Leandra Medine's Blog, page 625

Summer Nostalgia

Crabs strike a sentimental chord in my soul.

They bring me back to childhood: sitting on my haunches in the sand with two children of enviously French names, the saggy bottom of my swimsuit reaching towards the ground, tipping large rocks over to expose the fleeing city of crustaceans underneath.

Three, two, one! The boulder would tumble to its side. We felt like Godzillas overlooking the product of our terror and power. We’d lunge, plucking the innocent citizens from their scurrying paths and toss them into our respective buckets.

The bigger crabs would defend themselves, raising their tiny pinchers like boxing gloves against the impostors, dancing side-to-side as our grubby fingers approached.

This was repeated until we had exhausted either the supply of quality crab rocks or our attention span, whichever came first. We’d inspect our bounty, admiring the writhing mass of little animals we’d caught using our carefully honed skills and lightening reflexes.

We would compare them while sucking on barnacle-cut fingers, admiring the marbled moss greens, steel grays and burgundy of their shells. Their claws would scratch at our fingertips while we flipped them over to determine gender (something about ice cream cones and lighthouses?) and occasionally one would give an angry pinch, then hang on stubbornly as we screamed and shook them off.

Once satisfied, we’d tip our buckets and release the poor things, smiling and nodding, having filled our daily quota for calamity. Most died in the baking sun, and it remains the chief crime of my childhood. I still feel guilty for it to this day.

Oh, the sweet innocence of youth.

All three of us are still alive and mentally stable, if that counts for anything. We cross paths occasionally, at a bar or a party, having gone our separate ways with nothing to bind us save for an entire salty, adventurous childhood spent side by side.

We catch up and briefly reminisce of dislocated shoulders and camping trips and learning swear words. And of course, the crabs.

Photograph by Cass Bird for T Magazine

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The Dress Comes Second at Valentino

It was nearing 100 degrees in Rome and the sun was setting behind the Spanish steps, just next to the Piazza where Mr. Valentino recalled building his legacy — a structure he now refers to as “a lover of his past.” A runway that took nine days to build and would take two to dismantle was up and primed to host the 700 guests who had been flown in for the occasion. This was the penultimate episode of the couture season (the following day, guests would travel to Portofino for Dolce and Gabbana’s Alta Moda extravaganza) and nothing — not even Paris — could make it more romantic.

The previous evening, guests were treated to a private tour of The Vatican after closing hour and earlier the same day, we’d spent three hours being golf-carted around Rome, visiting secret locations held dearly by Valentino’s creative directors Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpalo Piccioli. If there was any speculation about the forthrightly artful source of inspiration that spirals through the Italian gold thread Chiuri and Piccioli use to weave their dream — and that’s what it is: a dream — these two days in Rome turned that on its head.

You could tell that the designers were in their element, feeling invincible and confident. And why wouldn’t they? The evening ahead would provide 61 new looks, an excuse to share what they call their “film”, “a state of mind for the customer to receive an honest vision about fashion and sometimes life.”

This customer is now a 37-year-young woman. That’s two decades younger than historically she has been. This seems to stands as proof of concept in defense of slow fashion. According to the duo, the allure of such made-to-order pieces lay in emotion. Said Piccioli, “it’s your culture.”

Chiuri chimed in with, “it’s very personal, you don’t make couture because you want to show off.” But the notion that you could own “the best one-of-a-kind” pieces must come into play, too. And that’s where it’s slow.

A dress, for example, may have taken 3 seamstresses and 8 weeks to pull together not so that the next time the future owner is to walk into a room, she’s the only one in it, but so that when she walks into her closet, a private gallery of sorts, it is, like a Renoir, or Picasso or even a Dali, the only masterpiece in the room. And what fashion in 2015 means is that a masterpiece doesn’t have to be so elaborate. It doesn’t have to tell of its opulence so literally. Black velvet and flat sandals — sheer, dark panels, covered in matte embroidery and high necklines and silk that looks like butter melting into a golden dish will do. And so that’s what we got.

But who is this customer? Has she, in her tender years graduated from ready-to-wear so quickly? Has that progression been a result of over-exposure; the speed at which you can, and do, get everything else and the ability we have all, for better or worse, been granted to broadcast our findings? Or is this simply the latest shuffle of hands vis-a-vis wealth?

Following the show, guests were shuttled to a seated dinner at the Villa Aurelia. Gowns came and went through the majestic gardens where long tables broken apart by lemon trees were situated to host the guests. At one point, while I sat waiting for my table to fill, I heard a man from behind me remark on the most exquisite pink and white dress, no doubt a relic — a slice of culture from Valentino’s distant archive — worn on a lithe, blonde woman. She was no older than 27. “It is astonishing to see how the hands of the money have changed; how refined and youthful they have become.”

Piccioli recalled that with couture, you used to talk about money, but it’s no longer “a trick to sell fragrance.” With the world moving by us as quickly and robotically as it does, perhaps we’re just, once again, trying to connect. But this time, it’s with ourselves.

Photographs via Style.com

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Weekend Style Inspiration: Pink & Paisley & Cool

If you’ve got a weekend, then I’ve got inspiration, and it’s courtesy of three cool women seen loitering outside of the recent Dries Van Noten men’s show.

The theme is paisley. Paisley, plus a little bit of pink (still riding the high off these fumes), paired with khaki menswear to keep it casual.

If you’re suspicious of prints, start here:

Our girl makes the pink shirt work because it’s cut for a man (strong enough for a woman!) and tucked into loose fitting khakis (Leandra has a whole story on khakis coming up, so get ready) but the key is her subtle accessory game: a leather belt, a substantial watch, sweet shades and oh, would you look at that! A paisley bag.

If you’re new to the print, swap for a scarf instead.

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If you’re a pattern die-hard, however, go head to toe:

Pro tip: adding a lightweight utility jacket will keep you from looking like Matthew Lesko.

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And for the Goldilocks Girl who likes it somewhere in between:

Go for a slouchy linen trouser, a great white tunic, and throw your paisley on top like it’s psychedelic icing. Don’t forget the hat, if not to broaden your shade, then to broaden your horizon.

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If I could insert the peace-sign emoji here I would. See you Monday!

Photographs by The Sartorialist

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How to Sound Like You’ve Been Going to Couture Shows All Week

Working in the fashion industry is like attending a very small liberal arts university — especially during fashion week. Pretend the shows are classes, the designers are professors and those who work in PR are the TAs who do a ton of work and take strict attendance.

Mark my word: if you’re not in your seat by the time the bell rings, it’s been noted.

However!

During Couture, such confirmation is impossible because the paradox of a giant lecture hall exists: everyone seems to go, yet no one you know goes, so you can say you went, without anyone — your teacher included — knowing whether or not your ass was actually seated in your chair.

The only difference here is that people want to go to couture.

If, for example, you were to white-lie about attending the Valentino show, you could simply:

Not leave the house for two days (to account for travel), avoid Snapchat, watch the live stream, then tweet about it.

And everyone — your teacher included — would be like, Tiffany Taco: Present!

So…why not pretend you were at Couture? It costs you nothing, hurts no one, and if nothing else, it will make for great conversation this weekend. Surf the slideshow above, absorb a few mental notes, and then memorize the following lines to recite whenever the mood strikes.

1) Did you hear that we’re doing away with buttons? Yes. At Dior, it was all about clutching your coat for dear life. I just honestly wonder how one is supposed to hail a cab and hold her coffee without flashing all of Fifth Ave.

2) Chanel was Chanel, but the hair was Selma Blair.

3) I just loved that Giambattista Valli dress. You know the one! With the ruffles, and the florals, on the model? Just divine.

4) Margiela was so cerebral. And talk about looking good in a burlap sack!

5) I heard that Fendi looks 32 and 33 were inspired by Birdman. Yes dear — The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance. Lagerfeld and Keaton: true birds of a feather.

6) Schiaparelli was so wearable! That seems to be theme of late though, no?

7) Don’t tell anyone, but I got lost walking around the pre-show event at Valentino.

8) Donatella got a haircut and bangs, so I got a haircut and bangs.

9) Fun fact about Ulyana Sergeenko’s clothes: worn by Rihanna and Daenerys Targaryen.

10) Can you believe it? I didn’t take a single photo!

All photos from Style.com

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MR Writers Club: The Dream Job

Consider where you are in this moment. Not physically, but mentally. Think about your path. If you’re a student, what’s your major? Finance? Science? Defense Against the Dark Arts? And if you’re a graduated working human, what’s your career focus? Law? Education? Hospitality?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the past two Chatrooms (Rosie Assoulin, Linda Rodin) and a recent Round Table (the Future of Fashion Journalism featuring Kate Betts) it’s that just because you’re climbing one ladder doesn’t mean you can’t jump to another.

It also doesn’t mean you have to jump at all. Where you are probably rules. For example, I love what I do. Leandra, like Elaine’s boss on Seinfeld, is stuck with me for a probable eternity. HOWEVER.

If I didn’t do what I did right now — if I didn’t work in this industry, or with words or GIFS or laptops or shoes — you know what I would do?

Swear on my life I’d be a sex ed teacher, part time illustrator and sometimes boat skipper.

And that’s exactly the theme of this week’s Writer’s Club prompt. Not sexual health education (although tbd re: the winner of the last week’s prompt about crabs), but rather, what would you do — career-wise — if you didn’t have the job or in-progress degree that you do now? Think about the 180. Get weird with it. Get real with it!

Submit your thoughts in less than 500 words to write@manrepeller.com by Thursday, July 16, 12 p.m. EST.

Blog speed.

Photographs By Will Davidson for Oyster Magazine and Untitled (Cowboy) by Richard Prince, 1989 via The Met.

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How Has Your “Dream Wedding” Changed?

Long before Blair and Eleanor Waldorf sparred, clever women mastered a brutal art form. For centuries, we have known how to torture our mothers.

To torment mine, I needed only to invoke my wedding. I told her it would be immaculate and tasteful. I would invite 300 people and dance until I collapsed. On the groom, I was less definitive. (I was nine.) She braved these declarations. But I went on. Musing, I delivered the fatal blow. I told her I would dress a gazillion bridesmaids in pale pink chiffon and dyed satin pumps. She wailed.

My mother is a feminist. A trailblazer! But what I wanted was convention. I ached for Pottery Barn furniture and anything ordinary. I romanticized tulle and veils and Cinderella’s wedding. And while it did not break hearts, it at least cracked a maternal spirit.

A good mom gets her modest revenge, however. I grew up and over problematic fairytales. I have since sworn off organza and princess silhouettes, vowing to never shrink-wrap a dozen women I love into identical dresses. There is no tiara in the picture.

I have no better source than you do, but I would bet that Mila Kunis didn’t wear a crown to wed Ashton Kutcher this past weekend, either. The private nuptials took place in the secluded garden of a California ranch. The ceremony was said to be intimate and stunning. According to the bible that is People Magazine, attendees dubbed the event “Camp KuKu.” It is so tacky to imagine ourselves into the lives of the celebrities we like, but whatever: I am charmed.

It’s also wedding season and July, and the air is humid and passionate. For now, I have decided to like love. But the ceremonies and romance and bachelorette parties that I esteem do not look like the frothy occasions I used to crave. They are more personal and odder and better than those. What I want from all celebrations is not a Cinderella story.

And you? Did you dream of dozens of roses and scattered petals? Did that change? Do you still want an enchanted wedding? Have you outgrown it? Will your bridesmaids wear metallic pantsuits? Did you already do it at City Hall? Did your dad cry?

We live in a magical moment for weddings. More people than ever before are allowed to have them: #lovewins. As this nation has at last come to its senses, tell us how your fantasies for the big day grew up, too. Forever and ever, let’s talk about it.

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Watch the Valentino Couture Show Here

Where are you currently sitting? At your desk, staring intently at the screen so that it looks like you’re working? On a park bench with your phone in hand pretending to look busy so that you don’t look awkward? Great. Stay there, because at 1:30 p.m. today your friend and mine, Leandra When In Rome Medine, will host Valentino’s Fall 2015 Haute Couture red carpet.

I know! She’s like Ryan Seacrest!

Do you remember that time she hosted the Marc Jacobs pre-show and wore this hat?

TBT! But focus on the present: The Valentino Couture show will be held today (1:30 p.m. EST, 7:30 p.m. for those of you who actually are in Rome) at the Palazzo Mignanelli, the “soul of the Maison” — titled as such for its in-house ateliers and the school of Haute Couture. But thanks to social media, Steve Jobs, Mr. Valentino, the Internet, and miracles, it’s more or less being held in the palm of your hand.

Keep this page open, keep your headphones plugged in, and when your boss asks you what the hell you’re doing, tell him you’re currently attending the Valentino Haute Couture show for your lunch break, so could he please butt the heck out.

Oh! And join us in the comments below to live-blog your favorite looks.

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These 3 Words Mean Your Date is Doomed

When I first moved to New York, I became obsessed with dating.

Hailing from a relatively small city in Wisconsin where I split my male-oriented time between getting set up with that one “I can’t believe he’s still single” friend of a friend and accidentally dating people who were a little too close to the family tree, I was thrilled to finally encounter a dating pool unencumbered by the suffocating expectations of others and the very real threat of incest.

I dated producers, professional sailors, mysterious “entrepreneurs,” stand up comedians, sit down comedians, writers, pseudo writers, photographers, sleazy salesmen, one notable psychopath and a slew of unjustifiably overconfident finance guys.

Through it all, one thing became clear.

If a date ended with the line, “This was fun,” the second date was unquestionably and irrevocably doomed.

Counterintuitive, for sure. Upon further investigation, however, the phenomenon makes a bit more sense. Thanks to the tireless patience of 25 confused yet wholly participatory friends and a surprisingly accommodating sample of past dates, I’ve discovered the loose psyche behind the all-too-common “this was fun” date night conclusion.

Telling someone you had “fun” without intent to follow up has been attributed to politeness (It would be rude to say nothing, right?), a dose of honesty (I really did have a nice time…but something better came along), or laziness/curiosity (I want to see if the other person initiates the next contact).

It also highlights the inane human need to fill silence.

The only dates I can recall myself concluding with the statement “I had fun” were those on which I quite literally could not think of anything else to say. “Fun” is so generic. Cold. Abstract. It’s not needed if a crush is forming.

For example, I really did have fun, instead of saying, “This was fun — let’s do this again,” I tend to either:

A) Get awkward and sort of half wave while backing up into oncoming traffic, or B) Get physical.

In fact, only 1 out of 25 midnight-text-polled individuals in my study assured me that telling a girl he had “fun” at the end of a date was an indicator of whether or not he would follow up with her in the future. Everyone else seemed to regard the statement as an empty placeholder relied upon to counteract uncomfortable silence.

Could this be?

Is it possible that the once-affectionate phrase devolved into an indicator of mutual apathy?

Could a date night trope have become a precursor of date night devastation?

Two days ago, I went on a date. Come the evening’s finale, neither of us acknowledged that a good time was had. If we go out again, I intend to claim my theory as fact. Will keep you updated.

Original Photo via Hugo Boss. Original Carousel Photo via GQ France. Check out Gabrielle’s blog here.

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How to Style Ballet Flats

Fact: If you can walk a mile in heels, you can judge whoever the F you want.

Theory: No one can walk a mile in heels without needing to take a walking break for the subsequent 24 hours.

***

Theory: Flat shoes never feel as exciting to put on as heels do.

Nor do they feel as exciting to buy. (Now we know, however, that excitement is beside the point when considering fashion consumption.)

Fact: There is 101% chance that every time you choose to wear flats over heels, the amount of fun you are capable of having, no matter the circumstance (though especially if you’re dancing), is elevated to the tenth power.

Unrelated fact: I am writing this from an outdoor restaurant in Rome, where incidentally it is absolutely not de rigueur to sit in the public domain chowing on tuna with your laptop open. People are looking at me like I’m on a treadmill in stilettos.

But I digress. Here’s my point: lately I have found that the less frequently I wear heels, the more insufferable they begin to feel. Yes, sure, they are fun to look at, hugely fun to buy and to style outfits with but when push comes to walk, though I never thought I’d say this, comfort is more and more becoming a priority. And you know what shoes come to mind when I think comfort? Ballet flats. And you know what the thing about ballet flats can be? They’re exceptionally tough to style into highly original! Unique! Quirky! Offbeat looks that don’t register as…the b-word.

That doesn’t make it impossible, though. Enter the self-bequeathed style-challenge to wear three different pairs of ballet flats — all by a brand called Josefinas — with three different outfits and call it a Lewk (capital L and all).

Like you got dressed in the dark:

Go crazy! Have a baby! Only don’t. And when you look in the mirror and think, Man I look like I took an Ambien then kicked back a glass of wine or three when I got dressed, you’ll know you’ve done right by yourself. Sparkly socks? Why not. I was inspired by my husband, who wears calf-length socks with his shorts to exercise. A blazer that looks like nature on an acid trip? Yes. Duh. And a gold choker with flowers emerging from the back end? Nothing else says olive green ballet flats are da bomb more acutely.

Creatures of the Wind blazer, R13 shorts, Topshop socks, Lizzie Fortunado necklace

With a mini skirt:

This is possibly the most difficult pairing because an exposed leg is an exposed soul. And when we expose our souls, we become vulnerable. And we become vulnerable we lose our cool. And when we lose our cool, we cannot — cannot — wear ballet flats. Especially red gingham ones! So what do you do? You find a pair of sunglasses that are almost alienating because they are so not you. Then you put them on and work from there.

Reformation jean jacket, Miu Miu skirt, Illesteva sunglasses

With Jeans:

This one is the simplest. You find a pair of ballet flats that are a color close enough to your skin tone, slap two layers of denim onto your body, accessorize with bracelets that may or may not double as small weights and boom: you’re French. But you speak English, so you can call any number of American hotlines and speak to representatives free of charge!

3×1 shirt, Levi’s jeans, Lizzie Fortunado bracelets, Madewell bandana and lipstick by Chanel; all ballet flats by Josefinas

Now tell me how you’d wear them and we can compare notes in the comments.

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

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What’s Your Beach Style?

The Cub Scout

You are deaf to the sound of an elbow-pressed horn after countless summers of being the last one ready, but the last laugh is always yours; you’re better prepared for the beach than a lifeguard.

In your possession are the following: Cooler. Ice. Cups. Towels — more than one. Multiple sunscreens to even out various tan lines, plus beach games, portable speakers, a portable charger, the aux chord!, snacks, trash bags, magazines, a change of clothes, a change of swimwear, hair ties, tampons and probably your great aunt’s dead parrot.

Yea, it’s annoying and that #schleplife takes a toll. But you’ve never had to leave the beach on a perfect day for anything, not even the bathroom. It’s called the motion of the ocean for a reason, you know.

The Umbrella Chaser

You can’t seem to figure out how the stupid folding chair works. Or how to keep an umbrella stake planted firmly in the ground. Your towel always has sand on it so you’re constantly trying to shake it out — which gets in your mouth, your neighbors eyes, or does that annoying thing with the wind where you can’t get the towel back the fuck down. 

You’re also always chasing something — a child, a sibling, a loose dog, a shirt. But you kind of look at this way: chasing counts as working out, right?

Sun Worshipper

The only shade you don’t mind is the kind thrown at you from those who stand upon their soap boxes and present, for the thousandth time, the dangers of UV rays and the benefits of sunscreen.

First of all, you know.

Second, hello, you’re wearing SPF 4.

Third, you’re a quarter Mediterranean.

Yes, exposed sunrays are “bad for you,” but what life pleasure isn’t? Sugar. Deodorant. Zumba. Water. Nothing’s safe! You spend the majority of your year living like a Hall Monitor and declare this your one indulgent thing.

And P.S. The sun just changed. Time to rotate.

The Beach Napper

A less brazen cousin to the sun worshipper, you simply love a good nap. Where others find it impossible to stay awake in a moving vehicle, the beach knocks you out faster than a frisbee to the head. Sometimes you’re properly SPF’d up, other times you don’t even remember sitting down on your towel — just straight Zzz-ing before your friend has the chance to ask you, “Hey! You don’t mind if we bury you in sand then Instagram it, do you?”

The Sun Avoider

You’ve been burned before, and you won’t let it happen again. Off to the beach you go with your giant hat, long sleeved rash guard, Zinc-covered nose and SPF-I-didn’t-even-know-that-exists. Though sensitive to the sun, you’re immune to such quips as, “What’s the point of going to the beach?” The point, you remind the haters, is to enjoy the shit out of summer. And if you want to do it in Morph Suit, so be it.

(That you’re the only one not glowing a fine shade of tomato red in all the group pictures hasn’t escaped you, either.)

The Beach Athlete

First of all, you’re superhuman. Or you’re a toddler. But to have the energy to run, jump, bump, set and spike despite 90 degree heat and friction and sand is truly something of a marvel. But you beach athletes simply cannot sit still. Naps are a waste of time. You’d rather play Can Jam. Or that trampoline thing. Or football. Any casualty is counted as a badge of honor, and yea, you’ve gotten into an argument with a 10-year-old over an alleged foul. But per your motto: you snooze, you lose.

The Party Crew

You don’t have “squad goals” because you are squad goals. Your crew rolls 10 deep at all times. You’re never not surrounded by a cloud of Spotify Summer Playlists and you’re all remarkably generous with one another over music despite the constant possessive declarations: this is my song!

Team Motto: will you take our picture?

The Early Riser

Despite the fact that your summer share is packed with not just one Cub Scout but the entire Boys and Girls Club of America, you have zero time to wait because there’s only so many sunny hours in the day. But truly, it’s not about the sun for you — you’d go to the beach in a tear-away track suit if the occasion called. Rather, it’s about the real estate, and you, like my ex boyfriend, just need space.

Illustrations by Autumn Kimball

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