Conventional wisdom suggests that the best buys, clothing wise, are neutrals you can supposedly wear with everything. According to any piece I’ve read about financially sensible dressing for the cash-strapped, you ought to pick one or two neutrals – say, beige/black, navy/grey, chocolate/cream – and build your entire wardrobe from pieces in these colours, the idea being that you’ll wear an individual item more if it’s in a colour that goes with everything else in your wardrobe.
Well, that’s how it works in theory anyway.
Here’s how it goes in practice: you decide on the above mentioned combination of neutrals. You buy a white shirt, a black skirt, a beige bag and a charcoal sweater. You go home feeling smug, elegant and austere. A week later you are so bored that eating your own head sounds like fun and, like a yo-yo dieter, you race out to buy the first thing you see made from pink polyester with a sequin trim. And faux fur. With feather detailing.
Does this sound as tragic to you as it does to me? I hope so. Nothing upsets me more than the idea that colour, and colourful clothes, are the country bumpkin cousins to the cool and sophisticated neutrals. Not that I don’t like neutrals – far from it. It’s the idea that, if your finances are precarious, you should cut out colour, which bothers me. Just like someone going on a crash diet and cutting out all carbs, cutting out all colour from your tightly budgeted wardrobe will leave you crabby, irritable, and no better off than when you started out. Likewise, if you wear only colours, your wardrobe will end up bloated and flabby, like you will if you live exclusively on pasta.
Neither situation is where we want to end up in these financially troubled times. What we want is a happy medium, and here are my tips for how to achieve that…
Painting The Town Red: when the global economy is in the red, nothing speaks more about your fabulousness than colour – so paint the town red. By some sort of strange symbiotic inversion, the abovementioned tendency for people to choose neutrals in times of economic trouble actually means that adorning yourself with colour makes you look more Recessionista Regal and less Depression Drab. Wearing, say, a pair of red shoes instead of a pair of black ones conveys the message that you have enough money to not care that your shoes aren’t a ‘neutral’ that will ‘go with everything’. Even if those red flats are the only decent shoes you own this season, they won’t look like they were bought with that mindset, like their black or tan cousins would. Red flats, for their very supposed impracticality, suggest that you have dozens of shoes and bought these ones for purely aesthetic reasons, whereas black or tan flats look like you brought them for primarily practical reasons.
Same goes for all the other ‘big ticket’ items in your wardrobe – coats, dresses, boots, everyday bags, skirt and pants. In fact, the more money you spend on an item, and the more you wear it, the more I’d be inclined to argue that it should be brought in a colour, rather than a neutral. It’s all about tricking people to think you are on a bigger budget than you actually are by a few careful manipulations – or, rather, making your clothes look so fabulous that people wouldn’t think that money was a consideration in their purchase. Perhaps this is quite materialistic, and I’m happy to wear that title to a certain extent, but it’s quite nice when people mistake the pauper student for the well paid professional and vice versa.
There are some sage words I’d like to impart about colours, however. As fabulous as dressing colourfully can be, it can also go horribly wrong when you don’t think it through properly. The primary consideration here should, of course and at all times, be about what colours you actually like. If you hate pink, there is no point wearing it, even if makes look a vision of loveliness. It’s also worth pointing out here that certain colours work better on certain complexions – but that, within limits, you can change your complexion with a bit of tweaking. For instance, I don’t look at all good in yellow without my make up on – but with a bit of peachy blush it makes me look and feel great in the summertime, especially if I’ve picked up a bit of a tan.
Fashion gurus – Tinny and Susannah, I’m taking to you here – often delight in grouping people’s complexions into colour categories and prescribing a list of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ colours. I wouldn’t set any stock in these at all. Aside from the fact that no description of a colouring ‘type’ matches what I look like naturally - pale skin, rosy cheeks, dark blonde hair and almost black eyes, if you were wondering, although the hair colour is a law onto itself – they fail to take into account the fact that we can tweak our complexions with make up and that different textures and fabrics can make the exact same shade look totally different. Peach is hideous on me when it’s in a heavy block of fabric, but in sheers it’s lovely. I’m sure you’ve found similar.
So now that we’ve chucked the rules about who can wear what colours out the window, how are we to go about picking what colours work for us? The simple answer, my friends, is a tale of trial, error, and the triumph of instinct over instruction. Try clothes on. Hold colours up to your face. Choose colours you like – there’s probably a good reason why you’re drawn to particular colours, and you shouldn’t fight the feeling. I had an inexplicable attraction to acid green in my early adolescence. When I finally got to wear some, in the form of my very first pashmina, the inexplicable attraction became apparent – it’s one of the best shades for my mixed-up colouring.
Once you let yourself loose to experiment with colour, you’ll gradually find yourself noticing some trends in what looks good on you, and it’s from here that you should go about establishing what ‘does’ and ‘doesn’t’ suit you. In my case, I find that I suit mid-to-bright strength colours, with an emphasis on all the berry tones – the reds, the pinks, and the purples, along with yellows, greens, and greeny blues. You’ll probably find something completely different and idiosyncratic to suit the undoubtedly lovely colouring that the goddess gave you too, so don’t panic if nothing seems to work at first.
And here’s where you really start to feel the hip pocket benefits: once you’ve worked out what colours you look good in, like, and will wear, you can buy those big ticket items in outrageous colours with clarity and confidence that you will actually wear them and look fabulous. Furthermore, you’ll be able to coordinate the colour palette of your wardrobe with much more freshness and vitality than if you had a monochromatic closet. Once you’ve opened your eyes to colour and refined your sense of colour awareness, you’ll realise that colours work brilliantly in the most unexpected partnerships – my favourite combinations, the ones that draw the most compliments, are the ones that you never really see anywhere else – thus eliminating the worry about whether or not that acid green coat will work with your mulberry coloured skirt (it will). Having a closet full of colours, you quickly realise that ‘matching’ isn’t as important as we’ve been taught to believe – because that amazing green bag not only has good feng suei, but goes with everything on account of its merits as a stand alone piece. When your pieces are beautiful enough in their own right, who cares if your bag matches your shoes which match your dress which matches your scarf and coat?
The other thing about colour that makes it fabulous for the budget conscious Recessionista? It lifts your mood like nothing else can, and, in troubled economic times, when every front page of newspaper brings more bad news, we could all use a bit of a lift. Before you pop a Prozac, try popping on a purple dress, and feel the difference – I promise you you’ll almost always feel better immediately. Embrace the rainbow, and no one will be any the wiser that your pot of gold at the end of it is on the smaller side.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
LBD vs Let's Be Different
I have a confession to make.
Not only do I regularly go panty-less, I don't like little black dresses.
Let me tell you the story of me and the Little Black Dress. I bought my first LBD the week before my twenty first birthday. It is the archetypal little black cocktail dress - sleeveless, with wide set shoulder straps, a ‘v’ neckline, shaped waist and tulip skirt that finished just above the knee. Silk, no embellishments, on sale, perfect fit. I thought I'd found the fashion pot of (black) gold at the end of the rainbow. I anticipated that I would wear it constantly.
A funny thing happened, though, when I put it on before going out for dinner on my birthday. Rather than feel elegant, timeless and sophisticated - what I'd hoped to feel on my 21st - I felt flat. Uninspired. Boring. I tried in vain to jolly myself into the party mood, but couldn't. I simply didn't feel like me. Or, rather, I felt like me, but on mute.
I had a hunch this might have something to do with the dress. Everything else about the evening was perfect. In the interests of being a benevolent wardrobe dictator, however, I decided to give the dress a couple more chances to prove itself. Both times it failed miserably - again, I had that curious mute feeling I'd had at my birthday. Something was definitely amiss with that LBD. Months of puzzling over the problem of the LBD later, I came up with the reason why I never felt quite as fabulous as I normally do when wearing that LBD. Finally, it dawned on me and all the pieces fell into place.
As I said in my first post, writers write, sculptors sculpt, but as fashionistas, we wear our art. Being the ultimate fashion cliché, my LBD was blocking my ability to express myself clearly. Try and imagine how Iain McEwan would have felt if he ended 'Atonement' with something as trite as 'better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'. Or Donna Tart's 'The Secret History' finished with the words 'boys will be boys'. I admit to taking some liberties here, but I can't imagine that Iain and Donna would feel particularly great about those words on the last page of their novels. In fact, I think they'd feel like they'd copped out - that they'd resorted to a cliché when they could have expected something more original, more creative, more fabulous, of themselves. That's exactly how I felt about the LBD - that I'd failed to express myself completely because I threw in the creative towel and resorted to the hackneyed and the cliché.
Like all great clichés, the LBD was initially a stroke of creative genius. When the LBD-bomb was first dropped by Coco Chanel in the 1920s, it was nothing short of a revolution. It 'freed' women from having to worry so much what to wear to the numerous social occasions a gal-about-town would be - and still is - expected to go to. An LBD, back when it was a fresh new concept, would have said a lot about the wearer; about how modern, how carefree, how liberated and devil-may-care she was.
The trouble with the LBD now, though, is that it's become a fallback position women adopt when they don't feel confident enough in their creativity, in their own look, to wear something truly fantastic and truly expressive of themselves. It's fashion's missionary. And because it's been so heavily promoted, and reincarnated in every decade since the 1920s, there are just so darn many of them around that to wear an LBD actually makes you pretty much a part of the fashion wallpaper. Dull, dreary, black wallpaper, that is.
This isn't to malign the black dress in general - indeed, I have a couple of other black dresses, both jersey, one clingy and the other floaty, which I love. In both cases, though, the black dresses I love have something a bit different going on - one of them is a print, the other has a daring and unique v-back construction. Both of them have something that sets them apart from the pack. My critique of the LBD is restricted to the heavily promoted 'classic' version - see the description of mine above, or the Portmans window next time you're in a shopping mall. It's the cliché of the black cocktail length dress in a plain fabric with minimal detailing that my vitriol is reserved for.
For me, the fatal flaw of the LBD concept, aside from being overused to the point of cliché, is the idea that a single dress can reflect how you feel at a cocktail party with your girlfriends, on a romantic date, at a work dinner or at a family wedding. All of those events, for me, have a different emotional tone – joy, excitement, loyalty and dread respectively. For all its supposed universality, the LBD doesn't resonate with all of these tones. Before defenders of the LBD will bring out the accessory defense - you can change the tone of the outfit with accessorisation - this in and of itself reflects a sad truth about the LBD: at its very best it's merely a blank canvas for fabulous accessories. Think about the LBD Audrey Hepburn wore in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's’. Now take away the necklace and the cigarette holder. What have you got left? Not a whole lot of fabulous, that's for sure.
My clothes ought - no, need - to be more than blank canvases, just as a writer needs his or her words to be more than just text on a page. Whilst it's necessary to have some pieces in your wardrobe that whisper rather than shout ‘fabulous’ from the rooftops, I feel that the LBD doesn’t even belong in the category of whisperers. Every piece in your wardrobe - even if it's a workhorse item like jeans or a black vee neck - must be more than just a blank canvas, and must have something to say. Most of us don't have the money, or hanging space, for clothes that don't say anything at all, and can ill afford to surrender our individuality to clichés in an increasingly homogenized world.
Throwing down a gauntlet, I challenge you, dear reader, to abandon the LBD. Instead, Let's Be Different. To wrangle some ee cummings here, I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
So Let's Be Different.
Not only do I regularly go panty-less, I don't like little black dresses.
Let me tell you the story of me and the Little Black Dress. I bought my first LBD the week before my twenty first birthday. It is the archetypal little black cocktail dress - sleeveless, with wide set shoulder straps, a ‘v’ neckline, shaped waist and tulip skirt that finished just above the knee. Silk, no embellishments, on sale, perfect fit. I thought I'd found the fashion pot of (black) gold at the end of the rainbow. I anticipated that I would wear it constantly.
A funny thing happened, though, when I put it on before going out for dinner on my birthday. Rather than feel elegant, timeless and sophisticated - what I'd hoped to feel on my 21st - I felt flat. Uninspired. Boring. I tried in vain to jolly myself into the party mood, but couldn't. I simply didn't feel like me. Or, rather, I felt like me, but on mute.
I had a hunch this might have something to do with the dress. Everything else about the evening was perfect. In the interests of being a benevolent wardrobe dictator, however, I decided to give the dress a couple more chances to prove itself. Both times it failed miserably - again, I had that curious mute feeling I'd had at my birthday. Something was definitely amiss with that LBD. Months of puzzling over the problem of the LBD later, I came up with the reason why I never felt quite as fabulous as I normally do when wearing that LBD. Finally, it dawned on me and all the pieces fell into place.
As I said in my first post, writers write, sculptors sculpt, but as fashionistas, we wear our art. Being the ultimate fashion cliché, my LBD was blocking my ability to express myself clearly. Try and imagine how Iain McEwan would have felt if he ended 'Atonement' with something as trite as 'better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'. Or Donna Tart's 'The Secret History' finished with the words 'boys will be boys'. I admit to taking some liberties here, but I can't imagine that Iain and Donna would feel particularly great about those words on the last page of their novels. In fact, I think they'd feel like they'd copped out - that they'd resorted to a cliché when they could have expected something more original, more creative, more fabulous, of themselves. That's exactly how I felt about the LBD - that I'd failed to express myself completely because I threw in the creative towel and resorted to the hackneyed and the cliché.
Like all great clichés, the LBD was initially a stroke of creative genius. When the LBD-bomb was first dropped by Coco Chanel in the 1920s, it was nothing short of a revolution. It 'freed' women from having to worry so much what to wear to the numerous social occasions a gal-about-town would be - and still is - expected to go to. An LBD, back when it was a fresh new concept, would have said a lot about the wearer; about how modern, how carefree, how liberated and devil-may-care she was.
The trouble with the LBD now, though, is that it's become a fallback position women adopt when they don't feel confident enough in their creativity, in their own look, to wear something truly fantastic and truly expressive of themselves. It's fashion's missionary. And because it's been so heavily promoted, and reincarnated in every decade since the 1920s, there are just so darn many of them around that to wear an LBD actually makes you pretty much a part of the fashion wallpaper. Dull, dreary, black wallpaper, that is.
This isn't to malign the black dress in general - indeed, I have a couple of other black dresses, both jersey, one clingy and the other floaty, which I love. In both cases, though, the black dresses I love have something a bit different going on - one of them is a print, the other has a daring and unique v-back construction. Both of them have something that sets them apart from the pack. My critique of the LBD is restricted to the heavily promoted 'classic' version - see the description of mine above, or the Portmans window next time you're in a shopping mall. It's the cliché of the black cocktail length dress in a plain fabric with minimal detailing that my vitriol is reserved for.
For me, the fatal flaw of the LBD concept, aside from being overused to the point of cliché, is the idea that a single dress can reflect how you feel at a cocktail party with your girlfriends, on a romantic date, at a work dinner or at a family wedding. All of those events, for me, have a different emotional tone – joy, excitement, loyalty and dread respectively. For all its supposed universality, the LBD doesn't resonate with all of these tones. Before defenders of the LBD will bring out the accessory defense - you can change the tone of the outfit with accessorisation - this in and of itself reflects a sad truth about the LBD: at its very best it's merely a blank canvas for fabulous accessories. Think about the LBD Audrey Hepburn wore in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's’. Now take away the necklace and the cigarette holder. What have you got left? Not a whole lot of fabulous, that's for sure.
My clothes ought - no, need - to be more than blank canvases, just as a writer needs his or her words to be more than just text on a page. Whilst it's necessary to have some pieces in your wardrobe that whisper rather than shout ‘fabulous’ from the rooftops, I feel that the LBD doesn’t even belong in the category of whisperers. Every piece in your wardrobe - even if it's a workhorse item like jeans or a black vee neck - must be more than just a blank canvas, and must have something to say. Most of us don't have the money, or hanging space, for clothes that don't say anything at all, and can ill afford to surrender our individuality to clichés in an increasingly homogenized world.
Throwing down a gauntlet, I challenge you, dear reader, to abandon the LBD. Instead, Let's Be Different. To wrangle some ee cummings here, I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
So Let's Be Different.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Panty Problems: Just Say No
For such a teeny tiny garment, the humble panty is responsible for a great many of my fashion vexations. It’s like the pea under the mattress in that much loved fairytale, the Princess and the Pea. Hidden from the naked eye, small in size and seemingly harmless, panties nonetheless have a knock on effect on the rest of your outfit, and on the way that you feel. I would go so far as to compare panty problems with other foibles of modern life, such as locking yourself out of the house, leaving your ipod on the bus, or bumping into an ex in your trackies. The impact of a panty problem is implicitly acknowledged in those handed-down womanly phrases – of course you’d be upset if your knickers were in a knot. Likewise, a change of panties can change your outlook on a situation, hence mama-k’s oft-uttered aphorism: ‘put your big girl panties on a deal with it’. An eternal truth if ever there was one.
There are many reasons why the humble panty is so important. For starters, it is the piece of clothing that is – literally – closest to the body, and, to get all fashion-theory on your, blurs the boundary between the body and clothing, between the public and the private, more than anything else that we wear. All clothing blurs these boundaries to some extent, but it’s the proximity of the panty to that last great bodily taboo – the vagina – that locates a particular cultural significance in the panty. Our culture is fascinated by panties – even those asexual butt condoms in Bridget Jones’s Diary goad Daniel Cleaver’s desire. Ever wondered why an inept bloke, when getting a little bit ‘textual’ with you, never asks about your socks or your scarf? It’s because, due to their physical proximity to a taboo area, panties are loaded with social and sexual significance. Who knew a little scrap of poly-cotton could say so much?
On a less theoretical note, panties are the ‘foundation’ upon which the rest of an outfit is constructed. Anyone who wears jersey – and you all should, it’s a much maligned fabric – will know this. Panties that cut into your rear, ride up or down, have a texture that shows through the fabric of your outer garments, and are too dark or light, are the downfall of many otherwise excellent outfits. Even the much touted solutions to these underwear problems – the thong and the support knickers – have their own issues. Thongs are just as bad, in fact worse, than the garden variety bikini brief in terms of cutting into the fat that most healthy women have deposited around the hip area, and make even the most pert of bottoms look as though they’re meeeeeeelting down your thighs.
Briefly, I thought that support knickers would solve all of my underwear problems. They were smooth and seamless, and gave an extra couple of inches of lift in the cheek area which looked very well under a slinky dress…until I caught a glimpse of what was going on above and below the elastic line of the knickers. The beguiling thing about the support panty is the promise that it can vanish a portion of your flesh. NOT TRUE. It just moves it elsewhere. Like burying toxic waste underground, you’re just redispersing the problem, rather than vanishing it. In the case of support knickers, attractive and proportional flesh is redispersed into a spare tire around your waist where the top of the support panty ends, and two matching mini tyres around your thighs where the support panty begins. About as sex-ay as…well, that particular spelling of sexy.
At my wit’s end one day, having gone through my entire panty drawer trying to find something that wouldn’t pull, pucker, roll or otherwise interfere with my fablousness, I did a very brave thing. I abandoned the quest for the holy grail and went without panties. It felt a little strange at first, I will admit. But by the end of the day I was sold on the no-panty concept. I felt free, easy, and more than a wee bit breezy. There was no going back.
Initially, I thought I was alone in this deviant panty-ditching. I kept it on the hush, commiserating with other girlfriends over their panty problems even though I’d secretly found the ultimate solution. Until one lunchtime, over ham and cheese croissants with my lovelies Kitty Gillfeather and Clementine Kemp, I blurted out the truth:
That I wasn’t wearing panties. And hadn’t been for some time.
Clementine was aghast – but, to my great surprise, Kitty announced that she wasn’t wearing any either. After much giggling and strange looks from neighbouring tables, it turned out that Kitty and I had arrived at a similar conclusion – panty problems far outweighed panty benefits, and thus the panty concept should be ditched. Problem Panties: Just Say No was the slogan we adopted. Numerous other discussions with gal pals resulted in a wider-than-expected array of panty problems and panty solutions. Some went with the no-panty option only if they were wearing pantyhose. Others resorted to a nude coloured spandex slip to resolve the problem of bulges created by the favoured cotton bikini brief. More, still, were scandalised, and slightly intrigued, by the fact that you could actually do away with the panties and their associated problems, and the world wouldn’t end.
Of course, I am loathe to hand down any sartorial dictates on this page. If you want to wear panties, thongs, support briefs or good ol’ fashioned bloomers, then I will support your right to wear whatever you want, sister. I just think it’s worth mentioning the possibility of going free range. After all, if feminism is about ‘choice’ in this day and age, it can’t hurt to add free-and-breezy to the bikini, thong, or French knicker option, can it?
I will add one caveat to this post, however. There are times and places where panties have literally saved my ass – pardon the pun – and caused me, the most impassioned advocate of the free-and-breezy, to acknowledge that there is a season for all things, including panties. To put it more succinctly: when you’ve stood waiting to cross a busy road in Fyshwick on a breezy summer’s day, and your charming floaty skirt has been blown over your head in a particularly strong gust of wind, you will truly come to know the value of that little scarp of poly cotton. As will passing motorists. Arguably….
There are many reasons why the humble panty is so important. For starters, it is the piece of clothing that is – literally – closest to the body, and, to get all fashion-theory on your, blurs the boundary between the body and clothing, between the public and the private, more than anything else that we wear. All clothing blurs these boundaries to some extent, but it’s the proximity of the panty to that last great bodily taboo – the vagina – that locates a particular cultural significance in the panty. Our culture is fascinated by panties – even those asexual butt condoms in Bridget Jones’s Diary goad Daniel Cleaver’s desire. Ever wondered why an inept bloke, when getting a little bit ‘textual’ with you, never asks about your socks or your scarf? It’s because, due to their physical proximity to a taboo area, panties are loaded with social and sexual significance. Who knew a little scrap of poly-cotton could say so much?
On a less theoretical note, panties are the ‘foundation’ upon which the rest of an outfit is constructed. Anyone who wears jersey – and you all should, it’s a much maligned fabric – will know this. Panties that cut into your rear, ride up or down, have a texture that shows through the fabric of your outer garments, and are too dark or light, are the downfall of many otherwise excellent outfits. Even the much touted solutions to these underwear problems – the thong and the support knickers – have their own issues. Thongs are just as bad, in fact worse, than the garden variety bikini brief in terms of cutting into the fat that most healthy women have deposited around the hip area, and make even the most pert of bottoms look as though they’re meeeeeeelting down your thighs.
Briefly, I thought that support knickers would solve all of my underwear problems. They were smooth and seamless, and gave an extra couple of inches of lift in the cheek area which looked very well under a slinky dress…until I caught a glimpse of what was going on above and below the elastic line of the knickers. The beguiling thing about the support panty is the promise that it can vanish a portion of your flesh. NOT TRUE. It just moves it elsewhere. Like burying toxic waste underground, you’re just redispersing the problem, rather than vanishing it. In the case of support knickers, attractive and proportional flesh is redispersed into a spare tire around your waist where the top of the support panty ends, and two matching mini tyres around your thighs where the support panty begins. About as sex-ay as…well, that particular spelling of sexy.
At my wit’s end one day, having gone through my entire panty drawer trying to find something that wouldn’t pull, pucker, roll or otherwise interfere with my fablousness, I did a very brave thing. I abandoned the quest for the holy grail and went without panties. It felt a little strange at first, I will admit. But by the end of the day I was sold on the no-panty concept. I felt free, easy, and more than a wee bit breezy. There was no going back.
Initially, I thought I was alone in this deviant panty-ditching. I kept it on the hush, commiserating with other girlfriends over their panty problems even though I’d secretly found the ultimate solution. Until one lunchtime, over ham and cheese croissants with my lovelies Kitty Gillfeather and Clementine Kemp, I blurted out the truth:
That I wasn’t wearing panties. And hadn’t been for some time.
Clementine was aghast – but, to my great surprise, Kitty announced that she wasn’t wearing any either. After much giggling and strange looks from neighbouring tables, it turned out that Kitty and I had arrived at a similar conclusion – panty problems far outweighed panty benefits, and thus the panty concept should be ditched. Problem Panties: Just Say No was the slogan we adopted. Numerous other discussions with gal pals resulted in a wider-than-expected array of panty problems and panty solutions. Some went with the no-panty option only if they were wearing pantyhose. Others resorted to a nude coloured spandex slip to resolve the problem of bulges created by the favoured cotton bikini brief. More, still, were scandalised, and slightly intrigued, by the fact that you could actually do away with the panties and their associated problems, and the world wouldn’t end.
Of course, I am loathe to hand down any sartorial dictates on this page. If you want to wear panties, thongs, support briefs or good ol’ fashioned bloomers, then I will support your right to wear whatever you want, sister. I just think it’s worth mentioning the possibility of going free range. After all, if feminism is about ‘choice’ in this day and age, it can’t hurt to add free-and-breezy to the bikini, thong, or French knicker option, can it?
I will add one caveat to this post, however. There are times and places where panties have literally saved my ass – pardon the pun – and caused me, the most impassioned advocate of the free-and-breezy, to acknowledge that there is a season for all things, including panties. To put it more succinctly: when you’ve stood waiting to cross a busy road in Fyshwick on a breezy summer’s day, and your charming floaty skirt has been blown over your head in a particularly strong gust of wind, you will truly come to know the value of that little scarp of poly cotton. As will passing motorists. Arguably….
A Manifesto for Recessionistas: Be A Gatherer, Not A Hunter.
I think it’s only appropriate, with the endless talk of the GFC (Global Financial Crisis) and its impact on the garment industry, to devote a series of entries to the phenomenon of the Recessionista. Recessionista, of course, being a play on the term Fashionista – ie when you plonk a Fashionista in the middle of a recession you get a hybrid species of thrifty stylist – a Recessionista.
I have a confession to make. I’ve been a Recessionista all my styling life. Being a student for - well, forever, having gone straight from high school to university and now staying on for a PhD – means that I’ve never been able to dress without one eye on some fairly tight budgetary constraints. I viewed these constraints with contempt in my first three years at university – but in my third year, I began to see them as an advantage. Working within one’s means, rather than spending beyond them, can yield even more fabulous fashion results than a platinum AMEX card and a sugar daddy.
The fashion world has cottoned on to the need for thrift in the shadow of the GFC. Articles in various fashion rags spruk the benefits of ‘investment dressing’, usually with a focus on spending money on the basics and whittling down one’s wardrobe to an (ahem) ‘austere’ black and grey palette, in the simplest of shapes.
Whittling down and dispensing with fripperies has its merits. However, now is not the time for self expression and creativity to be the metaphorical babies thrown out with the bathwater. In fact, let these hard economic times flex your creativity and fabulousness, which, in times of plenty, can atrophy like a muscle choked by the fat of easy available credit and the fiscal licence to shop and dress impudently.
Here, from me to you, is the first of my top tips for being the ultimate Recessionista, inspired by years of fashion on a budget. Use them wisely, and stay fabulous, even when everyone around you is clamouring for the demure and the drab.
Be A Gatherer, Not A Hunter: as much as biological essentialism appals me as a sociologist, it’s possibly an apt metaphor for the way that a Recessionista needs to go about building her wardrobe. Women, for whatever reason, tend to have innate ‘gathering’ skills – and there is never a better time than a recession to use them.
Being a fashion gatherer means revolutionising the way that you shop. Let me tell you a tale of two friends, Gatherer Gertrude and Hunter Hermionie:
Gatherer Gertrude has a hot date at Sage on the weekend with Gorgeous Gareth. She’s a bit nervous – isn’t everybody before a date? – but refuses to run out to The Canberra Centre as soon as Gorgeous Gareth has made the reservation. In fact, it’s her off pay week, and she’s got $200 to last till next Thursday after she’s put petrol in the car. Even if work wasn’t so frantic, a shopping spree would still be out of the question. Instead, she takes a look in her wardrobe (and under her bed, and in the laundry hamper, and at the bottom of the pile of stuff that the cat was making a nest on…) to see what she’s got put aside for such an occasion. Sure enough, there’s a cournicopia of dresses, skirt and tops to choose from, because Gatherer Gertrude picks up bits and pieces she likes as she sees them and when she can afford them. Her friend, Hunter Hermionie, thinks it’s foolish for Gatherer Gertrude to ‘fritter away’ her meagre salary on whimsies she spies at market stalls and in kooky little boutiques - but more about Hunter Hermionie later. Gatherer Gertrude finds – wedged behind the column heater, of all places - a cute beaded top that she bought during a Sunday wander along Lonsdale Street last month. Silk, with a cute bow detail, she had no idea what she would wear it to at the time but she liked it and it was on special so why not buy it?. The bead detail lends itself to a more sedate pairing on the bottom half – in comes that pleated Country Road skirt she bought at a sample sale in first year. It’s a strange colour – a dull apple green – but it was forty dollars at the time and she liked it, so she’d bought it and been surprised at how much she’d worn it in the years since. Throwing on a belt she’d picked up at the post clearance sales – wide, black patent – and puling the whole thing together with her mum’s old Glomesh clutch, all that remained was for her to wander around the Gorman house markets on Saturday morning, picking up a fabulous pair of earings which offset the green of the skirt nicely. After lunching with Mummykins in Manuka, Gatherer Gertrude walked past Lyn & Barrett and happened to notice that Pleasure State was on sale – because she hadn’t had to rush out and buy a whole new outfit, she could justify putting that bargain lacy bra and pants set on her credit card – she could have $75 hanging over her head this month. As the evening rolled around, Gatherer Gertrude was feeling sexy and fabulous from the skin out. Gorgeous Gareth noticed she was glowing. Gatherer Gerturde was flattered when several heads – male and female – turned as she sasheyed through the restaurant to their table. Gatherer Gerturde didn’t like to blow her own horn, but she had to admit, she could understand why – she looked pretty damned foxy, shining like a star amoungst all the staid black cocktail dresses and skinny jean/glittery top combos other clotheshorses were wearing. And she’d done it without too much hassle and debt. She felt fantastic the whole night, her good mood rubbing off on Gorgeous Gareth. Without getting MA 15+ on you, they had the perfect ending to the perfect evening, and Gorgeous Gareth most certainly appreciated Gatherer Gertrude’s special purchases.
Hunter Hermione, unlike her dear friend Gatherer Gertrude, doesn’t like to spend money on clothes when there’s no clear purpose. Hunter Hermione doesn’t understand how Gatherer Gertrude can throw so much money away on clothes – it seems like Gatherer Gertrude buys something every other week! Anyway, Hunky Hank has asked Hunter Hermione out to Ottoman on Friday night. Hunky Hank calls to confirm this on Monday. Hunter Hermione checks her bank balance as soon as Hunky Hank has hung up – as it’s off pay week, she’s only got $200 left after she’s put petrol in the car for the week. Unfortunately, there’s nothing she feels really excited about wearing in her functional black-and-gray wardrobe – nothing that would do for such an expensive night out at any rate. Steeling her resolve, Hunter Hermione decides that this is a job for her credit card. This was okay. She’s normally so restrained, she thinks that she will be able to justify putting a new frock and maybe some shoes on her Visa. Work was a bitch that week so Hunter Hermione didn’t have a chance to get a look in at the shops till her lunch break on Thursday. Armed with her credit card, she hits The Canberra Centre running on Thursday lunchtime. Hungry, tired and with sore feet, she does scans of all the stores that she normally likes. She sees a sensible black frock, nothing special but still nice enough, in the window of Saba but it’s $320. More than she wants to spend, she’d have to Visa it…time being limited, she power walks to DJ’s and is underwhelmed there too. Everything is out of budget, and the one dress she did like was not available in her size, and wouldn’t be coming in again until the following week. The sands of her lunch hour rapidly dwindling through the hourglass, Hunter Hermione hightails it back to Saba, throws the black frock on over her work blouse and skirt – yep, zip does up – and puts it on the visa. The sales assistant, noticing that Hunter Hermione is a little flustered and distracted, suggests she pick up a tangerine belt to brighten the otherwise plain dress. Hunter Hermione agrees, because there’s nothing else she has in her cupboard to brighten up the outfit – another hundred dollars later, she’s out of the store, with debt on her credit card and a sinking feeling that she’s going to look as bland as a bowl of mashed potato on Friday night. Friday night rolls around and Hunter Hermione feels as uninspiring as she looks. The dress is alright, but it’s a bit loose around the bust and she’s had to pad it out with chicken fillets. The belt, a pretty colour in its own right, is swamped by the overwhelming blackness of the outfit and looks just plain silly. Hunter Hermione only has two bags, subscribing to the ‘investment dressing’ view which states that you should buy less and of greater quality. Faced with the choice between a black Oroton tote and a Country Road hobo in beige, Hunter Hermione opts for the Oroton. The bag is too large for the outfit and swamps the dress, which just adds to Hunter Hermione’s feeling that this outfit isn’t working. But too late, Hunky Hank is knocking at the door and she has to go. Hunky Hank wonders what he’s done wrong – Hunter Hermione is in a filthy mood and he can’t work out why. At the restaurant, three other women are wearing the same dress as Hunter Hermione. She has never felt less fabulous in her whole life, and wishes that she hadn’t talked herself out of buying that red silk dress Gatherer Gertrude had spied for her during the post Christmas sales. Hunter Hermione’s mood doesn’t pick at all, and by desert, she’s wishing that she was at home, in her sensible Peter Alexander stripy Pyjamas, eating her weight in hazelnut gelato. Which is exactly where she is an hour after the desert course, Hunky Hank having decided that Hunter Hermione must be tired and needs to have a good night of undisturbed rest in her own bed.
Now this is all a teensy bit exaggerated – but I’m sure you get the picture. The budget conscious Recessionista should always take up a bargain where and when she sees it, if she can afford it. There’s a lot to be said for taking a ‘store cupboard’ approach to your wardrobe – gathering fashion’s nuts and berries and storing them away for a fruitless season. Like my grandmother who Vacoloa-ed summer peaches and apricots, I like to think of the little things that we buy when we see them – a pretty dress on sale, an antique broach – as building a bountiful wardrobe so that when we do have that special dinner, or that important presentation, or that spring wedding, to go to, we can pull together a stunning outfit with minimal effort and minimal cost. That way, when you’re asked where you got your fabulous outfit on the way to the ladies, you can utter the line that all true fashionistas aspire to utter:
‘oh this? I’ve had it for years, it’s fabulous isn’t it?’
Proving that, not only are you chic, but you are timeless and effortless as well. And that’s not half bad for something you found behind the column heater.
I have a confession to make. I’ve been a Recessionista all my styling life. Being a student for - well, forever, having gone straight from high school to university and now staying on for a PhD – means that I’ve never been able to dress without one eye on some fairly tight budgetary constraints. I viewed these constraints with contempt in my first three years at university – but in my third year, I began to see them as an advantage. Working within one’s means, rather than spending beyond them, can yield even more fabulous fashion results than a platinum AMEX card and a sugar daddy.
The fashion world has cottoned on to the need for thrift in the shadow of the GFC. Articles in various fashion rags spruk the benefits of ‘investment dressing’, usually with a focus on spending money on the basics and whittling down one’s wardrobe to an (ahem) ‘austere’ black and grey palette, in the simplest of shapes.
Whittling down and dispensing with fripperies has its merits. However, now is not the time for self expression and creativity to be the metaphorical babies thrown out with the bathwater. In fact, let these hard economic times flex your creativity and fabulousness, which, in times of plenty, can atrophy like a muscle choked by the fat of easy available credit and the fiscal licence to shop and dress impudently.
Here, from me to you, is the first of my top tips for being the ultimate Recessionista, inspired by years of fashion on a budget. Use them wisely, and stay fabulous, even when everyone around you is clamouring for the demure and the drab.
Be A Gatherer, Not A Hunter: as much as biological essentialism appals me as a sociologist, it’s possibly an apt metaphor for the way that a Recessionista needs to go about building her wardrobe. Women, for whatever reason, tend to have innate ‘gathering’ skills – and there is never a better time than a recession to use them.
Being a fashion gatherer means revolutionising the way that you shop. Let me tell you a tale of two friends, Gatherer Gertrude and Hunter Hermionie:
Gatherer Gertrude has a hot date at Sage on the weekend with Gorgeous Gareth. She’s a bit nervous – isn’t everybody before a date? – but refuses to run out to The Canberra Centre as soon as Gorgeous Gareth has made the reservation. In fact, it’s her off pay week, and she’s got $200 to last till next Thursday after she’s put petrol in the car. Even if work wasn’t so frantic, a shopping spree would still be out of the question. Instead, she takes a look in her wardrobe (and under her bed, and in the laundry hamper, and at the bottom of the pile of stuff that the cat was making a nest on…) to see what she’s got put aside for such an occasion. Sure enough, there’s a cournicopia of dresses, skirt and tops to choose from, because Gatherer Gertrude picks up bits and pieces she likes as she sees them and when she can afford them. Her friend, Hunter Hermionie, thinks it’s foolish for Gatherer Gertrude to ‘fritter away’ her meagre salary on whimsies she spies at market stalls and in kooky little boutiques - but more about Hunter Hermionie later. Gatherer Gertrude finds – wedged behind the column heater, of all places - a cute beaded top that she bought during a Sunday wander along Lonsdale Street last month. Silk, with a cute bow detail, she had no idea what she would wear it to at the time but she liked it and it was on special so why not buy it?. The bead detail lends itself to a more sedate pairing on the bottom half – in comes that pleated Country Road skirt she bought at a sample sale in first year. It’s a strange colour – a dull apple green – but it was forty dollars at the time and she liked it, so she’d bought it and been surprised at how much she’d worn it in the years since. Throwing on a belt she’d picked up at the post clearance sales – wide, black patent – and puling the whole thing together with her mum’s old Glomesh clutch, all that remained was for her to wander around the Gorman house markets on Saturday morning, picking up a fabulous pair of earings which offset the green of the skirt nicely. After lunching with Mummykins in Manuka, Gatherer Gertrude walked past Lyn & Barrett and happened to notice that Pleasure State was on sale – because she hadn’t had to rush out and buy a whole new outfit, she could justify putting that bargain lacy bra and pants set on her credit card – she could have $75 hanging over her head this month. As the evening rolled around, Gatherer Gertrude was feeling sexy and fabulous from the skin out. Gorgeous Gareth noticed she was glowing. Gatherer Gerturde was flattered when several heads – male and female – turned as she sasheyed through the restaurant to their table. Gatherer Gerturde didn’t like to blow her own horn, but she had to admit, she could understand why – she looked pretty damned foxy, shining like a star amoungst all the staid black cocktail dresses and skinny jean/glittery top combos other clotheshorses were wearing. And she’d done it without too much hassle and debt. She felt fantastic the whole night, her good mood rubbing off on Gorgeous Gareth. Without getting MA 15+ on you, they had the perfect ending to the perfect evening, and Gorgeous Gareth most certainly appreciated Gatherer Gertrude’s special purchases.
Hunter Hermione, unlike her dear friend Gatherer Gertrude, doesn’t like to spend money on clothes when there’s no clear purpose. Hunter Hermione doesn’t understand how Gatherer Gertrude can throw so much money away on clothes – it seems like Gatherer Gertrude buys something every other week! Anyway, Hunky Hank has asked Hunter Hermione out to Ottoman on Friday night. Hunky Hank calls to confirm this on Monday. Hunter Hermione checks her bank balance as soon as Hunky Hank has hung up – as it’s off pay week, she’s only got $200 left after she’s put petrol in the car for the week. Unfortunately, there’s nothing she feels really excited about wearing in her functional black-and-gray wardrobe – nothing that would do for such an expensive night out at any rate. Steeling her resolve, Hunter Hermione decides that this is a job for her credit card. This was okay. She’s normally so restrained, she thinks that she will be able to justify putting a new frock and maybe some shoes on her Visa. Work was a bitch that week so Hunter Hermione didn’t have a chance to get a look in at the shops till her lunch break on Thursday. Armed with her credit card, she hits The Canberra Centre running on Thursday lunchtime. Hungry, tired and with sore feet, she does scans of all the stores that she normally likes. She sees a sensible black frock, nothing special but still nice enough, in the window of Saba but it’s $320. More than she wants to spend, she’d have to Visa it…time being limited, she power walks to DJ’s and is underwhelmed there too. Everything is out of budget, and the one dress she did like was not available in her size, and wouldn’t be coming in again until the following week. The sands of her lunch hour rapidly dwindling through the hourglass, Hunter Hermione hightails it back to Saba, throws the black frock on over her work blouse and skirt – yep, zip does up – and puts it on the visa. The sales assistant, noticing that Hunter Hermione is a little flustered and distracted, suggests she pick up a tangerine belt to brighten the otherwise plain dress. Hunter Hermione agrees, because there’s nothing else she has in her cupboard to brighten up the outfit – another hundred dollars later, she’s out of the store, with debt on her credit card and a sinking feeling that she’s going to look as bland as a bowl of mashed potato on Friday night. Friday night rolls around and Hunter Hermione feels as uninspiring as she looks. The dress is alright, but it’s a bit loose around the bust and she’s had to pad it out with chicken fillets. The belt, a pretty colour in its own right, is swamped by the overwhelming blackness of the outfit and looks just plain silly. Hunter Hermione only has two bags, subscribing to the ‘investment dressing’ view which states that you should buy less and of greater quality. Faced with the choice between a black Oroton tote and a Country Road hobo in beige, Hunter Hermione opts for the Oroton. The bag is too large for the outfit and swamps the dress, which just adds to Hunter Hermione’s feeling that this outfit isn’t working. But too late, Hunky Hank is knocking at the door and she has to go. Hunky Hank wonders what he’s done wrong – Hunter Hermione is in a filthy mood and he can’t work out why. At the restaurant, three other women are wearing the same dress as Hunter Hermione. She has never felt less fabulous in her whole life, and wishes that she hadn’t talked herself out of buying that red silk dress Gatherer Gertrude had spied for her during the post Christmas sales. Hunter Hermione’s mood doesn’t pick at all, and by desert, she’s wishing that she was at home, in her sensible Peter Alexander stripy Pyjamas, eating her weight in hazelnut gelato. Which is exactly where she is an hour after the desert course, Hunky Hank having decided that Hunter Hermione must be tired and needs to have a good night of undisturbed rest in her own bed.
Now this is all a teensy bit exaggerated – but I’m sure you get the picture. The budget conscious Recessionista should always take up a bargain where and when she sees it, if she can afford it. There’s a lot to be said for taking a ‘store cupboard’ approach to your wardrobe – gathering fashion’s nuts and berries and storing them away for a fruitless season. Like my grandmother who Vacoloa-ed summer peaches and apricots, I like to think of the little things that we buy when we see them – a pretty dress on sale, an antique broach – as building a bountiful wardrobe so that when we do have that special dinner, or that important presentation, or that spring wedding, to go to, we can pull together a stunning outfit with minimal effort and minimal cost. That way, when you’re asked where you got your fabulous outfit on the way to the ladies, you can utter the line that all true fashionistas aspire to utter:
‘oh this? I’ve had it for years, it’s fabulous isn’t it?’
Proving that, not only are you chic, but you are timeless and effortless as well. And that’s not half bad for something you found behind the column heater.
Because We Live Our Lives In It
There’s a scene I love in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’. A team of stylists, under the eagle eye of editor Miranda Priestly, are putting together an outfit for the latest edition of Glamour Magazine. Andi Sachs, the protagonist and supposed heroine of the story, snickers at the gravity the assorted fashionistas and their assistants afford the situation. Because she’s ‘above’ fashion. Miranda, catching onto Andi’s contempt for fashion, gives her the passive-aggressive upbraiding of the century, culminating in saying that fashion is important ‘because we live our lives in it’.
Although I would hope that noone reading this blog takes their look, or themselves, as seriously as Miranda Priestly does, I can’t stand by her more. No culture in human history could be described as free of fashion. Even when we try to ignore it, or downplay its influence in our lives, like Andi in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’, we can’t escape the fact that our very decision to NOT be ‘fashionable’ is, in fact, buying into a certain counter-cultural aesthetic – a fashion - that exists only because fashion does.
This blog is about celebrating the way that we live our lives in fashion. By fashion, I do not mean what is in fashion at the moment – what I mean by fashion is the way that we express ourselves through the clothes that we wear. The way that it can allow us to be a pirate princess, an earth mother, or Sophia Loren, all in the space of a day. The way that it communicates who we are, who we belong to, and who we wish to be, through the placement of a button or the shape of a heel. A fellow fashionista once said to me that whilst other people paint, compose music, sculpt or write, we wear our art every single day. That isn’t to say that we are always spot on and impeccable – I for one am most certainly not – or that every outfit could be described as art. But it is about realising and celebrating that every day, when we get dressed, we have an opportunity to create.
I don’t mean for this blog to be an exposition into the ‘rules’ of fashion – in fact, I will rail against the notion that fashion has rules in a post appearing here shortly. What I mean for it to be is a place where I can share with you my thoughts and experiences with ‘wearing art’, and where you, hopefully, will feel comfortable with sharing your experiences too.
Stay Fabulous,
Peggy Entwhistle
P.S. One final note before we truly get started – you may recognise yourself or things that you have said at points in these blog posts. You’ll know who you are, but, for the sake of keeping your identity a secret (like a fashion superhero!) I will have given you a pseudonym. Likewise, my true identity is pseudonemically shrouded, although if you’ve arrived here through a facebook post it’s likely my cover’s been blown! Nonetheless, let the guessing games begin….
There’s a scene I love in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’. A team of stylists, under the eagle eye of editor Miranda Priestly, are putting together an outfit for the latest edition of Glamour Magazine. Andi Sachs, the protagonist and supposed heroine of the story, snickers at the gravity the assorted fashionistas and their assistants afford the situation. Because she’s ‘above’ fashion. Miranda, catching onto Andi’s contempt for fashion, gives her the passive-aggressive upbraiding of the century, culminating in saying that fashion is important ‘because we live our lives in it’.
Although I would hope that noone reading this blog takes their look, or themselves, as seriously as Miranda Priestly does, I can’t stand by her more. No culture in human history could be described as free of fashion. Even when we try to ignore it, or downplay its influence in our lives, like Andi in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’, we can’t escape the fact that our very decision to NOT be ‘fashionable’ is, in fact, buying into a certain counter-cultural aesthetic – a fashion - that exists only because fashion does.
This blog is about celebrating the way that we live our lives in fashion. By fashion, I do not mean what is in fashion at the moment – what I mean by fashion is the way that we express ourselves through the clothes that we wear. The way that it can allow us to be a pirate princess, an earth mother, or Sophia Loren, all in the space of a day. The way that it communicates who we are, who we belong to, and who we wish to be, through the placement of a button or the shape of a heel. A fellow fashionista once said to me that whilst other people paint, compose music, sculpt or write, we wear our art every single day. That isn’t to say that we are always spot on and impeccable – I for one am most certainly not – or that every outfit could be described as art. But it is about realising and celebrating that every day, when we get dressed, we have an opportunity to create.
I don’t mean for this blog to be an exposition into the ‘rules’ of fashion – in fact, I will rail against the notion that fashion has rules in a post appearing here shortly. What I mean for it to be is a place where I can share with you my thoughts and experiences with ‘wearing art’, and where you, hopefully, will feel comfortable with sharing your experiences too.
Stay Fabulous,
Peggy Entwhistle
P.S. One final note before we truly get started – you may recognise yourself or things that you have said at points in these blog posts. You’ll know who you are, but, for the sake of keeping your identity a secret (like a fashion superhero!) I will have given you a pseudonym. Likewise, my true identity is pseudonemically shrouded, although if you’ve arrived here through a facebook post it’s likely my cover’s been blown! Nonetheless, let the guessing games begin….
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