Leandra Medine's Blog, page 668

Snapchat is Causing a Lot of Drama

Update your Snapchat and you’ll notice a new feature called Discover — a platform that shares “Stories” from the likes of CNN, Comedy Central, Cosmopolitan, ESPN, Food Network, Daily Mail UK, and more.

“Social media companies tell us what to read based on what’s most recent or most popular,” writes Snapchat. “We see it differently. We count on editors and artists, not clicks and shares, to determine what’s important.”

You know what else is important? Or was important?

The Best Friends feature that Snapchat got rid of in the very same update.

According to those in high school (shout out to reader Quinn Halman for tipping me off and our old intern Franny Keller for confirming; meanwhile my cousin, age 13, was unreachable for comment on behalf of the middle school set), Snapchat’s Best Friends feature acted as a scoreboard for your actual best friends. A visual ranking for all to see that I talk to Oprah more than you.

It was also used as tool for bae-watch: check the Best Friends list of the guy you like/are dating on Snapchat and you’re instantly privy to who he’s been snapping.

Example via @TBHjuststop:

“when u check bae’s snapchat friends”

Per my reporters on the scene in the hallways of their schools, this Best Friends list has been the cause of endless fights, jealousy and drama. “People catch their boyfriends or girlfriends cheating this way,” I was told.

Except, now that their most accessible form of proof is gone, the drama hasn’t stopped. It’s gotten worse. How are they supposed to know where they stand socially? Who’s to confirm that everyone is, in fact, hanging out without them? How are they supposed to catch their signifiant other acting shady?

Quickly search “Letter to Snapchat” on Twitter and peruse the various tweets that illustrate this millennial frustration. Here’s one screenshot that’s been making the Twitter-rounds:

At first I found the anger (over seemingly nothing) amusing, but after reading the tweets, I began to sympathize. Remember Myspace Top 8? That caused the Great Schism at my school. Or when a boy passed a note to someone who was not his girlfriend, but it was intercepted by her best friend? Full on war.

Instead of going on about how all generations are essentially the same and it’s merely the tools that change in our ability to alleviate or aggravate our neurosis, I’d rather leave everyone with this:

If you need an app to tell you who your best friends are, they probably aren’t your best friends.

If you suspect your significant other is doing something that warrants your snooping in the first place, consider why you’re even with this person. Or try talking to them.

And then guys, hello. When all else fails: don’t forget you can see still everyone’s activity on Instagram.

The Gap Grows Wider at Couture

Have couture collections ever actually signified the manifestation of trends that are applied to the larger fashion conversation?

Likely not — they have, after all, long withstood the kind of hyper-attention to trends we expect of ready-to-wear collections in favor of attention to old-world detail that has heretofore served as the industry’s most highly wrought flights of fanciful desire. And that desire has been important — it has infused new life into the core of fashion’s most primordial motivation: its artistry. It has reinforced the spirit of its team members, providing a reminder that through the commercialization of their vision still stands a morsel of the divine abstractions that once were.

But with the initiation of the Spring 2015 season, which is currently in progress in Paris, couture is beginning to feel more polarizing — or is it simply less interesting? — than it has previously.

Maybe this is because ever since Raf Simons took over at Dior, the conversation around couture has in fact changed. Gone are the days of indulgent gowns for deluxe affairs, of collections like John Galliano’s final presentation for the same house of Dior, which featured several of the most complicated, brightly colored gowns, each spanning at least six inches from either side of their models’ bodies, topped off with plastic wrapping over their heads to create the illusion of delicately wrapped and exquisitely gentle floral arrangements.

Under the new administration of couture, while the clothes are still elaborate — decadent, even — they are also, and here’s the word we keep coming back to, wearable.

Jeans at Margiela.

Pant suits at Armani.

Latex boots!

The same kind of lace dresses or tweed suits you might find on a ready-to-wear runway at Valentino or Chanel.

And with wearability invariably comes commercial-ability, which is precisely the kind of soul crushing matter that depletes the whimsy of its indigenous imagination, that doesn’t let it simply be what it is and instead plants the kind of seed that is expected to blossom into a sartorial magnate. Was it not, after all, Chanel’s Spring 2014 Couture presentation that placed sneakers on the map of black-tie-outfitting? In 2015, I’d be hard pressed to walk into a room and find that no one is wearing a rubber sole.

But what does this mean? Is couture now expected to make a social comment, much the way its ready-to-wear counterparts do, instead of just be? Are we — not quite the wearers, but still the spectators — to broaden the breadth of what we consider when getting dressed? If this is the case, what happens to the last remaining bureau of sheer creativity within fashion? Does it all become a dark machine that systematically spits stuff out?

$ale Bragging

It used to be that labels ruled. No one would ask, “Who are you wearing?” because the answer was stamped across every outfit. And for items that were not dotted in an outer-logo, the specific shape of a dress or color of a shoe was so conspicuous that without mentioning the brand, everyone knew what it was.

At my uniform-mandatory high school this was especially important. In a sea of khakis and polos, That Plaid Scarf and Silver Bracelet told everyone, “I am fashionable, I am trendy.” They acted as giant airport signs that read “MY PARENTS SPENT X AMOUNT OF DOLLARS ON THIS AND I REALLY NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT.” Prior to Instagram followers, this was our social currency.

Then the trend shifted. A woman’s overall look became more important than the individual things she wore thanks to stores like Zara, who took trends and made them available for mass consumption. And because consumers now craved the entire outfit as opposed to the lone badge of expensive self-illustration, boho, Bowery, the 90s, and so forth became more important (and much cheaper) than the scattering of designer initials.

Off-the-table in this conversation are Nike’s Swoosh, Calvin Klein’s elastic band, Adidas stripes and the Carhartt “C.” These blatant labels are about nostalgia and irony — theme — than they are about persona building and defining.

And when it comes to designer goods? What we showcase now is cost. But this isn’t My Super Sweet 16 — and we’re not announcing how much we spend. We’re loudly celebrating how much we save.

I recently bought a pair of shoes that my mouse wouldn’t even dare to hover over at full price. They were the kind of boots that asked, “Rent or footwear?” and let’s be real: I chose restaurants. But on one fateful day, they not only went on clearance, they were available in my size. And I had a gift card.

Divine intervention.

Since opening the box, I haven’t been able to shut up about how cheap they were. “Practically free,” I’ve told everyone, unprompted. “Less money than a movie and dinner,” following a compliment. “You’ll never guess how much I didn’t spend,” and so on. But I’ve talked to others about why I do this, and when it comes to excessive Sale Bragging, I’m not the only one.

Part of me wonders if sale-bragging is about making sure that while we can now afford the odd luxury (or make an autonomous decision to screw ourselves over when technically, we can’t), we’re still adamant about proving that we’re not proving anything. Or perhaps that we don’t want to perceived as gluttonous — so maybe it’s about being self-conscious.

The other part of me wonders if the savings are simply a result of the shopping high; we’re so stoked, we can’t shut up. That there’s the hunt, and then there’s the score. That Céline and Dries are great and all, but 80% off is the real artist. Maybe “I got it on sale” is the new It-Brag.

What’s Your Nonnegotiable?

When I started hunting for an apartment, I thought I was prepared. I met my realtor daily – checkbook in hand – ready to pounce on anything that didn’t inspire flashbacks to Hostel.

You see, New Yorkers have astonishingly low standards for our living conditions. We expect slanted floorboards. Heating pipes are exposed, burn-inducing death traps…that give the place character! And no dishwasher? No problem. Why else do we have these opposable thumbs?

Then there’s the space issue.

If you’ve ever been to New York City, you know that many of us live in tiny boxes. Realtors have euphemistically deemed these to be  “junior apartments,” a ploy so successful that a friend of mine once signed a lease on a locker. Craigslist uses the word “cozy.” Those who’ve lived here for at least three years no longer remembers what Harry Potter was complaining about – all Privet Drive needed was storage-smart furniture from Ikea, et voilà.

The apartment situation, however, is in stark contrast to the high expectations we maintain for everything else: dating, fashion, the amount of chicken that Chop’t puts in our salads. Surely if we have standards in regards to a cubed poultry quota, there’s room for pushback when it comes to our home.

So, for my third New York apartment, I was ready to compromise on just about anything. But not on my tub.

You would be amazed at the number of New York apartments that don’t have bathtubs. Considered by (anti-feminist) building managers across the city to be “wastes of space,” my beloved Porcelain Paradise is often forsaken in exchange for a few extra feet of superfluous floor space.

I dream about my bathtub the way some girls dream about shoes. Yet as I described my desired tub to the realtor sitting across from me, I could actually hear the weather-warped doors slamming shut. Clawed feet? No way. A faucet that spouts clear water? Let’s not be picky. My final mandate (to find a tub with fewer than 15 previous bathers) garnered an actual laugh.

But tub time is important. I’ve yet to master the art of shaving my legs in the shower. I also find that waiting for a face mask to dry can be overwhelming when simultaneously focused on standing. And where else is it appropriate to catch up on decade old episodes of Gilmore Girls? (I know, everywhere. But I’m proving a point.)

Not to mention, showers are extremely dangerous because you could slip and fall and your dubstep-blasting neighbor would never even hear your cries.

I’m willing to compromise a lot on my next pad. The list of expendables includes, but is not limited too: rent controlled apartments, functioning light fixtures and any roommate who doesn’t understand my right to lock them out of the bathroom for hours at a time. But my tub? That’s nonnegotiable.

What are you unwilling to compromise?

Follow Emily Siegel on Twitter; Image via Glamour Spain

Mile High Run Club

Noho’s latest fitness implant, the Mile High Run Club, is not all that different from the airborne league of the same name. A sprightly “coach” lobs encouraging idioms at you while you struggle to perform in the close quarters of a pressurized environment, often at high altitudes and uncomfortable speeds.

You are, of course, running on a treadmill. A Woodway 4Front to be exact.

Mile High Run Club is the city’s first fitness studio dedicated exclusively to group training for runners. Soul Cycle — the fitness craze that, since inception, has amassed a cult following equal in fervor only to a Phish crowd at The Gorge —  is a few steps away; a proximate reminder that treadmills have yet to reinvent themselves the way stationary bikes have.

The space is blanketed by an astroturf floor and boasts 30 treadmills designed to simulate the feeling of trail running. A blaring speaker system drowns out the sound of your breath, and colored lights bathe the room in aggressive shades of blue. The club’s signature class, Dash 28, is 45-minutes — 28 of which are spent alternating between hills, sprints, and jogs on the treadmill. The last ten minutes of class involve strength exercises using a kettle ball. Every sprint, hill, rest, stretch, lunge and plank is designed to make you a better runner.

Matthew Stearns coached the class that I attended. Tall and lean, Matthew has enough pep in his step to inspire a sloth. He is the type of man who doesn’t shy away from eye contact and has punctuated more than once that, “Hills give [him] chills.” I’m 99% sure that I resembled a fish in sand but Matthew insisted I was doing great. Did I feel that #runnershigh? I can’t be sure, but the group effort helped combat the usual boredom known to shadow the treadmill.

I typically like to jog because it’s low maintenance and requires little to no planning in advance; you just lace up your sneakers and go. Yet it seems that Mile High has found it’s place in NYC, where negative temperatures make it increasingly difficult to go for a run, and as the fitness set has proven, shelling out $34 for a good sweat and a #Warrior accolade is a small price to pay.

Verdict: Worth a try.

To Wear The Skirts at Men’s Fashion Week

Last week in Europe, Men’s Fashion Week challenged an antiquated philosophy: that to be taken seriously as a woman, you must dress like a man — and turned it on its head. Not by putting salient skirts or dresses on its models, but by alluding to a divine femininity without compromising a conspicuous sense of masculinity.

It is interesting time to be human right now — Cara Delevingne is a centerpiece in a men’s ad campaign for DKNY. Andreja Pejić, the transgender model who was born male and appears in both women’s and menswear shows, is an important topic of gendered discussion. Refinery 29 published a video about a third gender in India called The Hijra in November, and NPR’s Invisibilia recently ran a segment on an individual who “flips” back and forth between being a man and being a woman.

There is a theory that suggests we are the borrowing generation. This is possibly because we’ve displayed excellence in co-opting references or stylistic motifs or point-blank artifacts from previous decades and calling them our own. Now it seems as though our inclination to borrow is bleeding into elsewhere environs, because the extent to which gender ambiguity is running through the veins of popular culture might be presenting a novel question: does it matter what we are?

It’s possible that at Men’s Fashion Week the codes of gender seem so bent because womenswear has spent the better half of the last decade adopting the ideals of menswear and matriculating. Our bonds have matured — we’ve borrowed to the point of no return and now, when you see the delicate, waif-like demeanors of a handful of the male models — the anti “stallion” — who could be recognized at the men’s shows of Saint Laurent, Gucci or Rick Owens, or the equal parts confounding and elaborate garments at Maison Margiela, Raf Simons or Burberry Prorsum, you see something effeminate.

Of course, times could just be changing — the 70s are, after all, on their way back in. That will mean flared pants and wide lapels for all, but I’m also compelled to think that we’re currently positioned at a unique intersection. If Gucci with Tom Ford at the helm exuded an overly masculine sense of muscular sex appeal that smelled like a chiseled, more expensive version of Old Spice, under its freshly minted champion, Alessandro Michele, pussy bows and sweater vests position both the clothes and their wearers in a melting pot, which suggests that fashion is following culture — that in our increasing awareness that gender may not be as binary, or inflexible as once was assumed, a silhouette that is masculine or feminine no longer needs to be tied to someone who identifies as such.

All Images via Style.com

Tuesday Shoesday: A Case for Vans

Around this time last year it seemed one in every five girls sported a pair of Stan Smiths. In the preceding year you couldn’t walk three steps without spotting Nike Frees. New Balance kicks shined too. Vans, however, slipped under the “It” moniker of the other fashion-canonized sneakers, and as of yet they haven’t had their trending moment.

That’s not to say they haven’t been interpreted: Céline revamped the classic slip-on with pony hair and plaid. Eytys, a Swedish label, makes lace-ups reminiscent of the California skate shoe. Givenchy crafted a leather version of the checkerboard slip-on, and while J.Crew sells a Vans-collaboration, the actual brand hasn’t had a proper resurgence of its own.

Maybe that’s because Vans never went anywhere to merit the need for a comeback. When Phoebe Philo stepped out to take her bow in a pair of Air Max 90s, she fed right into our 90s nostalgia – Remember those shoes? — and we craved their return in that moment. Vans, however, have long remained a solid staple; they’re comfortable, cheap, durable, easy to wear. And so low-key they’ve been cruising under the radar.

But now that the 1970s are back in full swing (just look at pre-fall), I’m making a case for the originals on behalf of my West Coast roots.

Go for the classic low-top:

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Or if high tops are more of your thing, try:

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You know a sneaker’s chill when there’s an option for those who hate tying their shoes:

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And if you feel short in sneakers, try adding lifts. Voila. DIY Golden Goose.

Like the Z-Boys who popularized them, Vans are quiet contenders and true competitors. Ride or die, always fly.

Forget snow shoes and snow sneakers. Vans — keep doing you, and I’ll keep loving you.

Former ‘Bachelor’ Contestant on Dating After the Show

Going on The Bachelor is a cry for help at a decibel that could keep Dr. Phil and his dogs awake most nights. I did it back in 2005 for reasons I still don’t understand (save for the free trip to Paris), but one thing is certain: dating will never be the same. You begin to recognize it as a ridiculous sport. And even if you have years of practice, there’s no way to control the outcome. You actually can’t compete for love, and that elusive thing called chemistry? It’s a loose cannon.

Luckily, the surest way to someone’s heart in the real world isn’t through his or her clipboard-carrying, headset-wearing producers.

Below are three important dating realities I culled from the least realistic dating experience on TV.

Reality #1: Smart women don’t compete for Cracker Jack prizes.

Most of the illustrious bachelors are an acquired taste for the female contestants, many of whom would rather find a fully stocked pantry the first night of eliminations than their future husband. (After 14 hours with nothing but crackers to eat, it’s like, Screw love, give me a Hot Pocket.) Everyone goes into the experience overlooking the one obvious truth: that the producers’ matchmaking methods are no more detailed than Tinder. They’re probably trolling your neighborhood bar right now for America’s Next Top Cheeseball.

Reality #2: Beware the Jedi mind tricks.

Have you ever been snubbed by a guy who you didn’t even like that much, yet suddenly you can’t stop thinking about him? That’s a bruised ego, not a broken heart.

Your mind can play tricks on your emotions, especially if you’re alone for too long. We weren’t allowed to bring laptops, phones, or books while sequestered in our hotel for days. I had nothing to do except fantasize about this man I hardly knew who was dating a whole cast of women. The female mind is powerful. It’s also a terrible thing to waste.

Reality #3 Every rejection has an upside.

Being rejected on national television is a bizarre indignity, but viewers don’t see the half of it. The real humiliation starts once the eliminated women leave the premises. In my case, we were given airline-quality blankets to share amongst each other in the freezing cold. After our bodies were numb from frost and our on-camera exit interviews were complete (one producer probed a girl about her dead grandmother to bring on the waterworks), we were piled into a big white reject mobile. And if by the rules of reality #2, the female mind is a terrible thing to waste, then by van is an even worse way to vanish into the night.

That experience could have been a nightmare, but the following day, a friend from the cast and I skipped the airport shuttle and explored the city of Paris. Everywhere we went, attractive men on mopeds were winking, smiling and waving, a reminder that the “plenty of fish” adage holds true, but more importantly: life exists outside the facade of reality television.

When people ask what it was like to go on The Bachelor, I say it was similar to Eat, Pray, Love —  except love was denied and ditto the food on set. So technically, it was nothing like Eat, Pray, Love. But it was the greatest lesson I’ve heretofore learned about the importance of writing your own happy ending, and packing snacks in your purse. Just in case.

Stephanie Simons was a contestant on Season 8 of The Bachelor in 2005. 

How To: Turn a Venerated Holiday Party Dress into Monday Workwear

Two words, two sentiments:

Turtleneck.

Creepers.

On New Year’s Eve, Instagram provided exactly 6,426* photographic proofs of concept regarding several versions of Stella McCartney‘s ineffable fringe mini dress series from Fall/Winter 2014. It seemed to serve as the appropriate, if not only, method of body cloaking for the occasion and while I was not among the influx of purportedly lucky wearers, I did manage to locate the dress under the premise that it would be returned post-wear approximately five days into the New Year.

And because I had nowhere to go but here — as in, to work — I said to myself, self: how does one take the poster child for glitzy holiday dressing and strip it of its implications for the purpose of re-appropriation?

I thought about a host of variables: denim — maybe it would pair well as pants underneath the dress, but no, it’s too tight and short; a jacket — to serve as the great equalizer, but then you lose the spirit of McCartney’s fringe; a button down blouse — to wear under the dress, but I’m no matron, not today at least. And thus, still beholden to a theory on the multifarious successful uses for a turtleneck, I made like Keaton and covered.

My neck.

And legs.

In pairing tights with the dress and supplementing heels for men’s-style lace up shoes, I set out to achieve a sense of: I may have done something obscene last night, I may have just gone home and watched Fargo. You’ll never know. And really, that’s always the important trick and balance to strike when considering what’s suitable workwear, right? If you can’t beat ‘em (with confusion as your preferred weapon) you can certainly intimidate ‘em.

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Stella McCartney dress, J.Crew turtleneck, Prada brogues, Hue tights

*Estimation

Girls: Season 4, Episode 3

Like D’August, I thought this most recent episode of Girls was a little hysterical.

Hannah is still in Iowa. Marnie is still a mistress. Jessa gets tan, arrested, and called out on her shit. And Shoshanna cites her commitment to honesty as the reason she decides to tell her interviewer that their “totally fun” meeting is really more a trial run for her than it is an actual stab at employment. But it’s okay! Because candor is always appreciated!

Shosh is not alone in her resolve to speak truth. While questioning her life choices at a shitty college party, Hannah homes in on her peers and assassinates each with razor-ship precision: They are “rich” and “whiny.” One thinks he’s Updike. Another is “bad-mood Millie.” Chester is a “tragically hip gaysian,” and Chandra seems to think the fact that she was “blessed with an exotic name” gives her license to comment on the ravages of the third world.

Undergraduates nationwide agree: They are the rainclouds of literary study.

The criticisms are hilarious, brilliant and very badly taken. Hannah manages to alienate every single one of her classmates then exits this scene stage right, hoisting herself over a couch, serving up a swatch of butt crack while advising her fellow caricatures of privilege to “check in on all this without me.” Metaphoric mic dropped.

While Hannah abandons even the pretense of friendship, Jessa admits she needs it. The human disaster — no, Jessa, that was not Stop and Frisk — tells Adam: “I really need you to be my friend.” I want to believe her. But it’s true: She is, as Adam says, a “bad influence” and “fucking manipulative.”

Given her undeniable sex appeal and her impulse to self-destruct, it seems possible that Jessa and Adam will make bad choices and betray Hannah, thus ruining everything this season. But I hope they don’t. That Jemima Kirke and Adam Driver have such ferocious chemistry on screen only heightens the suspense: Will they or won’t they…be friends?

Elijah is still committed to being a good pal to Hannah — the comic relief in a throng of earnest graduate students and Mennonites. But despite his good intentions, his abbreviated pep talk kind of sucked. Elijah is that boy who lived on your freshman hall and thought he was an artist. He means well when he says so, but it’s not true that “everything works out the way it should.” The condition of modern life and anguish and disappointment tells us otherwise. Maybe Hannah won’t be a writer. Maybe Jessa can’t figure it out. Maybe Marnie will never learn how to use her curling iron. And yet the genuineness of Elijah’s effort was not for nothing.

Desi won fewer accolades. Old-man Ray thinks he has “a massive character flaw.” My roommate does not like his bracelets. And I, for one, would like to know why he always appears to be on the verge of tears. Do you think dating a consultant does that to you? Or does being a terrible person?

Finally, a hundred points to the writers for plopping that truly vile blue drink into Hannah’s hand. Our gal deserves better and weirder than a glass of Merlot. As she told her forlorn friend last week: Get yours.

See last week’s recap here.