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.
May all of your Valentine’s Day kisses be covered in red lipstick.
Shot by the birthday girl, Sophie Schwartz.
Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote one of my first posts for The FYD, titled, “On the Precedents of Sluttiness… and Trying to Combat Them.” Though I think this post is one of the truest I’ve written, it slyly slips under the radar, dwindling lonely in the isolation of Internet’s past.
So one one windy, winter day when I found myself risqué-ing my outfit with the mantra that “more” is, in fact, “less,” I couldn’t help but think back to that post. I had, though not for the first time, become the subject of my own work–the piece on display behind the glass. A year ago I was pointing at myself today, clad in a chenille mini-skirt and thigh-high boots. I was fully clothed in the sluttiest way possible.
For the TL;DR sake of my previous post, I’ll sum it up for you: generally, we are led to believe that the less you wear, the more scandalous you appear. Crop tops, bikinis, booty shorts, and the like. But I proposed a revised theory in which the more you wear, the more mischievous you appear, and the more sexually appealing you become. Tell me if I’m wrong, but aren’t monokinis “sluttier” than bikinis? Is it not “sexier” to wear over-the-knee boots with a short skirt than it is to wear my Supergas with a short skirt? Neglect that point–though I find tennis sneakers to be pretty sexy, the larger public likely doesn’t agree. But what if I were to wear shorter boots? It wouldn’t look as… good. It just wouldn’t.
I propose(d) that the images men create based on our sneak previews are more exciting than the skin actually behind all the leather, velvet, and denim. Tell me–am I wrong? And should I be slut-shaming myself for wearing my thigh-highs with my mini skirt?
Shot by the ever-lovely Sophie Schwartz.