number 1: Monday, Aug. 10

Celebrant: College roommate

I was offered a drink immediately upon entrance. I was late and had missed the dinner so I politely declined libations in exchange for dessert. I was questioned only once about why I wasn’t drinking and answered with a cop-out: “It’s for a story.” Was otherwise left alone, possibly due to the fact that what I lacked in thirst, I made up for in cake.

Peer Pressure Level: Low

Drinks Consumed: Zero

Analysis: Fun, chill night. Woke up the next morning without a hangover and in time to go to the gym.

Birthday Party Number 2: Wednesday, Aug. 12

Celebrant: Current roommate

I went with every intention of not drinking but mild social anxiety got the better of me and I caved the moment a friend offered to buy my drink. The plot thickens: she ordered us both two at once due to the insane bar line and growing crowd.

Already feeling guilty for essentially ruining this story, I nursed my margarita for the remainder of the night. But! I stayed late despite 90% sobriety and left hours later, weirdly satisfied at the notion of only consuming one drink while still having fun. I think this is what they call moderation!

Peer Pressure Level: Moderate

Drinks Consumed: One margarita

Analysis: Technical fail, emotional progress

Birthday Party Number 3: Thursday, Aug. 13

Celebrant: Weekend Roommate

When I say “weekend roommate,” I mean she and I regularly hit the town together. If she drinks, I drink and vice versa. A healthy relationship if ever there was one. Upon arrival I was greeted with shots, which I declined, but there was no way to get through this without having at least ONE.

So that’s what I had. Heroic? Considering this crowd, kind of. It was an exercise in restraint and bravery in the face of well-meaning drink bullies.

My newfound limit was tested when the party moved to a different bar post-midnight. However, I ordered a beer and only drank half — slowly — which gave me something to do and moonlit as a microphone.

Peer Pressure Level: High

Drinks Consumed: One vodka soda, half a beer

Analysis: Could save a lot of money if I keep this up…

So what did I learn? I’m not a monk; I enjoy having a drink more than I “need” a drink, and after 27 years, I’d like to think I’ve earned it. But “a” is the operative word. One. It feels like a positive, doable compromise.

Am I growing up? Perhaps.

Or maybe I’m just tired of complaining.

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Know Your Labels: Vivetta

Sleek navy pants and a crisp white blouse might work well for many women who endeavor to feel good when they get dressed but for others, there’s a level of expression and articulation that demands more pointed personality when it comes to body-cloaking. Sure, solid colors say a lot without meaning much, but when there’s a swan strapped to your chest, or a vertically striped apron — and how about those finger collars? — there is no room for miscommunication. This, of course, presents an ironic plot twist in asking who’s clearer in conveying her vision: She who takes the minimalist route or the one with the yarn garden growing just north of her knees? In today’s edition of Know Your Labels, get to know VIVETTA of the eponymous, Florence-based label that puts the fun in funkadelicacy (and those yarn gardens above your knees).

The Italians really do have all the fun.

Why did you launch the label? I launched my label VIVETTA because I was tired of working for fashion houses. I was frustrated being an assistant to designers. It felt like the perfect time to express my own style.

Who do you perceive to be the woman for which you design? Even though I am a woman and wear some of my creations, I don’t think about myself when I am working on a collection. I draw the collection as illustrations, which inspire other designs and my ideas start to flow quickly. The woman I think of is sophisticated. She likes to wear an out-of-the-ordinary wardrobe. Each piece is still wearable with simple shapes but with precious, embroidered details.

Is there a specific reason you rely on the whimsical and jovial as opposed to making more “serious” clothing — especially in an environment where everyone is trying to adhere to the rules of “normcore“? I try to design what I like without being influenced by anything else, but the things I love always inspire — antiques, art, old illustrations, old toys, movies, etc. I was working at Roberto Cavalli when I learned everything about embroidery. My main and favorite job was to make embroidered designs directly on patterns for the show. I wanted to use what I learned for my own collections.

What is your favorite piece you’ve ever designed? I have many favorites. Since I love embroidery, one of my favorites piece is the “Eden Garden dress” from Fall 2015. It is a silk organdy dress embroidered all over with paradise birds, big flowers, naked women and fairies, elephants and other whimsical elements.

For someone who doesn’t own anything from the label, what would you recommend as a first piece? I recommend a shirt or a dress with one of my signature embroidered hands collar.

What thing do you think every woman should have? A pair of Mary Janes.

Something you never leave home without? My phone and sunglasses.

Stripes or polka dots? I really love both! At this precise moment it has to be stripes.

Who’s your style icon? Mia Farrow or Catherine Deneuve (a must see movie is Repulsion).

If your clothes could talk, what would they say? They would ask to be taken out. I can’t imagine them always hanging on a rail; they would be so frustrated and bored. So, I think they would ask me to drive them to explore the world and to have fun with me. It would be great fun if they could talk — so much personality. I love every single piece I own of my collection.

What’s your favorite thing about yourself? My tenacity.

A quality you most admire in other women? Intelligence, tenacity and ambition.

In a garment? To be well made, with a beautiful fabric and carefully considered details.

If you weren’t designing, what would you be doing? If I wasn’t designing I would be a painter. But I’m not so good at painting.

Shop Vivetta here.

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A Note on Why (as Opposed to How) to Wear a Belt

To be added to the list of accessories thou shalt not leave home without: belts.

So to tally that up, we’ve got earrings pierced anywhere but the lobes.

Bags that look like books. Or picnic baskets.

Chokers for your neck.

Tassels for your arms.

Hair for your pits.

And temporary tattoos for everywhere else.

But why belts, why now? I’d like to argue this: they’re kind of like cinnamon. And in the event your outfit is an apple, everyone knows you haven’t lived until you’ve seasoned that fucker with a dose of the spice.

So, sure, you can wear a dress or a pair of jeans and a shirt without a belt because we’ve evolved past buying things that don’t fit us and thus require leather adjusters but do you want to? No! The answer to that is no — reason being you are a complex individual and your sartorial pairings should reflect that.

I invite you to consider the following option.

Cool dress, right? Thanks! I like it too. I bought it from Club Monaco last summer and have maintained zero regrets since. It’s breezy, it marries navy and black and it allows for my jewelry to pop like a fragile woman’s kneecap riding dirty down a double black diamond ski slope. Great. Cool. See ya.

Now consider this:

So much cooler it is palpable. You can see it on my lips. Indeed, the belt in question is more utilitarian than most — it maintains a pouch to both carry my things and my fupa — but do you see the added dimension positioned just between my belly button and legs, facilitated by the mere fastening of hole and metal rod? If I was comfortable before — again, the human equivalent of an apple — now I’m also kind of different. Not that kind of girl. I put cinnamon on produce, etc.

So now I invite you to consider the following recommendation: Utilize your belt loops. Put anything through them: string, chain, leather, whatever. See how it makes you feel. Let the above slideshow marinate. Appreciate the ease with which you are capable of urinating because it takes a second longer for your ass to meet the seat and then give yourself a round of applause because what’s the point of living if you don’t?

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Thanks, Instagram: What to Wear This Week

Instagram is a prison for some. It elicits FOMO and might convince you that you’re kind of a sociopath.

But it’s also a fortress — a Rolodex of recipes waiting to be tried, a guide to packing for weekends, and on this particular Monday, when the wheels of summer are starting to slow down and the only way to distract myself from the reality that my toes are in shoes, not sand, is through the fell swoop of a good outfit, it is a personal stylist. So, welcome to What to Wear This Week, starring a pair of suspenders, Loulou de la Falaise and a dog with really cool arms.

Monday:

Take: The suspenders, the white jeans, the white t-shirt

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Leave: The blazer! It’s August

Choose your own: Shoes

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Tuesday: 

Take: The vintage jeans, the sunglasses, the button up, the sunflowers, and Gosta

Leave: The table

Choose your own: Color palette. You don’t have to wear all blue if you don’t want to.

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Wednesday: 

Take: The ears, the nod, the arms, the fringe

Leave: Uh, nothing

Choose your own: Way to explain why you’re naked but wearing a pair of boots on your arms

Thursday:

Take: The neckline and sleeves (or lack thereof), flared pants

Leave: The dress

Choose your own: Accessories! More is still more.

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Friday: 

Take: THE FUCKING DAY OFF!

Leave: The desk, the roller chair, your clothes

Choose your own: Book to read

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Saturday: 

Take: The smile, the drink, the turban, the pearls

Leave: One slice of that cake — just one

Choose your own: Brooch to adorn the turban

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Sunday:

Take: The pink wall, a pair of jeans you cut into jean shorts and regret ever having done

Leave: The hair flip

Choose your own: Fabric to turn those poorly executed DIY shorts into a pair of flare leg pants like those photographed. Ka-ching!

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