Leandra Medine's Blog, page 701

MR Writer’s Club: Man, (I Think) I Feel Like a Woman

On the heels of Chanel’s politically-charged and hugely discussed Spring show that was presented in Paris this past Tuesday and featured a faux-rally as its finale with picket signs and slogans that were brazenly pointed in the direction of feminism and even touched upon the much-lauded HeforShe speech delivered by Emma Watson just a couple weeks earlier at a special event for the United Nations, and, countering an earlier viral campaign that lives on Tumblr and calls itself Women Against Feminism, this week, the MR Writer’s Club wants to know where you stand on the contentious topic of 21st century feminism.

Do you stand with or against the recent digitally-backed campaigns that have argued both sides of the largely moot coin?

Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist, writes:

“There is an essential feminism, the notion that there are right and wrong ways to be a feminist, and there are consequences for doing feminism wrong.

Essential feminism suggests anger, humorlessness, militancy, unwavering principles, and a prescribed set of rules for how to be a proper feminist woman, or at least a proper white, heterosexual, feminist woman—hate pornography, unilaterally decry the objectification of women, don’t cater to the male gaze, hate men, hate sex, focus on career, don’t shave. I kid, mostly, with that last one. This is nowhere near an accurate description of feminism, but the movement has been warped by misperception for so long that even people who should know better have bought into this essential image of feminism.”

Where along the way has the definition of a word that seemingly meant to evoke one streamlined belief — equality —  become so muddled that we’re continuing to have a conversation about the issue as opposed to the solution? Does it boil down to a distorted absence of human — as opposed to women’s — rights? Have we appropriately placed our collective pulse on what the real problem is here? Where do we — if we can at all — locate a lasting resolution?

Tell us here in around 500 words. All submissions should be e-mailed to write@manrepeller.com and if you’re feeling particularly active, use the hashtag #mrwritersclub to show us your progress.

Paris Fashion Week Street Style Superlatives

Paris is not just a feast for the eyes, it’s an emotional carb-load after a month-long marathon where even Internet spectators holding up supportive signs from their digital portals feel like they could use a Gatorade and foot massage. It’s the climax to a buildup of countless runways, endless trend reports, street style stalking and eyes weary of words like “Spring 15″ and “chic.” Yet just as runners allegedly get a final surge of power when the finish line rises over the horizon and into their sight, it appears that those who attend the Paris shows take a deep breath, chug a Red Bull, and pull the why nots out from the depths of their beautiful closets.

With that, we present the winners of our Paris Fashion Week Street Style Superlatives.

Most Inspired by their Own Reflections

I get it. One time I physically ran into Leandra because she was exiting the elevator on our floor by a mirror that I was using to check out my own butt.

“Most Economical Because You Guys Packed Your Own Lunches” Award 

I’ll trade you my Orangina for your Chanel.

Kanye gets the “Most Sad Award,” because he didn’t pack his lunch

I make the same face when the restaurant I’m craving isn’t on Seamless.

The “I Remember When You Were *This Big*” Award

Just smile and keep on dressing on. At least your parents let you wear a skirt without tights in October.

Most Likely to Love Tim Burton:

Or be Deadmau5′s hyper-elegant twin sister

For the Jeans: The “Angry Dads Unite” Award 

Dads will never understand the value of ripped jeans like we do.

Most Confused about How this is Comfortable Award

Technically that award goes to me, so I’ll give these two the “You Look Like ‘The Notebook’” award.

Most Likely to Get Put at the End of Every Fashion Week Slideshow Award

We refuse to succumb!

Most Likely to Confuse the Shit out of Anyone with Bad Vision Who is Standing Kind of Far Away (Award)

Up close though it’s like, “Oh cool! I get it! You match your car. That wasn’t clear from two blocks away, though.”

The “Me When It’s Almost Friday” Award

Because it is almost Friday, and she gets it.

There’s plenty more in the slideshow that we haven’t assigned superlatives to, though, so re-post your favorite look in the comments and hand out some awards.

What Are You Going To Be for Halloween?

Give me any opportunity to dress in some sort of theme, and I’m there. An ’80s party where the century wasn’t explicitly stated on the sender’s Paperless Post? I’ve got a Benjamin Franklin bald-spot wig in my closet ready to go. A roaring ’20s fete? Obviously I’m pairing a a lion mask with a flapper dress and one of those long sticks that make it easier for lazy people to fake-smoke. Famous Couples Throughout History Dinner? Sign me up. I keep two spare Dillon Panthers hats in my life for a reason.

In fact, I love a theme so much that I can’t believe it’s October 2nd and I haven’t even asked you my number 1 favorite question right after, “Are you gonna eat that?”

I do apologize, so here it is: what are you going to be for Halloween?

Normally I have mine planned mid-July but I’m a little stuck this year, wavering somewhere between Icebox O’Shea from “Little Giants,” a tourist dad, or a mom on a cruise, all of which would enable maximum comfort and the latter two, a reason to find the nearest buffet.

Your turn!

Image on the left shot by Katriena Emmanuel, Image on the right shot by Terry Richardson for Aldo

Is it Lunch Time? No. But Here are 5 Things to Talk About When the Time Comes

Magazines are expensive, man. Here’s a pop culture roundup so that you don’t have to stealthily read gossip rags in the aisles of Duane Reade. The only five things you need to know this AM, aside from what you’re having for lunch, are:

1. Lena Dunham’s   “N ot That Kind of Girl ”  is Now in a Bookstore Near You

Lena Dunham is ready to tell you what she’s learned. In her collection of humorous essays, Dunham touches on everything from finding true love to her life long obsession with death and dying. I hope there’s mention of Q-tips. [Amazon]

2. Joaquin Phoenix’s Sideburns Need Their Own Seat on the Subway 

Have you seen those babies in the new Inherent Vice trailer? The Paul Thomas Anderson film is one of the most highly anticipated of the year, and though I’m not sure exactly how he’s going to adapt Thomas Pynchon’s “drug-fueled’” detective story, I’m positive there’s no one better to try and no one better to star than dear ole’ Joaquin and his sideburns.

3. Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher Welcome a Baby Girl

…bachelors everywhere let out a collective sigh. The engaged couple are now parents to the baby girl who’s sure to give Shiloh Pitt a run for her money. She’ll undoubtedly be cooler than any of us because, “That 70′s Show.” [E Online]

4. Speaking of the 70s, Nick Offerman of “Parks and Recreation” has a new show coming out called “Full Bush”

Meanwhile, his thoughts on manscaping are that it’s “an abomination of the English language.”

5. Kate Moss Models Stella McCartney Lingerie in Support of Breast Cancer Month 

Who better than Stella McCartney to design a lingerie line for breast cancer awareness, and who better to model it than Kate Moss? McCartney explained the idea behind the neon pink bra and briefs saying, “I wanted to remind women that when they wear this set, the first thing they put on in the morning, to keep on top of their health and visit their doctor regularly.” [Daily Mail]

Split Personality Texting Disorder

Lara is terrible at texting.

Her response time is fine — better than mine, anyway — but for someone who is one of the most gregarious, kind, funny and physically demonstrative human beings that I know, she texts like angry mom.

A recent, paraphrased sampling between us:

Me: Omg hi!!!

Me: So

Me: Do you know where dinner is tonight?

Me: Because I know that she told us but I can’t remember the address or the time.

Me: Oh crap we should bring something huh. Wine?

Me: Do you think you’ll go right after work?

Lara: Yes. [*texts address*]

End of convo.

This idea of split personality texting disorder (for the sake of brevity let’s call it SPTD) was originally brought up by my friend Heather, positioned as a common thread between a few different guys she’s dated. There’s one who sounds like the male equivalent of Lara: bold in person, icy on text. Then there’s another who’s just the opposite — boy can swap playful banter via balloon bubbles for hours; in person he speaks the vocal equivalent of “K.”

I once dated a guy for a very short period of time who texted, quite honestly, like he was insane. If I hadn’t met him in person first and we’d been introduced in a digital space, I probably would have blocked him immediately for emoji abuse, excessive punctuation, dramatic capitalization and superfluous LOLing.

Speaking of LOLs — never judge a texter by his or her laugh.

My roommate, Lev, has my exact sense of humor and gets all of my jokes. I know this for a fact because I’ve lived with him for the past four years; if he doesn’t crack up immediately at something I say it’s because he didn’t hear me, whereas if he doesn’t laugh at my texts, it’s because I don’t think he knows how. 7 out of 10 gifs I send him are met with the stoic “ha.” Every once in a while I get a stupid, unsatisfying “lol.”

Then there are those, like me, who operate in either one of two texting realms. The first is absolute silence, resulting in frequent messages of “Hello? Amelia? Are you dead?” The second is full blown rapid-fire insanity (I hit the return button with shameless abandon. A new line for every punchline — that’s my unofficial texting motto). Meanwhile in person, I’m fairly even-keeled. Who I am over text hopefully does not define me.

I think everyone has a little bit of SPTD. Consider your own awkwardness during courtship; how simple answers become Rubik’s Cube puzzles of flirtation that result in your shaking a Magic 8 ball for the best response. (“Try again later? Shit. But my read receipts are on.”) You’ve probably wondered at least once why you’re so funny in person but your responses resemble a Gregorian Chant on dating apps or regular texting.

The best we can do is show understanding of our fellow SPTD comrades. Do not call them angry moms, as I recently did with Lara. Maybe they have broken thumbs and “k” was all they could muster. Give them the benefit of the autocorrect doubt when they send an unnecessarily “HAHAHA.” Offer them compassion. Or a Snickers. You’re not you either when you’re texting.

Vintage Yves Saint Laurent for Sale

The Saint Laurent that we know now — under the eye of Hedi Slimane — is a world apart from Yves’ Saint Laurent. If fashion is about moving forward, though, or at the very least staying in the moment (and selling clothes for that particular moment), then Slimane is killing it. The thing is, when a heritage brand’s DNA runs deeper than its overarching themes (in this brand’s case: rebellion, experimentation, high society), there’s a certain delight in looking back at where the brand started — not as a means of comparison or critique, but rather to feel that nostalgic connection to a past era.

Today, Resee.com (an online vintage boutique) launched part 1 of their 4 part sale-series featuring vintage Yves Saint Laurent. There are dresses from Yves’ Fall 1971 collection, Safari pieces from the late 60’s, capes from 1969, peasant skirts from the 1970s and 1960s haute couture. Price-wise, considering this is vintage Yves Saint Laurent, it’s honestly fairly reasonable. But even if you’re farther away from making a $1200 purchase than I am from running naked across the stage of a Broadway show, it’s still pretty cool to check out designs that were once the bread and butter of a brand that very much continues to surprise fashion, even now.

[Resee Vintage Saint Laurent Sale]

 

The Basic Project

Halfway between the first fifteen people who were ordering math equations instead of lattes and those who were unsure if this was the line for the bathroom, I started to regret my decision. It was day one of my Basic Project — a self assigned investigation into the world of a word so deeply embedded into our lexicon that it no longer requires the expletive, like when a celebrity no longer needs a last name — and there I was, officially late because of my Starbucks basic blend.

“No regrets,” I reminded myself. My secret Pinterest board said so.

“Basic” has become a basic word itself due to the term’s mainstream usage, but there’s discrepancy in its over-blogged and memed definition. Some believe that “being basic” applies to lifestyle choices and apparel, whereas others believe that basic is a sheep-mentality state of mind. Both have negative connotations. All I cared about is: in terms of living the so called basic life (lattes, froyo, flash tats) – was it really that bad?

The hardest part was getting dressed. This wasn’t because my typical outfits are so earth shatteringly unique, but rather because in terms of research there appeared to be a strong carryover of trendy-loungewear influence from the year 2004 (leggings, yoga pants, etc), yet very little information as to what shirts were considered B-word appropriate.

Luckily for me, I once blacked out and bought a tank top that says, “You can’t sit with us.”

Every day I wore some variation of the same thing: leggings, Uggs, aviators and a t-shirt. Minus the shearling footwear I felt like myself on the way to the gym or me when I tell everyone I’m going to the gym and then go buy a doughnut from that place around the corner instead. On days when it was below 70 degrees I made a big deal about wearing sweaters for fall. I sent Snapchats about it. Basic girls supposedly love the Snapchat.

On the weekend, one of my guy friends suggested I wear “one of those shirts made out of jeans.” (Chambray.) He told me that the commonality between all the women he considered basic is that they “look a little bit Western, like they listen to Taylor Swift.”

Apparently basic girls love scarves too, so I took one for a spin Monday morning and only experienced mild commuter heat stroke.

I was starting to see a theme here, which is that a lot of people like the things allegedly “basic” girls like — social media, for one. Scarves, for another.

In terms of lifestyle, I’ve already been told that the bars I frequent are kind of basic. Going to brunch the next morning was easy. I stepped up my gym routine (SoulCycle once, hot yoga twice), I drank green juice, coconut juice, and mixed my vodka with “a splash of cran.” On Tuesday I ate pumpkin spice yogurt. On Friday, I drank a pumpkin spice latte. (This, I will have you know, was the only time Starbucks spelled my name right.) People told me to Instagram sunsets with with earnest captions (“But do it from your fake account,” they cautioned. “Cheesy sunsets are embarrassing.”) And I took a lot, a lot, a lot of selfies.

“Nails,” declared one friend. “You have to get a manicure.” I mean, anything for the story.

I was starting to see a second theme here, which is that being basic rules. Who the hell decided these things were bad? Someone that hates the barely-country voice of a singing angel,  and comfortable clothes? Someone who has never been hugged by a girl wearing that delicious smelling perfume everyone seems to intuitively know to wear?

The Official Declarers of That Which Is Basic have clearly never experienced the freedom of sitting cross legged in yoga pants at the office, nor felt the love that is a sheep’s wig engulfing ones feet. Maybe they don’t have a Panera in their neighborhood (basic girls have a thing for paninis and salads) so it’s possible these anti-basics don’t even know what they’re missing.

MAYBE they once tried a pumpkin spiced latte and got scared because they liked it too much. That shit sure does taste like witch craft, so I don’t blame them for being suspicious.

I know I’ve complained about basic things, like Pinterest and Soul Cycle. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love inspiration, or endorphins, or remixed beats! I’m only human — I can’t help but get excited when the bass drops, or when temporary tattoos come in gold. Or maybe I just actually am basic; I did once wear a shirt with a peplum. To which I say: T-Swift, hand me the froyo.

Basic shirt courtesy of Ashish

Half Up, Half Down in Half a Second

My hair has two ideal personas: surfer, and Blair Waldorf.

The surfer thing works out pretty well for me and my hair, considering the fact that neither of us surf. In the summer, it’s a little bit wave-y, a little bit too long, a little bit in need of a wash but because beach is implied, “dirty” is not. This takes a turn for the worse every fall.

By mid-September I look like a deranged hippie. What was seen as endearingly tangled just a month prior quickly becomes an investigation into whether or not I even know what a hairbrush is, which is then followed by the inevitable haircut that sends my mane into a confused triangle of fluff and mayhem until it’s able to put on a little bit of winter weight.

This stage is hard. It’s similar to growing out bangs but even worse because it involves an entire head. The whole team has to get on board, and we (my hair and I) are not about to wake up for a blowdrying session 5 days a week. At the same time, there’s something about autumn that makes me want to appear more ladylike. Polished. More I-eat-my-yogurt-on-the-steps-of-the-Met, less I-still-have-sand-in-my-scalp-from-last-year.

I came across the solution by accident when I was sitting in car with my dad. He has weird habits, like brushing the fringe on carpets with a teeny broom and clipping electrical chords together with little butterfly claws that he buys from the drugstore to keep everything tidy, and for the first time in my life the latter came in handy when I absentmindedly used one to pull back my post-trim hair.

It was a revelation. It took less than one second and I instantly looked put together. I felt — dare I say it — a little bit like Blair Waldorf, which opened up a whole world of accessorizing outfits to my hair clips, my go-to being anything plaid by this hair brand called France Luxe. They have a whole bunch of stuff (like scrunchies, in case you just read 80s hair band instead of hair brand, although if you’re sticking with the prep school vibe then may I point you in the direction of this tartan pony holder).

May I pause to point out that Cara Delevingne’s doing the half-up hair on the cover of October W, and at Céline the models wore theirs 50/50 too.

If you have super thick hair, a wide barrette is the way to go. (I am part-horse and this one can hold everything back at once, if I need it to.) The plaid bobby pins are better if you want to get creative (make an X, use 3 in a row, use 20 in a row, you do you).

Finally, these long oval ones look like little plaid surfboards. Wearing them is like an homage to that summer surfer-even-though-I-don’t-surf persona…even if these barrettes make me feel more like a girl who eats yogurt on the steps of the Met. Yogurt or a gigantic soft pretzel. Probably the pretzel.

Part of a collaboration with The Finest Accessories, Inc.

Mindy Can Keep Her Stuff at My Place if She Wants

I think we can agree that the first and last minutes of all future Mindy Project episodes will continue to revolve around Danny-Mindy foreplay, which means if your DVR cuts off the opening you’re not really missing much. My DVR kindly kept in Mindy’s suggestion that they have sex on a washing machine.

The two are still in their honeymoon phase — high libidos, frequent sleepovers — the latter of which means it’s time for them to have the “stuff at your place” talk, a conversation more crucial than “what are we?” and “bathroom policies: open door versus closed door.” Mindy wants to keep a few belongings at Danny’s. He hates the idea. This annoys me because her items fit in the airport-liquid-restrictions-approved method of a plastic baggie, and if it’s good enough for TSA then it should be good enough for Danny. Besides, it’s really annoying to carry a toothbrush and hairbrush around in a purse –  what if she decides that today is a clutch day?

The next morning, in a twist that no one saw coming except for me because On Demand has an unabashed love of spoiling plot lines, Mindy gets served with a lawsuit for tax evasion. Just like The Situation! Sometimes life really does imitate art.

She needs a lawyer, and fast. Luckily her office building is the equivalent of Bed, Bath & Beyond in that it seems to house every important need one could ever have including a bagel shop, so she visits her ex Cliff who reminds Mindy that she broke his heart by cheating on him with Danny. Oops!

Mindy realizes that Cliff still has feelings for her and develops an elaborate lie to gain his sympathy, in exchange for free legal services, claiming that Danny cheated on her too and they’re no longer together. “I’m surprised you feel comfortable telling me all that,” Cliff says. “So comfortable,” replies Mindy. “I actually just farted.” The two establish an open bathroom policy; Cliff agrees to take on her tax case.

Downstairs at Shulman & Associates, Peter is having tension with Jeremy because of  friggen’ Lauren. Danny remarks that Peter is being strangely nice to Jeremy despite all that went down. In what is zero-percent helpful advice Danny offers the 3 people a man should reserve his kisses for: “Your ma, your girl, and your wresting coach after you win regionals.”

If you were worried about Mindy’s lie, you should be. She tells Danny they have to pretend to be broken up, he’s strangely okay with it because he takes tax evasion very seriously, and then classic Mindy project: Mindy, Danny and Cliff wind up in the elevator together where it’s hard to hide much of anything. To cover any suspicions Danny admits to “cheating” on Mindy with a Knicks cheerleader, and then that weirdo holistic doctor who Mindy also hooked up with (Bed Bath & way Beyond) gets into elevator to further shake things up.

I totally forgot about him.

Later, at what appears to be a fancier, wrap-based version of Panera, Lauren officially ends it with a very unkempt looking Peter, blinding him with the breakup and me with the fact that she has a child named Henry. When Lauren excuses herself for a moment Peter pledges to be there for this random baby. His promise is quickly dismissed by the next scene but I feel will come back to haunt all of us later.

Now, let’s hit the fast-forward-but-not-too-fast button and wrap this up. (Kind of a weird episode, no? Or maybe it’s because there was a serious lack of Morgan and Tamra last night.)

- Cliff takes Mindy out to dinner to go over her tax evasion case. She lies to Danny and says she’s going to the gym. Cliff doesn’t really help with her tax problem but he does reveal that Danny is still legally married.

- Mindy calls Danny out later in the evening. Diamond Dan has a lot of secrets, it turns out, but even though he’s not “legally” divorced his marriage is  “technically” annulled. Mindy’s still mad, Danny’s mad she lied about being at the gym. “I don’t even know where a gym is,” she responds. Mindy, I’m still with you on this one.

- We’re back at the office again. Perhaps suspecting that if Jeremy stays around then he’ll be the one to pick up Henry (random baby) from Dartmouth after illegal hazing (Peter’s hopes & dreams for the baby’s future) Peter calls Lauren’s office and does a terrible Austin Powers impersonation. He finds out Lauren is having lunch with Jeremy, and then later we find out he made one more call: immigration services, to have Jeremy investigated.

- Jeremy announces he may have to go back to England and Peter looks like he feels bad, kind of.

- It backfires when Jeremy does not get deported, but the scare makes Lauren realize she wants to be with her British male-mistress. This is like Downton Abbey!

- It gets juicier. Danny barges into Cliff’s office for spilling the beans on his marriage. In yet another weird turn-o-events (this time, not ruined by my DVR), Cliff offers to help Danny finalize the divorce in exchange for an old folding char from a Yankees game that Danny fawned over at the beginning of the episode (when Mindy was complaining about Danny liking his things more than her).

- Cliff comes to pick up the chair from Danny’s apartment and comments on the fact that there’s no sign of Mindy. Apparently Mindy left her bras in his oven when they were dating, which touches a nerve in Danny, you can tell.

- We think they’ve sort of bonded until Cliff reveals he’s a Red Sox fan and plans on burning the chair.

- Cliff does keep his promise to finalize Danny’s divorce, however, and later that night, after Danny tells Mindy she can eat all of the chocolate off his popsicles, he shows her the pink dresser he bought for her to keep her stuff in. Aww.

And then they go have sex in a closet.

PS: For those of you who requested gifs of Diamond Dan in action…

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Now. Did anyone else get a little bored in this episode? Or was it actually your favorite and maybe I just wasn’t paying attention? Had anyone else forgotten about the witch doctor? Where was Tamra? Who wants more Morgan? Most importantly, who should we set Peter up with? Weigh in.

Another One Proves His Salt: Gehry-quière for Vuitton

Nicolas Ghesquière showed his first spring collection for Louis Vuitton this morning at the soon-to-open Fondation Louis Vuitton, a contemporary art museum designed by Frank Gehry in Neuilly to look, as Vanity Fair put it, like “a crystal palace that is in the middle of an explosion.” Of course, what’s more impressive is precisely what lent Gehry his sparkling reputation: that the architectural marvel is new. It is, like Nicolas Ghesquière’s clothing for Vuitton, unlike anything you’ve seen before — even if it can feel familiar.

But that familiarity is actually just emotion driven home by artists who know what they like, because the thing about Ghesquière, and maybe this is true for Gehry too, is that he doesn’t just make stuff — he feels it. And he is so scrupulous about the way it is presented.

What started with a white victorian collar atop a mini dress that looked like it was lace even though it was knit slowly progressed to boast the spectacular though expected leather stitch work of Ghesquière. It was served on high waist, A-line mini skirts, a sleeveless jumper dress and a collarless jacket in burgundy and yellow, and burgundy and navy stripes. There was denim, too: selvedge in two high waist, cropped though not particularly skinny cases, velvet in several others and kitschy in another pair of pants. Meanwhile a dress and a skirt revealed painted lash curlers, cigarettes, nail polish and the new box bag by Vuitton on an ivory backdrop.

The truest acknowledgement of spring came in a group of airy, white mini dresses and one velvet bikini top shown with matching pants, but was taken back quickly by the heavily floral printed sequined tops — or were they dresses? — shown with delicately cut tights. All the models wore boots, and in a pair of black jeans replete with leather knee pads, Freja Beha closed the show.

I remember in February, after seeing Ghesquière’s first collection for the house and specifically the anterior Beha’s look (an ivory turtleneck, black jacket with camel wide lapels and A-line skirt) feeling so enthusiastic about the clothes. That didn’t exactly happen this season and I suspect this was deliberate. It was Ghesquière for Vuitton, what we’ve been conditioned to expect. To accept openly, but expect.

But don’t get me wrong, I was excited, just this time for a different reason. It wasn’t about the fashion, or the models, with their cool, clean hair and fresh earrings. It was impressive that over thirty days of shows and new clothes later, there was not even an iota of fatigue to be found in the room.

Like with a Gehry building, the context and environment of Ghesquière’s Vuitton might change, but you know when you’re looking at it. It’s proud, unapologetically itself and underscores an interesting point about The Wheel. Maybe none of us need to reinvent it so much as we do think about what it would mean to abandon it.

Images via Style.com