Leandra Medine's Blog, page 732

Style of the Seven Sisters

If you hail from California you probably find that all people ask is, “Why did you leave?”

Why did I leave…why would I leave? Why, when East Coast winters are spent in fleece-lined bras and heat-tech underwear, complaining about the snow and the windchill that can break lips like glass? Why, when humid New York summers turn hair to cotton candy and slick skin with sweat and stain satin like a glazed doughnut does to starch paper?

Because there was something about brick stacked, ivy-lined buildings that called my name. Something about wood-paneled hatchbacks and cable knits and houndstooth, navy wallpaper and a quintessential fall. Something about the idea of attending a “liberal arts college,” classical music playing in the background while poring over literature, and a fresh pair of penny loafers…all of which I probably picked up from F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s “This Side of Paradise” (as opposed to, you know, the book’s more important themes).

But where my fascination in these American-collegiate aesthetics used to revolve around the men — my grandfather, the Dead Poets, F. Scott’s Princeton-inspired words — I’ve recently started appreciating what it was that the women wore. Suddenly I’ve found myself wondering how best to work slacks and blazers into my wardrobe without appearing like a boy but rather, a lady. I want to wear buttoned oxfords with high-waisted heavy denim under camel coats with socks, of all things. Pearls. Thank god fashion brought back the pearl. In a book that recently came out titled “Seven Sisters Style,” fashion historian Rebecca Tuite practically heard my plea then wrote to it.

My takeaway was that there’s four things I need to approximate the women who reigned sartorially over the northeastern college scene: denim, a men’s shirt, something khaki, flats, an unfussy skirt and a blazer. I could do that. We could do that.

“Whether they were plaid, plain, striped, flannel, cotton, brand-new, or a thrift-store find, above all else a Seven Sister’s button-down had to be men’s.” – Rebecca Tuite




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“Versatility was the golden rule of the Seven Sister’s style.” – Rebecca Tuite

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“…fashion critics quickly noticed how [Perry] Ellis evoked a quintessential ‘insouciant feeling–of a college woman slipping into her boyfriend’s jacket that is a size or so too big for her…’ This was precisely what the Seven Sisters women had popularized many years before.” — from the chapter “Slouch: A Seven Sisters Tradition”

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“From the late 1940s, the popularity of denim increasingly became a statement on the preferred functionality of clothing for college life.” – From her chapter on “The Cult of Denim”

 

And as for that whole thing about acting like a lady of the Seven Sisters? Ha. Well, that’s at your discretion.

The Thing About Accessories

There are two definitive things that unflinchingly make the outfit.

Actually, let me modify that — one of them isn’t “a thing” so much as it is the outfit’s proprietor. I know I’ve heretofore referenced a quote once spoken by Mark Twain (“clothes make the man”) too many times, which he probably did not anticipate would proliferate the way it has, but today, I actually only cite it to side with Theophilus London’s relatively recent adjustment because, “It’s the man who makes the clothes.”

The other thing that makes an outfit, which unfolds several different ways but always boils back down to reveal itself as the progeny of one universal device, is accessorizing. I came to adopt this as fact the first time my mother ever advised me to invest my money in shoes and handbags because I could improvise the rest using close to nothing. Granted, close to nothing doesn’t typically translate to mean, as photographed here, a Derek Lam blouse and Valentino jeans, but it should certainly connote a sense of “I own those ingredients — I can make that, too!” (See: jeans, t-shirt.) Where things get fun is in the styling. Enter the following three outfits:

As a rule, you can assume that no matter the cut, no matter the sleeve volume, jeans and a blouse can almost always function as your blank canvas. Also, by sticking to neutral colors you allow for a more jovial pop where the accessories are concerned. This is precisely why in the first look, I combined a circular Yazbukey Gum bag and a rainbow neck scarf (replete with unicorns though you can’t see them) to offset the black and blue but compliment the cognac-colored tassel clogs. The idea was to treat the 70s like they never ended.

Outfit #2 stripped the quirk and focused more acutely on honing in on a woman’s inner chiropractor. Just kidding. But she does wear back-friendly shoes, what with their pithy stacked heel. For accessories, I meditatively chose of pair of paradoxically youthful shades and kept it simple with the meager inclusion of one shark tooth necklace, hanging from a long silver chain.

And finally, in rendering #3, I took seriously the power of jewelry with a white, bib-style Rosantica necklace and witty Delfina Delettrez bee-cuff to hold up against a pair of studded shoes which could conceivably moonlight as a necklace too (think about this for a second, there are long leather cords that could be tied together and we can be the first living humans to insouciantly wear shoes on our necks!) and a tiny minaudiere that feels a little like a couch my aunt used to have in her home on Long Island, which can’t hold much other than your credit card and dignity. But then again, what else do you need?

Part one of one in a collaboration with MATCHESFASHION.COM.

Consider the Culottes

Culottes! Of course! It was only a matter of time before the neither-pants-neither-shorts streamed into the fashion consciousness to stake their claim as Best Trend Ever and at last! Here we are! Considering culottes the way David Foster Wallace once did lobsters! Marveling in the notion that come summer, real summer, the respite from denim cut-offs might actually, finally be a pint of ice cream and some taffeta to cover the residual effects of the saccharine, dairy confection.

But why was it only a matter of time?

If you’ve got your walking sneakers, I’ve got the tools to help jog your memory.

On July 12, 2012, when I still occupied the same residence as two adults who bear the same last name as I do, who have heretofore convinced me of their status as my respective creators, I considered resort. (The season — not the beachside, temporary places of occupancy.)

There was Marc Jacobs and Derek Lam and of course there was Celine. Gucci got involved, too, and all these design houses, these prolific, reputable design houses, introduced a silhouette to the zeitgeist. One I mistakably derived from Italian culture and called “the cropped palazzo pant” when I should have known the word that is French-derivative is always the one that prevails.

Fast forward nearly two years and here we are + green Taffeta culottes + navy taffeta shirt (I swish when I walk) + ice cream.

I am personally inclined to vet in favor of the born-again cropped pants for two reasons. The first being fashion’s uncanny and always-inevitable ability to forecast itself. For every ten trends that fall off the same season of their inception there is always The Unassuming One. This one tends to come in like a lamb, allow itself to be shepherded until BAM! It’s a lion, disseminating its raison d’être faster than a Mexican mouse runs through the desert.

Trend specifically, the pants also seem to allow for a larger demographic of body types to participate in a pop-culturally accepted trend, which, by the way, may or may not hearken back to a vague and oft-misunderstood totem of prehistoric feminism with their meditated, look-like-a-skirt-but-split-like-pants appearance. Of course, there will be arguments running amuck both in favor and against the look so, who’s interested in delving into the meat of that? Say Bill Nye The Science Guy, I!

Go ahead, shop around. Our slideshow is optimized to facilitate your dropping it like its hot.

Photography by Matt Borkowski

Let it Rain

Lemons are great if you’re using them conservatively in hot water to promote fluid digestion (pun so intended). But if you’re just squeezing and squeezing to see how much juice comes out and then using that juice to promote not digestion (or lemonade) but to emulate the distinct facial expression of a sourpuss that transcends the boundaries of aesthetic grotesqueness, I think we should have a talk.

Not necessarily about lemons but definitely about why you’re squinting so hard.

I spent last week in Mexico consuming constipation that knows no mercy in the form of Kosher for Passover nourishment while Amelia, still planted firmly at her desk in the depths of Noho, lamented about the wet weather of a less climactically fortunate New York.

I understand that it was easy for me, from my brightly lit vantage point, to wax poetic on the benefits of abundant rain and for her, in the throes of the anterior, to want to axe (less than poetically) my flowery prose in the face.

But as I ease back into a reality that comes replete with the same wet weather she (all of you?) has been admonishing, I maintain that rain isn’t that bad. Agriculturally, it’s kind of the da bomb. And while yeah, sure, the sun is out today, that is not a fact I was privvy to until I opened my eyes this morning to learn that the little cloud in my iPhone’s weather app done me wrong and this was already written. Then again, it’s April. And even the most primitive nursery rhyme knows that this month, more than any month, brings on begrudging showers.

But back to that point about lemons. We at Man Repeller love lemons and said love comes as easily as not perpetuating the fruit’s negative properties. So in the spirit of that AND for the sake of this remarkably sunny day (according to a very reliable meteorologist called My Thumb, it might be the last of it’s kind through the foreseeable future), consider this a Monday morning pick me up pro rain, anti suede.

The Best Fashion Advice You’ve Ever Received

They say that procrastination is bad. “They” have been saying this for as long as humans have had chores to do, homework to complete, deadlines to meet and awkward phone calls to make. It’s putting off the inevitable, creating a gap of time during which we stress and complain about the very thing we wanted to avoid.

But sometimes procrastination can be inspiring. A walk around the block can trigger an idea or provide clarity. Trolling the Internet can lead to the discovery of a song that releases endorphins and changes the whole day. For us at Man Repeller, some of the best stories come from not doing the other (probably urgent) thing it was that we were supposed to be doing.

Like writing, for example. Whenever we don’t feel like writing or shooting or brainstorming or yodeling — for some reason yodeling is a requirement at MR — you know what we do? We read the comments. (You can often tell we are really procrastinating when we respond to every single one from 1988, and Leandra wasn’t even born yet so I don’t know how that’s possible from an archival standpoint, but whatever.)

In fact it was the comments section of a recent Minor Cogitation that spurred this very post you’re reading right now. Leandra asked, “What’s the best fashion advice you’ve ever received?” And clearly you guys were procrastinating getting a Brazilian Wax off a sharp cliff in Antarctica or something, because man on man did you answer.

We’re glad you did, though. That extreme waxing sounds dangerous. And as it turns out, the best fashion advice you’ve ever received is some of the best we have ever heard. One of you wrote, “Don’t wear it unless you can dance in it.” Said another: “Always check your scarf for crumbs after a meal.”

So if procrastination is indeed bad, then maybe we don’t want to be right. Who cares if we meet our deadlines? Thanks to your sweet words and the illustrations of one Charlotte Fassler, we’re all going to look as flyy as a frisbee on Friday.

And feel free to give us some more style advice to comment on. You know, for when Monday rolls around and we need an exceptionally good distraction.

An Actually-Blind Blind Date

My dad once brought up the mind-blowing question, “Can you imagine what it must be like to see ‘Romeo & Juliet’ and not know how it ends?” I honestly cannot. By the time we reach 4th grade we’ve all heard some version of the two “star-crossed lovers” who can’t bear the thought of being alive without the other. By age 25 we’ve analyzed their deaths to death in a multitude of classrooms, seen every movie version (including the one with Leo at least five times), and memorized certain lines.

Dating in our digital age has become just like that story of Juliet and her Romeo: we have so much access to personal information (hellooo creative investigation) that by the time we actually sit down for date number one we can practically predict the outcome. Or at the very least, we create self-fulfilling prophecies based on too much information at hand; we either like the person prematurely due to facts we dug up that sounded appealing — He saves orphan seals!! – or conversely, we accidentally sabotage the whole thing due to facts we dug up that sounded unappealing (for instance, maybe you hate seals).

The interview format of a typical first date has become an unnecessary formality too. As with Romeo & Juliet, we’ve memorized the lines before meeting:

“Oh, you’re in advertising! How interesting! I absolutely did not know that because I 100% did not stalk your LinkedIn account via my friend’s LinkedIn account so that you wouldn’t know that I was looking at your profile.”

God help you if you’re one of those people who can’t help but mouth along with the dialogue.

I’ve often wondered, much like my dad did about the Shakespeare classic, what it would be like to go into a date knowing nothing. No premeditated expectations, no bullshit reasons for why “I already know it’s not going to work,” per my most frequently uttered line. I wanted to experience a true blind date, like the kind before Facebook and Google. So I did what any other investigative journalist would do: asked around and got myself set up.

Securing the date was the easy part. Not resorting to my usual researching techniques, however, took more restraint than I’ve ever had to exercise. I felt like one of those poor dogs with a treat sitting on my nose; all the information I could want was right there and I wasn’t allowed to consume it.

Considering that I’d have no real “story” if I cheated, I stayed strong.

When it came time for the date I realized I’d done such a good job at my own assignment, I had absolutely no clue what he looked like. (Fun fact: if one my contacts fell out, which it almost did, it would have been a literal blind date!) Cue me sending one of those awkward texts like, “Hey…what do you look like?” He provided an adequate description, I located him in the restaurant, and from there we fell madly, deeply, head over heels in balcony climbing, I-would-die-if-you-died love.

Kidding.

But I did have a fun time, and I spent the evening learning new things about someone who I’d never met before. It was refreshing to walk into a situation without prejudgement, to be able to ask genuine questions without fear that I’d let some research-accrued fact slip. Was it as revolutionary as my dad’s concept about Romeo and Juliet without the spoiler alert? No. But it was nice not knowing the ending.

Photograph by Thomas Giddings

There’s No Wrong Way to Wear a Ribbon

I have been told on a number of occasions that I maintain the symptoms of a disorder that is prominently evident in toddlers. The name of this disorder has yet to be determined but the details include the process of receiving a gift and finding greater interest in the accoutrements that festoon the gift vis-a-vis the gift itself

Consider this prime example: a shiny white package, tied neatly with a long, red satin ribbon lands at my doorstep, right? Rather than race through that ribbon to see what’s inside of the concealed, sacred box, I stop short immediately after divorcing the wrapping from said box to marvel instead at how pristine and lovely and multifunctional this slender piece of lush cloth is.

I can wear it around my neck like a choker, or my wrist like a bracelet, or my upper arm like a blood pressure device and that’s not it. Said ribbon also moonlights as a hair tie that makes me feel like Sandra Dee if Ms. Dee had expressed a penchant for shoes that could be mistaken for dead cockroaches.

What?

But wait! That’s still not it. You are always cutting me off.

The ribbon could also be used to harken back to the spirit of Saint Laurent’s debut collection with its floppy, rich bows. Granted, in this iteration, they’re considerably paltrier. It can also masquerade itself as a makeshift belt. One that, when paired with the proper jacket, might actually cause an onlooker to confuse you for Emmanuelle Alt (provided that this onlooker is either legally blind or at least an astigmatism carrier), otherwise it will make your waist look fancy and trim in an otherwise boxy and decidedly long jacket.

And when the opportunities appear so manifold (it can function as a headband when Coachella is on your horizon and you are an idiot), so diverse, so open to constructive criticism and ready to act accordingly, who really cares what’s in the box anyway, right?

Right.

Atea jacket, Everlane blouse, Isabel Marant Étoile pants and clear framed non-functional eyeglasses by Charlotte Ronson, which make me feel like a wonderfully kooky gardener from the depths of 1970 SoHo, named Suz. 

The 30% Theory

I hate to brag. But I have to say I found it surprisingly simple to pack for my four-month trip to London. As someone who has spent spent the past decade of her life on a mission to streamline her style to the point of functional uniformity, I like to think I’ve earned it.

We’ve talked about this before. The contents of my closet are barely distinguishable from one another. They tend to blur together. Spin yourself around a few times in front of my closet and point to something at random. There is a 78% chance it is jet black. But despite their harmony, the items at home in my dressers are special to me. I handpicked each and every one of them. I treasure them all. Except — of course — for those dozens I hardly ever wear.

The reality is that I only wear 30% (I was being dramatic in my lede) of my wardrobe. And I bet you do too.

The realization dawned on me several weeks before my departure. I had been packing up my room at school when I discovered a sealed box under my bed. Eight of my very own dresses and five sweaters lay neatly inside. I can only assume they had been sitting there since I arrived on campus in September.

I hastily repacked the box. I was embarrassed somehow; to have failed to even register their absence seemed wasteful and indulgent and sloppy. I resolved that I would do better in preparation for London. I would leave New York armed only with the fraction of my closet that I actually wore.

I nixed impractical tops and jeans that fit best after food poisoning. I decided against an odd orange-y dress and vetoed silk trousers. I made space only for staples: the sweaters I wore again and again, jeans that felt like a second skin, a pair of superlative ankle boots.

Clothes are not like children. It’s okay to play favorites among them. The silky dresses and cozy knitwear I decided to bring with me were mine. I was sure of it. These were the 30%.

They served me well at first. Given their limited quantity, there were only so many outfits to consider each morning. Not since the fourth grade had I gotten dressed and ready so quickly. I imagined sharing a laugh and a bottle of Malbec with Emmanuelle Alt in our identical black denim. We would discuss sartorial liberation and debate the maker of the perfect blazer. It all felt possible.

But then I got homesick for the 70%. Because tucked between layers of expensive mistakes are things that I like not only to slip into sometimes, but also just to look at and own.

I love my uniform. But I miss the drama that once punctuated its monotony. I miss the tomato-red sweater I wear once a year and a Burberry jacket that bears a striking resemblance to duct tape. I can hardly move my arms in it. It’s amazing. I grieve for those minutes during which I might have deliberated Red Sweater Day only to dismiss it in favor of jeans and a boyish button-down.

I do not regret that I left this portion of my wardrobe behind. Virgin Atlantic does not accommodate sartorial nostalgia. But I do cherish the extravagant glory of the 70%. The pieces that constitute it make fashion fun and weird and unforgettable.

It is no accident that the things I have purchased since landing in London are not black or beige. They include a green velvet sheath dress, a vintage Hawaiian-print shirt, and a battered leather camera bag that I intend to use as a clutch.

Maybe. At least once.

Image shot by Tim Walker

The Five Day Smoothie Diet

I’ve been ordering lunch from a restaurant on 6th Street called Caravan of Dreams at least once a week since it was first recommended to me in November, but it was only last month when Kate turned me on to their Superfood Smoothies that I understood why it so haughtily called itself a caravan of dreams. That incredibly filling, 8 oz. cup-sized coalescence of health products seemed way too good to be good for you, which is obviously just a misconception about phytonutrients that has probably been perpetuated by General Mills. Or something.

Due to the unilateral success of the Tequila Diet (I know we didn’t really talk about this but I essentially craved only guacamole and, fine, jack cheese all day!), I thought I might consider implementing another self-fabricated diet and this time, I wanted to call it Smooth Move. When I learned this title was already occupied — and by a laxative tea brand, no less — I rectified my diet’s moniker to more plainly call it The Five Day Smoothie Diet.

The goal: to feel healthier after a week of overindulging. (Sixteen Handles in the morning, Sixteen Handles in the evening, Sixteen Handles at supper time. When Sixteen Handles is three blocks from your office you can eat it more frequently than the damn pizza bagels this jingle was originally written for.)

On said diet, I would commit to drinking a superfood smoothie every night before 7PM as a dinner substitute. Then, I would eat regularly during the day, which for me typically meant a large-sized bowl of fruit for breakfast and some version of a quinoa platter, lentil soup or kale salad for lunch. I’m also nuts about nuts so figure there to be raw cashews entering and emerging from any (all) of my orifices at any given time.

Spend a moment thinking of this visually, too.

I should add that these smoothies clock in at an impressive 1600 calories each chiefly due to the density of seeds present in said smoothies. The options are limited though not restrictive; at Caravan of Dreams, you’re offered three choices:

- Superfood 1 Smoothie contains cacao, goji, almonds, aloe, strawberry and maca. (This one is slightly less caloric.)

- Superfood 2 Smoothie (a particular favorite) melds sesame, hemp, chia, flax, spirulina and berries (blueberries, blackberries and raspberries — no strawberries).

- Superfood 3 Smoothie includes almond, maca, goji, aloe, chia and dates.

I culled the 7PM cutoff from an old adage imparted by Oprah for ladies seeking slender waist lines. I never quite understood why recommending someone stop eating at 7PM made sense, but common logic has led me to believe that the human metabolism is most active until three hours before a person is to fall asleep. I tried implementing this sanction independent of the Smoothie Diet and learned this: my night’s sleep was better (purportedly because my body was focusing on precisely what it was doing) and my mornings were more energetic. Three out of five mornings, in fact, I didn’t want coffee.

I anticipated treating this diet like a diary, but by Wednesday night I realized there was nothing to report other than how wonderful I felt each morning — save for the fact that socializing in New York is nearly impossible if you vow to eat dinner before 7PM. I should also address the inevitable question of, “But didn’t you get hungry?” Frankly, no. These smoothies are packed with filling nutrients and berries, both of which are highly caloric but not in the same way that say, an empty-calorie-packed Snickers bar is.

On Thursday night, I met two friends for a drink. I wasn’t consuming alcohol this week so the plan was to drink hot water with lemon, but I caved and ordered a glass of white wine, then shared — sorry, personally consumed — two scoops of hazelnut mousse. When I woke up on Friday morning, my fingers were swollen, my head was aching, my stomach was churning and my eyes effectively refused to open. I hightailed it over to my neighborhood coffee shop and chugged a latte.

By Friday night, I’d concluded the Smoothie Diet and though I didn’t weigh myself (in my non-Lutherian dream, diets are not measured in depreciating numbers, they’re measured in appreciating self-worth, esteem, value and all that platitudinal jazz), I felt more or less solid.

Ironic pun intended.

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Address it right below and I will get back to you before the proverbial beep can beep.

Photographed by Charlotte Fassler

The Perfect Instagram Account

Instagram’s a tricky game. It can be used as a window into your normal life or an aspirational dream-world filtered through Valencia. The popular trend seems to lean toward the latter, but one too many macarons in pink lighting forced me to steer my account away from anything remotely twee. I’m all about a pretty picture. It’s just that I’ve also developed a complex where all group shots and camp counselor squats must be paired with a weird caption, non sequitur, or stupid joke.

I admit that the collection of photos I’ve posted thus far are absolutely my best foot forward. It’s not like I’m uploading empty takeout containers with accompanying text that reads, “None of my friends want to hang out,” because I, too, would like to appear fun and slightly tan to even the strangest of strangers. But my account is far from “curated” — a word that I’ve been hearing with extreme frequency in regards to one’s Instagram as opposed to, you know, a museum.

However…I have a secret. I wish I had one of those pretty, Pinterest-y Instagrams. No matter how many times I roll my eyes at friends who post saccharine photos of “spring!” (like thank you, I know, I also walked outside today, weather queen), there’s actually a dormant Martha Stewart deep within me, and she’s dying to take a photo of mason jars. And tea lights. Sometimes I have to actively restrain myself in flower markets so that I don’t hold up the line by documenting peonies. Just once I would like to take a picture of my cupcake without feeling embarrassed. Just once! And I’d like my captions to be earnest. Or quotable lines from a Bon Iver song.

But if people can live double lives, I recently reasoned, why can’t I live a double Instagram? I’d keep my original account for debaucheries, beer cans and curse words, and my new one for sunsets and other visual pleasantries.

So I did. Last night I made a perfect Instagram, and compiled all the idyllic photos I’ve secretly taken when no one was watching. In my perfect Instagram account (which you can view in the slideshow above) I made sure to include the following 10 clichéd, albeit highly necessary photos that I’ve noticed all other ‘grammers with similar accounts post. They are:

1) The Non-Repulsive Food Shot

This I found rather tricky as I am not a food photographer and often find myself eating boring sandwiches, as a rule.

2) The Sunset

Oh man did I have a backlog of good sunsets.

3) The Weather Announcement

One must take painstaking care, I’ve learned, to properly document seasons and note whether or not it is sunny outside. Otherwise, people may not know what to do.

4) The Scholar

If you haven’t Instagrammed a book, you haven’t lived.

5) The Pinterest Board

Posting things that others would want to “pin” shows you care about community inspiration. Not sharing pictures of linen tied up in twine is selfish.

6) The Animal Lover

It’s the Martha in me.

7) The Tropical Island Vacation

This lets everyone else stuck at work, at school, or in snow live vicariously through you. Include your legs and a beach-related pun for extra likes. (My personal stash lacked a good island pic, so I borrowed one from Hot-dog Legs.)

8) The Macaron

This shot proved to be the hardest. Do you know how expensive macarons are? I tried to buy some for the sole purpose of an Instagram and nearly threw my wallet at the cashier’s head. The good news is so many people post pictures of macarons that you can just steal one and no one will notice. I took mine from Pinterest. #thanks

9) Farmers Markets

Vegetables = “like” bait.

10) The Positive Attitude About Exercise

Finally, it’s not a proper Instagram without a little humble brag and a motivational message in pretty street-font.

Captioning each one of my pictures sans snark or irony took restraint. My hashtags are humorless, and I threw filters on nearly everything with abandon. Was my original intention to slightly poke fun at my friends who don’t seem to realize that their thousandth image of a smoothie is annoying? Yes. But I’m a changed woman now; the experience was freeing if not absolutely cathartic. Adding Earlybird to a photo of oysters, I’m sure of it, is the millennial zen garden.

Image via Street FSN