Leandra Medine's Blog, page 746

How to Make Your Closet Feel Fresh-2-Death

I had an epiphany when I was in Paris last week. I was there for a quick four-day, work related stint and as such, I packed the smallest carry-on suitcase known to mankind. Marcel the Shell could have used it while transporting himself from point A to point B via Dorito if he wished.

In the suitcase, I had exactly one pair of high waist jeans (the medium wash Patrick Ervell ones I’ve been wearing so frequently) and one pair of leather leggings (Helmut Lang). I took two of the same cashmere sweaters from Uniqlo — one navy and one grey — and a black and white flannel mens shirt of the same brand. For shoes, I wore a pair of white Golden Goose sneakers (with black jeans, an ivory sweater and my navy blue ascot) to travel and packed Prada lug soles and a pair of white Ferragamo short heel ballet slippers.

And that’s it. That’s all I took — save for a toothbrush (no toothpaste) and under-eye concealer which I obviously didn’t use because I would never miss an opportunity to subject to myself to an Instagram commenter likening the state of my visage to that of a meth addict’s. Never!

The way I saw it, I was barely wearing anything else while at home in the comfort of my closet’s vastness so why not exercise my ability to edit? But when I got there, I felt suffocated. The cashmere was starting to pill, the flannel shirt smelled a little bit like onions (what? I never said that) and my leather leggings were stretching in all the wrong places (e.g. at the knees — where I’d have likely had room to stow the couture knee pads Karl Lagerfeld showed for Chanel yesterday). I longed for the variety of my trusty closet. The white jeans. And silk blouses. Double breasted jackets and cotton t-shirts.

And that’s when it occurred to me.

There is a way to overcome the inevitable feeling that comes with the wrath midwinter blues and that sense of interminable, insurmountable blah, the prosaic sound of the face of a full closet coupled with the sentiment that, “ugh, I have nothing to wear.”

In an ideal world, Paris would be the solution but in the real world, the answer is actually in the restriction I felt among the small edit of clothing I took with me on that trip and subsequently how fresh and new that sense of prohibition made the contents of the rest of my closet look.

So, here is my advice. Lay out 4-6 articles of clothing right now and tell yourself that you are not allowed to wear anything but the chosen spoils for five days. Don’t even look at your closet during the course of that work week. Then, when the week is over and you, too, smell like garlic and onions, take a shower and a deep breath before you open your closet and reintroduce your old friends to your new-old friends. The assumption is that everything will feel so unfamiliar in all the right ways that you won’t even know department stores exist outside the confines of the small one you’ve cultivated for yourself.

What will have happened to you in the previous week is that you’ll have gotten bored with the selection of clothing you vowed to wear by day 2, and as a result, will find yourself observing the style cues of the people around you, appropriating the details of their outfits and comparing them to things you own. Those khaki wide leg pants, the combat boots you almost sold, even the bubblegum pink sweater, equipped with armpit breathing holes, will make perfect sense again.

Then you will think to yourself: I never have to shop again! while you open your web browser to learn that Asos is now on double markdown. After this, you will say and maybe you will mean it.

Vampire Self-Defense

There comes a time in every post-grad’s life when she realizes that she no longer has the metabolism or athleticism of her twenty-year-old self, and that maybe she should change her lifestyle habits. This time came exactly once for me during the month of September 2010 and then was promptly forgotten about.

Until it wasn’t.

Fast-forward to last week where I’m standing awkwardly in the corner of Anderson Martial Arts gym. I’m pretending to type notes about this story so that I don’t have to participate in the group activity — one that requires partners to take turns straddling each other’s chests. No that’s okay, really. You go ahead, I’ll watch. 

But this is all my doing, because at age 25 I decided that once again, my time has come: I need to cut the shit and get serious about my health. As if by kismet, I received a timely email for an upcoming film called Vampire Academy inviting me to a VAMPIRE THEMED self-defense class. It seemed like a hilarious idea initially, especially when combined with my slightly suicidal new mantra, “This will make a great story.”

But iced coffee and avocados have also proved themselves as fodder for great stories, and yet somehow my dumb ass is belly down, pulling forward like an inchworm with forearms to escape bloodthirsty yet disarmingly fit creatures on a Tuesday night.

“THEY WILL KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T CRAWL FASTER,” the instructor yells.

After cruising through a series of strange warm ups (like jumping up and down forever), we are taught how to defend ourselves against attack by both a vampire and human killers.

“Partner up,” we’re instructed.

As everyone runs to their spandexed BFF, I stand alone, experiencing the waves of middle school gym class shame and regress to such coping mechanisms as: staring at my sneakers with the intensity of an acid enthusiast, staring at my sneakers as if they were turning into ducks (perhaps also a symptom of being on acid), and staring at my sneakers as if my shoelaces are untied…while pretending I’m on acid.

Then a very kind girl named Cat takes pity on me and asks if I need a partner. I say yes, she ties my shoes for me, and then we begin the drills.

The first one I successfully master is unofficially called “Jabbing Your Attacker in the Eyes with Thumbs.” (See slide numero dos for a demonstration on Leandra Vampire Medine.) The instructor tells us that this will typically bring down anyone, any size.

Next I learn how to grab someone by the back of their head and jam my knee into his or her crotch. I think that this technique will work great not just in the event of an attack but also at a sample sale.

Finally, we are taught to elbow the shit out of our attacker’s face with a little one-two jab. Come at me and die, as I always say.

When asked about “the fun stuff,” like kicks, our instructor reminds us that since we are not Jackie Chan, kicking someone will most likely cause us to lose balance and fall. We will not hurt villains. “Stick to the basics,” he tells us.

Eyes, balls, elbow-to-the-face. Got it.

I used to have my black belt in Taekwondo which is to say that I kind of am Jackie Chan, therefore this type of thing used to come so naturally that I have actually, in the distant past, even won some awards. But getting winded after two consecutive minutes of jumping then hiding in corners to “take notes for my story” reminded me that A) you really can peak in 8th grade and B) I have a long road ahead of me on this quest for fitness.

At least I’ve got a head start on vampires.

Are Going Out Tops Coming Back?

Charlotte recently recounted the best part of starting to grow up as finally coming to terms with the fact that to go out does not mean to wear a going out top. I’d have adamantly agreed with this legitimate credo until a month ago. After all, I’ve long been a supporter of the tenet that if you’re at a place that requires you wear a going out top, you should really reconsider when you’re spending your recreational time.

But recently, my personal gauge of what to wear when socializing has changed. Just last week I wore a raw silk Max Mara wrap blouse for no reason other than my wanting to. Before that I considered a floral lace-trimmed camisole from Zara and, well, look at me now: brown silk, uneven hem, exposed arms and all. I’m wearing a bona-fide going out top and though it comes from the purveyors of weird (see: Maison Martin Margiela), it is what it is which is not who I was. Know what I mean? And what’s more? I feel further whole than I ever have in a layman t-shirt.

So what in the good name of plunging necklines and elastic velvet is happening?

I have three theories that come in the wake of having taken a recent interest in a. this satin top by Stella McCartney, b. this crop top by Delpozo and c. Giambattista Valli. Period.

The first is that like in the case of Isabel Marant’s pioneering wedge sneakers propelling a full-blown ugly shoe/sneaker-proper renaissance, so too is the white cotton “boyfriend” shirt making room to allow for a new interpretation of waist-up toppers (it’s beginning as poplin interpretations of white blouses in more feminine silhouettes like this one, by Acne, but you just wait). Where we forewent blouses in the name of t-shirts just a few years ago, here we are again, hungry to look like the better versions of our 1995-selves.

This parlays perfectly into theory #2, which essentially just suggests that going out tops were as much a part of the 90s Zeitgeist as plaid and Jordan Catalano were. Having exhausted every other element that made the decade unique, party shirts are the obvious next stop on a train called Misplaced Nostalgia.

And finally, quite simply, maybe we’re bored of t-shirts. Considering the boundless denim that I, personally, wear, it’s refreshing to think that the world can be my oyster in terms of what I choose to pair with my jeans. I’m not saying it’s going to be a halter top but I’m also not saying it’s impossible.

Of course, though, if I’m going to wear a going out top, I’m also going to make sure that it’s wearable under any circumstance, which is where the white sneakers permeating the first half of the above, shot-by-Charlotte photos come in.

And for when I am going out? Gladiator style bow pumps that are equal parts fantastic and devastating.

But the most important perspective — yours — remains undiscussed, so, talk to me about your party wear policies.

Maison Martin Margiela blouse (from Yoox, for $95, you’re welcome), Helmut Lang leather pants (now 70% off, you’re welcome again), Golden Goose sneakers, Chloe pumps.

It’s Hip to be (Pocket) Square

Following this morning’s dissertation on the boys, the boys, the boys, the boys, I’m still left wondering: why is it that to be a well-dressed man seems so much easier than to be a well-dressed woman? Put any male specimen with two legs and arms into a suit and watch the immediate transformation from before to dapper. Unruly beard, large stomach and curious finger nails notwithstanding. Now put a woman — any woman — in a gown, and she’s not immediately Jared Leto. That which makes her the adjective equivalent of dapper seems contingent on an extensive variety of petty variables.

I know I can’t fight what I am and frankly, I don’t want to, but as part of a genus of individuals known to marvel in not just the notion but act of wearing vast, manifold accessories, how is it even possible that the art of the pocket square has gone overlooked by my fellow x chromosome carriers all this time? And following my recent-but-fervent devotion to neckerchiefs coupled with a more historic propensity for oversized blazers, how is it that I have overlooked them?

Never one to omit the potential for an additional accoutrement, I’m disappointed in myself. Here I stand, lost months behind me, empty pockets and no truly thoughtful color coordination to show for my tango with personal style. But there’s probably no use in harping on the mistakes of my past, right? Or maybe I should play the Pros vs. Cons game to determine what I’ve really missed.

Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do.

Pro 1: It’s one more layer to add to the continuously growing onion.

Pro 2: Which, if you’re thinking hard enough and can allow a pocket square to moonlight as an element that affects human character development, also kind of sort of maybe has it functioning as an additional layer of personality.

Pro 3: And print. One more print.

Pro 4: If you’re obsessive compulsive about matching like both my domestic partner and mother-in-law are, pocket squares are a nice way to bring it way back around (see: square + handbag as evidenced by the above photos for women, pocket square + matching socks for men and women.)

Pro 5: If you need to sneeze but have nowhere to deposit your excrete, surprise! Yes you do.

Con 1: If you need to sneeze but have nowhere to deposit your excrete, surprise! Yes you do.

Con 2: It’s one more item to think about during this renaissance of simplification.

Con 3, which depending on your stance might be deemed a pro: If you, like me, are frequently mistaken for an awful-looking boy (and without makeup on, very offensively a meth-addict), this either will or will not help your cause.

Con 4: Never mind, that’s it. There are only three cons, which, as you can see, concludes the pro count at 5 and the con count at 3.

This effectively makes it your official duty to test drive your own pocket square (use a paper napkin if you have to! That seems very Margiela to me) – (also, fun fact about mine: it’s not actually a kerchief so much as it is a pre-pocketed square of sorts that can also hold your phone should you choose to give it that much power) — and share the tales of your trying. A full white outfit plus black socks and lug-sole sandals is optional, but I do recommend sneezing.

Dries van Noten jacket, Zara sweater, Maison Martin Margiela jeans, Commando socks, Prada sandals, Valentino clutch, Dannijo bracelets and pocket square by Hank.

Now, let’s hear it for the girls, eh?

Handsome Men’s Club

It’s one thing to be a woman wearing menswear and quite another to be a man.

To our credit, women can do justice to tailoring that’s originally intended for bodies with no breasts or hips, and rarely does a man look better in his own sport coat than the girl who decided to claim it as her own. “Borrowing from the boys” inevitably turns into “this is mine now,” not for the sake of sentimentality or novelty but simply because it looks great — even better than a womenswear designer’s boyfriend fit. But where a woman in a three-piece suit looks thoughtfully styled and elegant, a man wearing the same thing just looks effortless.

The men of Pitti Uomo and Paris Fashion Week project the very definition of Oh, this old thing? Seemingly never ahead of nor behind the trend, neither a victim of fashion or inappropriately underdressed. Somehow one’s t-shirts and jeans with open-laced tennis shoes look as equally remarkable when held against another’s monochrome houndstooth.

Nothing appears superfluous, though you’ve got to admit some of it is: ascots, pocket squares, patterned socks purposefully visible under cuffed pants — these items aren’t necessary or practical at all and yet they complete a multitude of the men’s outfits with decided confidence.

It is this cavalier approach to style that appeals to me so much more than recent street-shots of women. A lot of it has to do with the lack of identifiable labels (which can probably be attributed to my less than encyclopedic knowledge of men’s designers). Show me a photo of a woman at fashion week and I can often immediately point out who makes her coat and what season her top is from. Show me a photo of one of these men and sure, I can make an educated guess — maybe that’s a Raf Simons sweatshirt? Prada shoes — but only because they resemble a women’s pair? But the majority of it is far less conspicuous, and that ambiguity is exciting.

There’s also less pressure. As someone who consumes these paparazzied photos for both story ideas and personal dressing inspiration, it’s hard not to look at women wearing the things I long to own and feel envy or non-buyers-remorse. I recently spent a whole week kicking myself for not taking the plunge on a real treasure of a blazer, discounted at a sample sale, only to see it photographed on another woman a month later. I don’t want her sartorial fame, but ugh, did I want that blazer.

When you look at the men, there’s none of that. A bearded editor is not walking around in clothing that I have intrinsically claimed as mine, and I am not self-consciously comparing the way his pants fit him versus the way a similar pair fit me. I can look at these men as fashionable humans that exist in a separate category. I can admire and draw influence from them, but when push comes to dress, I don’t expect — or want – to look just like them.

I’ve seen hundreds of street style photos over the course of the recently departed men’s fashion week. Inspiration has burst from the innumerable clicks of dapper gentleman dressed beyond the nines and into their tens. They appear at ease in their clothes, and while we, the women, may have learned to adopt the fundamental lot of their cues, there’s little denying that they win. So, let’s hear it for the boys.

Sweet Hat, Bro

There was a time back yonder when one wouldn’t leave the house without his or her hat. It was a different era, one where tipping your cap signaled a much cooler “hello” than the eager and oft misdirected wave.

Hats lost power, chiefly as a daily accessory, just after World War II. It’s theorized that men began to forgo wearing theirs because JFK was more frequently photographed bare-headed, while the young women who ambled through the ’60s simply wanted whatever their mothers did not.

But hats never completely went away. They just became a thoughtful addition rather than a dogmatic necessity. Now, you can find them quietly shading brows against the beating sun, acting douchey on the heads of night club-attending men, or protecting humanity against sweaty, post-gym hair. The great ones — according to Leandra — have this almost mystic and definitely paradoxical ability to change a woman’s persona in spite of their serving no real purpose other than to give a woman’s left hand something to do when a fast breeze threatens to knock a hat right off her head.

Technically speaking, all clothes and accessories maintain the dexterity to change a person’s character. You can be five different people if you have five different coats — heck, blame your split personality disorder on a slew of shoes because you can. But a hat, man. A hat can take that combination of you-as-coat plus you-as-shoe and throw your whole universe through a tailspin until you’re staring at yourself in the mirror, not even recognizing that it’s YOU, confused that the reflection is a ridiculously good looking stranger who mimics your mannerism.

So, you tip your hat at her and she tips back, obviously knowing better than to wave.

Play this song for a little easy Saturday morning atmosphere, then clicky clicky through the slideshow above of people bringing honor to the mostly useless — but always necessary — hat.

Sweet Hat Bro

There was a time way back yonder when you wouldn’t leave the house without your hat. It was a different era, where tipping your cap signaled a much cooler “hello” than the eager and oft misdirected wave.

Hats lost power as a daily accessory just after World War II. It’s theorized that men began to forego theirs because JFK was more frequently photographed bare-headed, and young women in the ’60s wanted the opposite of what their mothers wore.

But hats never completely went away. They simply became a thoughtful addition rather than a dogmatic necessity. You can find them quietly shading brows against the beating sun, acting douchey on the head of a night club-attending male, or protecting humanity against sweaty, post-gym hair. The great ones — according to Leandra — have the paradoxical ability to change a woman’s entire persona despite serving no real purpose other than giving our left hands something to do when a fast breeze threatens to knock the hat right off our very heads.

All clothing and accessories technically have this character-changing ability too. You can be five different people if you have five different coats, or blame your split personality disorder on a slew of shoes. But a hat, man. A hat can take that combination of you-as-coat plus you-as-shoe and throw your whole sartorial universe through a tailspin to the point where you’re staring in the mirror but don’t even realize it’s YOU anymore, confusing your own reflection for a ridiculously good looking stranger who mimics your each and every move… so you tip your hat at her. And she tips back, obviously knowing better than to opt for a wave.

Play this song for a little easy easy Saturday morning atmosphere, then clicky clicky through the slideshow above of people bringing honor to the mostly useless — but always necessary — hat.

Office Apropos? Part Three

Day 1

Leandra: Nothing says Monday like pinstriped, high waist, camel-toe inducing denim (Stella McCartney) and a t-shirt/plaid blouse (H&M and American Apparel respectively) combo that evinces the spirit of the Brawny man, am I right? I’m wearing a necklace that my mom designed and made for me. On it, there is a big hand nurturing a little hand. She calls it “a mother’s love for her child” which seems ridiculously long as a name for a piece of jewelry she intends to sell publicly. We should just call it Hand-in-Hand. Right? The bracelets are Dannijo and the boots are Chanel.

Amelia: Today I’m wearing shoepants. Shoepants occur when the fabric and color of both your pants (in this case: H&M) and shoes (Zara) are so similar that they appear to become one. It was accidental, and in retrospect makes me sorry I didn’t wear an actual leather-footed onesie under my sweatshirt. I forgot mascara, hence the pink Westward Leaning shades, and it is winter, hence the coat (by Maje).

Charlotte: The way I combatted the frozen tundra that kicked off the week was by piling on the layers. Here we have a Beanie warming my head, a little stole cloaking my neck (thanks Grandma), a J. Crew coat, some Rag & Bone shoes and Ray Ban glasses shielding my eyeballs which have frozen.

Day 2

Leandra: Tuesdays always seem the most appropriate time to wear theatrically diminutive hats that serve no purpose and every purpose all at once. Personally, I don’t mind looking like a lurid asshole and that’s what I hoped this outfit might explain to you. The pinstriped sweater is Stella McCartney (do you notice a pattern?) (Hot damn, this Mango one is similar) while the turtleneck beneath is Splendid. The jeans are by Textile and I am really into the zippers. The white boots are incredibly impractical and Isabel Marant. The jacket is from the anterior’s collaboration with H&M.

Oh! And duh, the tiny little baby ass-hat is by Maison Michel.

Amelia: Look at me, laughing on a Tuesday. LOL Tuesday, I always say. Here’s me missing New England in my Barbour jacket, Ralph Lauren cable knit, J. Crew button down and zip up pants. Sunglasses are Céline, shoes are Zara, cow goes moo, etc, etc.

Charlotte: Sadly my leather pants did not result in shoepants, though it is probably for the better that they didn’t affix themselves to those Zara clunkers or I may have toppled on over. It’s Tuesday so I’m all about comfort evidenced by my fuzzy-ass Vince sweater ASOS pajama shirt.

Day 3

Leandra: Evidently, no one else got the memo that Wednesdays at Man Repeller are dunk your head in a toilet full of extra virgin olive oil day! Silly fuckers. If you can manage to get past the state of terrible hair for which I am repeatedly the victim, you might notice that I, too, tried to emulate Amelia’s tango with shoepanting but failed — but then again, who cares because I own the coolest embroidered Dries van Noten mens blouse in all of the world. I bought it 70% off which makes my heart want to sing an Elton John song. The leather pants are by Helmut Lang. The boots are Zara and my jacket is Céline. Sorry for that sentence.

Amelia: So my face is really big, huh? I’m standing two feet away from the door that leads back into our office why I have no coat on GRANDMA. Mitch Hedberg once compared turtlenecks to tiny hands that choke you all day long, so this pair of tiny choking hands is by Club Monaco. The jeans are Denim & Supply, the boots are Tibi.

Charlotte: Rain — you’re tacky and I hate you. I picked up that neoprene rain shield also known as a skirt from Reformation. The army jacket is vintage, the shoes are Rag & Bone and that good ol’ reliable flannel that hugs you even when the sky is crying is a Ralph Lauren hand me down.

Day 4

Leandra: Cold legs, be damned. Today I wore a new pair of Falke stockings in the name of an experiment that begs the question: how long do expensive tights last? The answer, evidently, is through the same evening’s wine glass numero tres. The shoes I am wearing are Valentino. My leather skirt is from All Saints and my striped shirt is from Zara. The denim jacket is Acne and I think looks gr8 under a houndstooth blazer (this one, by Stella McCartney). The neck scarf is Isabel Marant and tomorrow is Friday!

Amelia: I just bought this Être Cécile sweatshirt because it reminded me of Jil Sander FW11. It’s my new favorite thing I own, but since it’s sort of intense and I don’t want to become known as Geometric-Sweatshirt-Girl, I’ll have to space it out a bit. My jeans are Frame Denim, shoes are Hache y Eme and when I wear them I feel like Harry Styles.

Charlotte: Couldn’t wait ’til Plaidurday so here I am, an homage to my Scottish ancestors. The blazer is Topshop, jumpsuit & creepers are Zara, and my bagpipe is unfortunately not pictured (Sorry great-uncle MacGregor).

Day 5

Leandra: I like for my Friday outfit to be influenced by a number of different sources. Today, the first was Amelia which by the transitive property of Geometry also means a father-figure from Maine as evidenced by the ivory fisherman sweater for which I definitely overpaid because it is Marc Jacobs but come on! That mock-neck, man. The second, unassuming inspirer is my oldest brother Haim who spent most of his adolescence being fat and wearing denim. These jeans are for him. The third is Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz for obvious reasons tethered to my sparkly-ass Valentino shoes and finally, my coat is equal parts homage to Kim Kardashian and Sally the Camel. I can’t tell you why.

Amelia: Happy Hoo Ha it’s Friday. Normally this is a sneaker and pants optional day for me, but since I’m meeting friends after work at a “nice” place for drinks I decided to Step It Up 2. My blazer is by Band of Outsiders, shirt by The Row ($ample $ale $core), jeans are 3×1, shoes are Tibi and the sunglasses are Westward Leaning. The necklace is this cool pocket watch handed down from my grandpa to my mom to ME, Amelia.

Charlotte: It’s Friday so I’m unleashing my inner 12-year old boy, hence this knit sweater that belonged to uncle back in the days of yore. The jacket is another vintage score, the shirt is Madewell and the denim is Rag & Bone. I broke into Leandra’s last night and stole those Zara boots (just kidding she has baby feet so I resorted purchasing my own pair because they’re that good).

Know Your Labels: Ter et Bantine

I first discovered Ter et Bantine about two months ago at a Lower East Side shop called Maryam Nassir Zadeh. It was the title image’s vaguely Mexican-blanket inspired thick satin blouse-cum-short sleeve jacket that initially caught my eye. I could be the kind of girl who wears that. Aren’t I the kind of girl who wears that?

It’s that precise thinking, I believe, that distinguishes designers from clothes makers. If one is to make clothes, you can assume that if he or she is good, the maker’s consumer will probably want them, but there won’t be a significant visceral relationship that forms between the fabric and the woman. If one is to design, however, the designer is not just selling a loincloth but an attitude and a lifestyle — all those things we talked about yesterday when we were considering New York style.

A designer makes you think and even sometimes want to manipulate who you are to more seamlessly fit their mold. Such was the case, at least, for me with Ter et Bantine, which is exactly what caused a further investigation into the middle-aged Italian designer of the brand who has, according to her website, been manipulating layman silhouettes since the Winter of 2010.

In the slideshow above, you’ll find a selection of images from as recently as summer 2014 (the white that could conceivably be regarded as sterile save for the shredded hemlines and architectural silhouettes; and, of course, the fact that more than half of the blouses in this collection are actually just thin bandeaus). Comparing those silhouettes to the ones that came just the summer before allude to a progression from flirty (one such strapless blouse could also be a full khaki mini skirt) with intent to become more masculine to arrival at destination.

The current resort collection features several pencil skirts coupled with long jackets that feature rounded shoulders and wide sleeves — a nice contrast against the JNCO-style pants maintain wide legs, paired with short, more feminine outerwear. Resort seems to take a cue from the previous fall/winter where similar silhouettes were implemented in darker, thicker fabrics though structure appeared more important in the latter.

That and boob belts.

I’m not quite sure why I have found myself so attracted to what I want to call more cryptic fashion, that “modern elegance” certainly working but not over-achieving. But there is something to be said for this slew of designers who practice not how well their spectators can identify their clothes but how good they feel in an unwitting state of mystical, sartorial reclusion.

Is Red Carpet Fashion Actually Fashion?

The dress in which Emma Watson attended Sunday’s Golden Globes would not have been up to my childhood standards. The fact that it wasn’t pale pink was the least of its deficiencies. Designed by Dior, the tomato-tinged creation also failed to billow dramatically, lacked sequins, and did not arrive on the arm of a Ken doll. In place of a train, Watson accessorized with a pair of cropped pants and a single pearl in her left lobe. Defying my ten-year-old self’s expectations, she did not wear a diamond choker.

Still, despite these obvious shortcomings, I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. In a sea of strapless necklines, ballooning skirts, and miraculously creaseless silk, Watson’s backless, ballsy choice reinvigorated the predictable pageantry of the red carpet. Even if it didn’t quite belong there.

“Oh, I loved it,” said the friend to whom I’d voiced my gushing admiration of it. “It was so refreshingly not a ball gown.”

Devoid of the fussiness that once seemed a prerequisite of high-minded fashion, the outfit appeals — at least to me — precisely for its pared-down, perfectly articulated aesthetic. No sooner had Watson appeared at the Beverly Hilton Hotel than I demanded to know who designed it. Finally, I thought, a garment that could not be mistaken for the one worn by Nancy O’Dell.

It’s no surprise that the majority of the red carpet is uniform in aesthetic. While risk-taking is exulted on the runway, award-show attendees tend to limit experimentation to the confines of their nail beds. Perhaps the prevalence of such convention explains our almost yearlong anticipation of the Met Gala. There, every ensemble is meant to be as much a credit to the woman wearing it as it is to the artist responsible for it.

This week, in a candid interview with The Cut, Barneys’ creative ambassador-at-large Simon Doonan confessed his sheer inability to understand “how people can get it up for gowns.” With characteristic forthrightness, he explained:

See, to me, fashion is people like Martin Margiela, Dries Van Noten, Stella — it’s creative people — Gaultier, Comme des Garçons, just not gowns. To me, fashion is not gowns. It can be gowns, I suppose, but it doesn’t begin and end with gowns. I think it’s a bit strange that with most people, their understanding of fashion is all celebrities and gowns.

Later, he dismissed gowns as not truly representative of the designers who craft them. Of the red carpet, he said, “I’m worried that people are going to think that that’s what fashion is.”

For regular visitors of Style.com, the view Doonan pronounces is nothing new. We all grow up and redefine the terms of our fashion fantasies in the process. Mine, for example, are made of considerably less tulle than they once were. Instead, I now find myself lusting after leather and shearling and vertiginous heels whose acquisition all but require a down payment. These items may remain as out of reach as the Atelier Versace number that Penélope Cruz wore to the Academy Awards in 2007, but they are also more technically realistic. I no longer dream about designer dresses. Instead, I crave $22,000 backpacks.

If “fashion is not gowns,” as Doonan claims, then what defines it? Is an element of fantasy still a condition of great fashion? Are we meant to seek the equally fabulous and outlandish sartorial inspiration that awards season once seemed to provide? Or should we stop expecting anything from a collection of borrowed dresses that, as in the Cinderella myth, return to their showrooms at the end of a long, overproduced evening?

In honor of this morning’s Oscar nominations announcement, let’s talk about it.

Images via E! Online