I grew up in a house where pastels were what you used to doodle with, not colors to be worn. My mom always told me she didn’t like when I wore yellow. It was all about the olive green that matched my eyes, or the brown that matched with everything. My mom loved, loved, loved brown. It’s nice, but it’s brown. When you’re a fourth grader and your style icon is Lizzie McGuire, you don’t quite want to be spotted in brown from head to toe.
Like most precedents set in life, I had to rebel eventually.
I have a special type of hate for the people that walk around looking like a Sears Easter ad. Sure, I’ll wear pastels–I’ll wear anything–but only under certain circumstances, i.e. not trying to look like I’m on an egg hunt. 75% of the time, I’m wearing something black. 100% of the time, I’m wearing something ridiculous. So when I’m 100% pastel, I must be 400% ridiculous to make up for it. Layered chiffon? That works. The leather strap and open back gives it the edge it needs. Sometimes, I feel like the Twitter bird in that dress. Whatever, it makes a good metaphor.
And while we’re on the topic of edge: it’s all about the boot. Just saying.
I have a lot of trouble figuring out how to identify my style when I feel such an obligation–a duty from Coco Chanel, may she rest in peace–to choose a single one and stick with it all of the time. Sometimes, I love the grunge. But then I end up dressing too much like a boy, too much of the time. I love the posh and the chic, but I hate giving up originality for it. I love wearing dresses, and I love wearing overalls. I love the hippie, but how much is too much?
It’s about combination, I guess. When there’s a little bit of everything–some frilly, fuzzy pink, some metal, some flower child–there’s also a lot of everything. But when I leave the house, I can bring Kurt Cobain, Diane Keaton (in her Woody Allen reign), Ashley Olsen, and Easter Sunday with me.
Shot by the sunny Sophie Schwartz.