Leandra Medine's Blog, page 627

Jayne Min’s Maximal Approach to Minimalism

So…how about that weekend?

Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it either. It was sad to see it go, but with the departure of one good thing comes the emergence of another great thing, and on this particular Monday morning, that thing is a new closet featuring clothes by none other than cool-as-fuq L.A.-based human Jayne Min of Stop it Right Now, among other things — like a hefty collection of ripped jeans and black slides, surf boards and Céline pants.

Monday

Some like to jump into the work week head first, but me, I like to tiptoe in. A relaxed vibe outfit to trick my mind into thinking it’s still Sunday.

Shaina Mote shirt (some say dress I say shirt), Acne Studios chinos, Converse

Tuesday

Oh did I say Monday relaxed vibes? I meant also Tuesday. Ok, fine, everyday.

J.Crew men’s cashmere sweater, Organic by John Patrick slip, J Brand leather skinny pants, Vans

Wednesday

So actually, I start off comfy (because weekend) and get progressively comfier (because weekend).

Junya Watanabe cocoon top, vintage Levi’s denim, Trademark slides

Thursday

There’s always one day out of the week I feel guilty and have to wear something smart, like a shirt — maybe even tuck it in.

Frame Denim silk shirt, Acne Studios denim, Jil Sander loafers

Friday

Friday is full cazj (cash? cajh? casual) but sort of nice-casual, because maybe I’ll actually leave my house for dinner.

Camilla Engstrom hus-hus.com hand-embroidered shirt, Rachel Comey wide-leg jean, Trademark slides

Saturday

I know the work week is only five days, but Kuma’s face.

By Malene Birger leather top, Acne Studios chinos, Acne Studios sandals

Follow Jayne Min on Instagram, Twitter, and check out her website, Stop It Right Now.

The post Jayne Min’s Maximal Approach to Minimalism appeared first on Man Repeller.

Red, White and Blues

Happy Independence!

You’ll find me on the beach.

With my pals beside me,

And rosé just in reach.

I will spend the whole day,

Grilling kosher weenies.

This year, in a one piece.

(Throw out that bikini!)

Then! It strikes — July Fifth.

Depression’s sinking in.

I’m sitting in the car,

And dreaming of that swim.

Wish that I could tell you

There’s something equally keen —

In truth I’m just waiting,

Till two thousand sixteen.

Words by Emily Siegel, illustration by Gabi Anderson. 

 

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Americana

Patriotism can creep up on you when you least expect it — during a baseball game for a team you don’t care about, or when a flag is raised on your neighbor’s porch in preparation for a July 4th barbecue.

But last Friday, patriotism rang so loudly through the ears of our country that to say it “creeped up” would be an assault on the reality that it was singing to us.

The Supreme Court ruled in favor of Same-Sex Marriage. People wept, shouted, and pushed their fists into the air. It was a long-awaited declaration of what we’ve long known to be true: that we are equal, and that the freedom to love whomever you choose — regardless of sex, sexuality or gender — is a right. Have you ever been happier to be an American?

To wear red, white and blue?

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Or if you’re not an American, maybe it was the one time you’ve been able to tolerate that “USA” chant.

Happy (almost) Independence Day, Man Repellers. Enjoy the slideshow — Americana beach stuff!!!! And keep fighting the good fight.

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How Dramatic Are You?

Between close friends, there is nothing like living your life through a series of hyperbolic superlatives. Whether your bagel is “literally the best fucking bagel” you’ve ever had or your shoes are “actually killing” your feet, only a true companion will allow you to narrate your life as though the middle part of the scale — 2 through 9 — does not exist.

To be clear, there are no shades of gray allowed for the mundane dribble you Snapchat your friends throughout your otherwise inconsequential work day. This is “the worst hangover in history,” not “kind of bad.” You “need a glass of wine NOW” or you’ll “set fire to the office,” but you do not “kind of want a drink.” For best friends, this is a cherished relationship and should not be taken lightly.

However, it’s proper friendship etiquette to prepare said bff for what’s coming. This way their mind is in the game.

The thoughtful way to introduce an over the top remark is with, “Not to be dramatic.” “NTBD” for short. This social contract, of course, requires NTBD to be followed by the most ridiculous and exaggerated statement you can manage.

Here are a few choice examples:

“Not to be dramatic, but my skin is so dry I need to take a personal day and go home to put moisturizer on my face.”

“Not to be dramatic, but my soup is so bad it’s making me weep.”

“Not to be dramatic, but based on my interactions at the bar this weekend, I’ll probably die alone.”

“Not to be dramatic, but if fucking [insert harmless coworkers name] asks me ONE MORE QUESTION I will throw a javelin at his face.”

“Not to be dramatic, but I’m 99% positive she’s lying about being gluten-free. I swear I saw her drink a Bud Lite once.”

“Not to be dramatic, but no one gives a shit about your cats, Taylor Swift. We’re all single too, get it together, gf.”

“Not to be dramatic, but every life choice I make is so monumentally bad I’m not sure how I get out of bed each morning.”

If you’re not complaining, you aren’t really living. So let’s hear it –this is a safe place. But also, NTBD, if you don’t comment, I’ll probably jab my armpit with a fork, pass out and then cry, so.

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Fact: I Use Instagram to Pack for Weekends Away

There! Now you know everything about me!*

I never thought twice about how often I consult the various portals that I follow on Instagram to the get the wheels of style in motion before I’m slated to pack for any period of time away. Until! My friend Shiona (who, spoiler alert, only wears crop tops and pencil skirts and as such attempted to style me as a crop top and pencil skirt-wearer, which will culminate in a blog post !!!next week!!!) sent me a text message last Monday to tell me that she had spent 10 minutes scrolling through the Man Repeller feed to get outfit inspiration for an imminent trip. It got me thinking that maybe some of you do that, too, or if you don’t, at least that more of you should do that so in honor of the fantastical weekend that lay ahead, here’s a look at the posts I consulted in order to pack for the next four dayzzzz.

1. Viviana Volpicella in a Vita Kin top, white jeans and clogs

The photo’s vibe: easy, reliable clothes for a Friday night dinner in whatever garden will allow me to nourish myself there.

The takeaway: I have white jeans, I have a peasant blouse, I have a belt and I definitely have clogs. Done!

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2. Natasha Goldenberg in a Celine dress and flatflorms

The photo’s vibe: I ate a quarter pound of cake last night, so I’m wearing the beach chair on my person today, thank-you-very-much.

The takeaway: I can wear long sleeves and a mid-length skirt without looking like a recent modern orthodox Jewish day school grad. Duly noted.

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3. Lisa Marie Fernandez’s Bowery Bear in a branded bikini

The photo’s vibe: Welcome to Croatia (and, also, I ate another quarter pound of cake but I live life with no regrets).

The takeaway: Place is a state of mind. If I can approximate the bathing suit, I can approximate the experience.

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4. Haya Maraka in lace up sandals and short-ass shorts

The photo’s vibe: The supermarket is a great place to test drive shoes that are liable to untie during any given step.

The takeaway: Shorts are hard. They’re not dynamic and they have never once proven themselves as the unsung hero of any number of wardrobes. But lace up sandas and roomy blouses may very well be their sole saving grace.

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5. Aziza Azim, New York Closet veteran, wearing Louis Vuitton resort pumps on an exotic rock

The photo’s vibe: Your denim is only as decadent as the shoes you pair it with.

The takeaway: My denim is only as decadent as the satin shoes I pair it with; Saturday night, Sunday morning, Sunday night, here we come!

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*There is still one thing you don’t know about me: I lie to people and tell them I am allergic to bees in order to justify my manic, decidedly obscene behavior when in their presence.

The post Fact: I Use Instagram to Pack for Weekends Away appeared first on Man Repeller.

Do You Dress Your Dude?

I have been married for three years. In those three years, I’ve watched my husband’s style — if you were willing to call it that — motor through multifarious orbits that have transformed him from the unintentionally baggy jean wearing college graduate in Adidas sneakers and a fur-collared coat (“my mom bought it for me,” he said) that I met in 2006, to the brown-shoe-and-black-pant–and-navy-suit, “Does this match?”-asking banker who I married in 2012.

In 2015, he is a man who, at a volition uninfluenced by his fashion blogger of a partner, gets his hair cut at Freeman’s on Bowery, has cited Dries Van Noten as “a true visionary” and just last week, woke me up before sunrise, on his way out the door to ask if I thought Thom Browne would approve of his look (so you know, he was wearing what he calls cropped pants but which I will confirm are just tapered.)

The evolution wasn’t intentional. I never meant to change him. I don’t think I have changed him — the underlying interest in this transformation of sorts manifested at his behest. Our subscription to WWD is in his name. He e-mailed me on Monday morning to let me know that Givenchy would not be showing in Paris next October. On more than one occasion, he has declared that his style is too “basic.”

That a man who wears jeans and button down shirts on weekends would say such a thing indicates, I guess, the same level of anticipation I live by in regards to my own style. That anticipation is of changes — heralded by henleys, not polos — ahead, and his wanting to be prepared with the tools that will make a transition to accurate, outward self-expression smooth and frankly, cool.

So, I’m in the process of helping him. Mostly by advising that he favor crew necks over v-necks and monk-straps over laces. But recently a fellow woman with a husband not especially unlike mine circa unintentional baggy jeans asked me how I “do it.” I told her I don’t do anything, until I realized that I do — I suggest that he dress the way I would if I were a guy. And then I thought that maybe a handful of you are “struggling” with a similar conundrum — trying to identify a sense of style that feels personal to the chromosomal counterpart you’re dressing (he could be a brother, or friend, or even just your dad) — so here’s what I say: ask yourself what you would wear if you were a dude. If what comes up are ivory cable knits and skinny, cuffed khakis with the kind of Birkenstock sandals (not mandals) you could find at J. Crew — the ones with the white buckles and soles — then surprise! We’re phantom twins! And our dudes match.

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You still with me?

Now, if you want a selfie-proper of the man in question, say I.

Illustration by Meghann Stephenson

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At Men’s Fashion Week: Saint Laurent’s Skater-Surfer

Every car in Los Angeles came to a halt. The sun was red and round and showing through the smog. The mountains in the background looked purple and soft. Somewhere to the west was the Pacific Ocean, only at this hour it glazed over in a blinding glow.

“That has got to be the most beautiful movement,” my friend said as he rolled down the window of our stopped car and pointed to a group of skater boys doing tricks on the side of the road.

It’s true. Skater-surfer boys have a disheveled dignity about them. They possess an odd mixture of prowess and oblivion in the way they move, dress, act. They search for only a few things: a decent curb, a good wave, sunlight, and maybe a good burrito. It is this elusive, not easily defined mixture — which often manifests in a smathering of colors and fabrics — that remains eternally appealing to the fashion set. Many brands have attempted to capture the essence, few have actually done so. In this case, a failure to execute is reflective of little more than a concept Didion et al. have repeatedly written about: California culture is deceiving and fleeting.

But perhaps Saint Laurent’s display is an exception. For his Spring 2016 men’s show, Hedi Slimane showcased 77 looks that tapped directly into this spirit. His boys were gaunt, messy, cool. They layered Hawaiian shirts over striped tees, topped looks off with unapologetically gaudy, silk bomber jackets — the kind you might find at a street vendor in Venice Beach. And it is hard to say, really, whether the tie-dye sweatshirts, ripped blue jeans and geriatric floral scarves were crafted in an atelier in Paris or purchased at a Santa Cruz flea market. I suppose Slimane’s motto would be: if you can’t beat them, exploit them.

And maybe that’s the secret. Or the point. Hedi Slimane seems to understand the zealous use of superlatives in California — the coolest! raddest! best! dankest! — and so he wastes no time appropriating lo-fi garments for a high fashion audience. Call it theft or call it genius, but showcasing a virtually-unaltered aesthetic seems like the most efficient way to capture cool. And for what it’s worth, I’ll bet the boys skating on the side of the road in Los Angeles have no idea their jackets were used for a fashion show in Paris.

All photos via Style.com

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The Thought Process of Sitting in Traffic

I like to think of myself as a cool driver who has calm but vigilant reflexes, remains cheerful — but not unpleasantly so — amidst traffic, and maintains searing focus while maneuvering the open road with speed. Alas, I’m of the white knuckler kind.

I wanted to be out of the city and on the freeway by 6 p.m. It’s 7:37, so I already blew that. Now I’m in an even bigger hurry. I should have left earlier. I never learn. And to the Subaru in front of me, if you’re gonna turn, you gotta tell me.

Uh-oh. Can I turn right on red? I guess we’ll find out. That chorus of honk-happy bullies tells me no. Lay off, I’m new here.

Crap. Is this the on-ramp? No. Yes. No? These signs could not be more misleading and now Siri is giving me the cold shoulder. Okay, it’s the on-ramp. I can relax now.

Nope, can’t catch a break. You’ve got to be kidding me. Move it or lose it! You know who else never learns? The Subaru who doesn’t know how to use a blinker. Out of my lane, asshole.

Ah, that’s better. Nothing more satisfying than making it to the fast lane after a successful triple lane change. LOL at the Subaru for trying to cut me off. Yeah, I’m holding a grudge. He can eat my dust.

Except there won’t be any dust — we’re at a stand still. Probably just bottlenecking; it’ll clear up soon, right? Maybe if I just sit on my horn for a while I’ll feel better.

***

Okay, joke’s over. What in the name of tuna is going on up there? At this rate, I’m never going to make it to the bridge, which is a catastrophe because all this talk of tuna is making me hungry. Starving. I’m starving.

I guess I could make some calls. Where’s my headset?

***

….Fuck. The fated freeway phone drop. Maybe if I extend my big toe far enough — really flex it! —  I can reach the tip and drag it back. I feel a foot cramp coming on. Yep, it’s a full throttle, raging foot cramp. Stomp it out.

***

I have no one to call.

But I do have to pee, and everyone’s breaking again.

Wait. Why is Google Maps freaking out?

AHHH!! What do I do? Pull it together.

I’m on the bridge. I repeat, I am on the bridge, officially en route to New Jersey!

But I’m trying to get to Long Island.

I guess that means I’m making a “pit stop.” They have beaches in Jersey, right? That’ll do.

Photo by Ralph Crane, 1959 via LIFE Magazine. Gif by Hannah Kellner.

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The Rules of Style by Gloria Steinem

Yes, all turtlenecks.

And baby tees.

Belts!

And optical aviators.

Yes all hair.

Namely parted in the middle.

Possibly dyed at front, too.

Yes all polos

And henleys

Black t-shirts

And corduroy.

If it seems diminutive to reduce a practical totem of the women’s liberation movement down to her style, consider this: if a picture is worth a thousand words, an outfit might be worth two. And that’s power man. But I’m not done. Because, hello, this is Man Repeller — the safest place on the net — where we celebrate an inherent interest in fashion that does not, and cannot minimize intellect. That only further accentuates it. Using the clothes as exclamation points and accents, flashlights and megaphones that shine bright and loud on the words and their meanings.

So allow us, really, to take a moment in honor of the quiet, unassuming and impactful dressing choices of Gloria Steinem’s personal yore. The tight t-shirts! And belts! Glasses! And hair — it contributed, after all, to a culmination moment last September, when in the Grand Palais in Paris, Karl Lagerfeld sent 90-and-change proteges of the ineffable Steinem towards a finish line called victory (read: a Chanel-branded photo pit) in cropped, high waist pants and jackets and belts and sensible shoes and, of course, those aviators.

If it’s true what she said — that “the truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off,” than so too should it be noted that style can do the same.

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How Young Is Too Young For Makeup?

There is something good and proper about the fact that I discovered makeup in the basement of a synagogue. As far as revelations go, this was divine.

I had escaped services and headed downstairs to unwind in a favored haunt — the ladies restroom. Just beyond the double doors that protected it from the outside world, the bathroom boasted two cushy chairs and a wall of mirrors. My best friend and I planted ourselves there in this alternative temple. We were six years old.

While we discussed matters of national relevance and what we’d eaten for breakfast, we found it: tucked beneath a tissue box was a small lacquered box that opened like a pocket watch. Blush.

We knew this substance. We both had moms. She had older sisters. Within seconds, it was smeared all over our cheeks. The whole experience was such a thrill. It was too easy to forget we were not allowed to wear makeup.

When an older congregant spotted us in the halls — flush with Le Blush Crème De Chanel and newfound wisdom, she clucked.

“Girls! What on earth!”

She told us we were too young for makeup. We were children! And so is the hypothetical daughter of makeup artist Mario Dedivanovic. It’s why the Internet had harsh words last week for the man best known for his handiwork on Kim Kardashian. Dedivanovic had posted an Instagram photo of a girl in eyeliner and red lips, calling the wee-babe his “future daughter” and “#soCute.”

Not all commenters were so effusive. Some declared that “babies should not look like women,” or that the picture sends a bad message. Maybe so. But others used the crowded comments section to remember what they made of makeup as little girls. They mentioned mothers and games of dress up and the joys of lip gloss. They reminded me that most of us encounter makeup when we are “too young” for it.

At the start, it is almost always covert. I begged my parents for Lancôme Juicy Tubes because they promised transformation. I clung to hollowed-out compacts and the Clinique samples that arrived in our mailbox. I caked on so much eye shadow that my grandmother demanded, “Scrub your face off.”

I don’t condone babies in oversexed photo shoots or winged liner on toddlers. But I do know that I fell for makeup when I was too young to use it. I think a lot of us did. So, spill. Tell us what goods you snatched from a medicine cabinet or about the earliest memories of makeup. Tell us how you would want to introduce your daughters to cosmetics and how old you should have to be to purchase NARS The Multiple in Orgasm. Really — I want to talk about it.

Photograph by Virginia Arcaro for Dazed & Confused. Feature Image by Natasha V.

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