What Shoes To Wear On An Airplane?

As I will be flying East in a week or two, I have to plan not only what I will wear during my visit, but also my airplane garb. I'm very much the Sturdy Gal in transit. Grandes Dames have their pashmina throws, Artsy Cousins meditate so it doesn't matter what they wear, Sturdy Gals fly in black yoga pants, black tee, and a black down-lined jacket that can be taken off and on easily as one becomes over-heated dashing towards gates. Oh yes, and we like lots of pockets for passport, reading glasses, and cash to buy bottles of water. Which are required after so much dashing. 

All of which begs the question of shoes. I, as a good Sturdy Gal, abhor foot pain. However, as a High WASP I cannot bring myself to pair white running shoes with black clothing. Nor pink shoes, nor aqua, nor silver. Shudder. No, they've got to be black. Black trainers, as the British and their linguistic cousins would say. And the shoes have to support the afore-mentioned dashing. Which brings us to Pumas. I may be Sturdy, but not to the point where I can't convince myself that these are cooler than Nikes. Why? Who can say. Perhaps the leaping cat, often an image of women on adventure? More likely, the simple unknown-ness of the brand. They are Chipotle to Nike's Taco Bell. Extra avocado and all. And if they're not, don't tell me. 

Style is more felt than seen. Especially on feet. Especially on feet in airplanes. What do you wear to fly?

The Story About The Prada Peanut Cardigan And Her Friends

It turns out that my story about a Prada cardigan is really a story about a Prada dress. A classic, quirky, iconic, dress.

Ever since the W. Magazine vs. Vogue smackdown I have been dreaming of full-skirted beauties. Mooning over the impact they'd have on my waist, my wasted decades, the yearning I have always felt and will always feel for Fashion. Even though I mostly wear navy blue. Sometimes Aerosoles. The dress above is from Miuccia Prada. Something wicked this way comes.

But why would anyone currently optimizing jeans, khakis, and Target tees need that kind of clothing? They wouldn't. I know that. I know that. But I scheduled a meetup with two of my favorite bloggers, Maxminimus and Reggie. In New York City. Suddenly, mysteriously, I needed a new dress. The Narciso was not suitable.

Cathy Horyn, the New York Times fashion critic whom I heard speak the other week, told a story that started out, "And then there's always the question of, 'Can you find the clothes?'" She had apparently wanted to touch, if not buy, a Balenciaga runway dress. She went to Barney's NY, hoping the piece was available, and that she could remain unrecognized in its pursuit. It wasn't there, and they figured out who she was. For Cathy, the dress arrived on Barney's floor a few weeks later.

For the rest of us, actually buying something we saw in Vogue, or on a runway video, even if we are crazy enough to shell out the huge sums of money required, can be more difficult.

Back to my story. Back to my dress. Back to the hunt for something along the lines of what you see above.

Off to the Stanford Shopping Center. I searched through racks looking for those colors, those patterns, that silhouette. But Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus were showing shifts. I did not want a shift. In the sensible way that one has at midlife, I settled for similar color and pattern at Nordie's, all the while pining for a flounce. Just one flounce. Perhaps a little twirl.

Here's the Tahari pencil skirt I came home with. You can see my fondness for the Prada pattern wasn't just puppy love.I found a nice beige sweater to match. Theory. At a stretch, it's camel, and should I want to I can check off a trend. But trends and fashion visions are not fungible goods.



I even found matching pants. In tweed. So practical. So Sturdy Gal.


Be that as it may, I couldn't get Miuccia's 'Mad Men meets Dries Van Noten' creation out of my mind. And I know where to find a Prada store. San Francisco, On the corner of Post and Grant. I popped into my little white Toyota Rav4, the car so Sturdy that Kanye West curses it. I scooted up Highway 101. Surely, I thought, the dress will be unavailable. Surely I'm just being responsible, doing my homework to back up a purchase.

It's amazing what one can tell oneself when possessed.

The Prada store was up to its ears in cranberry. You know, fall and all.


And there, waiting demurely behind the cranberry tweed, was my dress. Or close enough. Held below by a very nice salesperson named Abe. He called me love, and brought me water. If you want to sell middle-aged ladies anything, bring us water. We're always thirsty. "Love" is optional.

Surely the dress would look terrible on.


Surely not.

On, the skirt has body. On, the bodice shapes. On, the hemline hits me right where hemlines all over the universe should hit me. And see that little black line on the bust? It's a lace crumb-catcher. They tacked it down for me, a bit, as there's only so much outré I can manage in one outfit, but still. I felt chic. The dust devils of desire, stirred up by W's photo shoot, settled. Harvest time.

And that was that.

If you'd like to see my new obsession out walking, take a look at the Prada Fall 2010 fashion show and lookbook. If you'd like to see the blue coat version, as worn by Anna Wintour, look here.

Let us not forget the Peanut cardigan. Since I will be wearing the dress to New York in November, and then to a conference in Atlanta which will surely be held in air conditioning, I had to buy this sweater. Whose sleeve I immediately snagged on a shopping cart at Whole Foods. That's what you get for forcing jeans duty on an aristocrat. Could I have made do with a sweater I already own? No. I shake my head at myself but I'm beyond shame. Beyond happens, even to High WASPs.

Were I Artsy I'd sport woolly tights, bagging in the ankle, with some suitable nerd-chic flats. Were I a true Grande Dame, I'd venture out bare-legged and ask my driver to crank up the heat. But as a Sturdy Gal, just pulling off Grande by the skin of her teeth, I'll be wearing nude Donna Karan pantyhose with these pumps. And damn the naysayers.



Lordy, lordy, lordy. Even Sturdy Gals dream.

The impulse to buy is the same I had at 20. Only the formation of desire is different. These days I read style with analytical faculties fully engaged. These days I understand that I keep clothes for decades, I hold them on hangers in front of my closet, I look back. Not inconsequentially, and not to wax overly sentimental, but these days I write for you all. I bought in informed delirium.

Thank you.

Kanye really doesn't like my car.

Images:
W. Last Exit to Brooklyn via Tom and Lorenzo
Others via me

5 Reasons To Go Hear Your Idol Speak In Person

Cathy Horyn, Fashion Critic of The New York Times, 10/20/2010

Yesterday, I attended an 'open discussion' with Cathy Horyn. I'm not one for attending speaking events. Yesterday reminded me I'm a dope. These things can be very, very valuable.

1. Revealed details bring the picture to life. The fashion industry is in upheaval at the moment, the role of a fashion writer changing. In the past, reportage of breaking news from exclusive foreign runways was funded by department store advertising. Then the Internet appeared, in all its image-laden glory. The advertising, well, it disappeared. Fashion writers now have to report either at a more complex and more opinionated level or as celebrity gossip. Horyn is not the fashion reporter any more. She's the Fashion Critic. Critics need some sinew.

2. You will be reminded that the human side has universal import. Horyn told tales. Tales of John Fairchild, editor of Women's Wear Daily, and his luncheon cabal in New York. Bill Blass feeling worried because, "John doesn't seem to be talking to me. " Tales of Tom Ford, who doesn't worry what anyone thinks of him, and Yves St. Laurent, who did. The impact those personalities had on the clothes they made. Giorgio Armani and his inner competition with Miuccia Prada and Gianni Versace. Raf Simons, declaring himself to be innovative, and forever to be judged as such. Tales of Horyn herself, backstage at Chanel, watching Madonna and Lady Gaga together, before Gaga was, well, Gaga.

3. People who are successful usually got that way for a reason. Horyn is articulate, focused, and attractive. Not to be peculiar, with that last descriptor, but in an industry where looks are part of the marketplace one way or another, it seems fair game to comment. Horyn also appears to have set aside fear, or, if she still feels any, puts on a hell of a show. She also thanked me the next day via Twitter, and mentioned my father. Thereby setting off all High WASP indicators that either someone's parents did a very good job, or she figured out the well-behaved thing on her own.

4. You might get to meet the person you admire. This event, held in a smallish conference room turned out to be the intimate coda following a previous lecture and discussion. So 12 people sat around the table listening, with another 5 or so of us on chairs at the edge of the room. Horyn answered our questions. Like a seminar where your professor speaks very well-formed English and wears interesting clothes.

5. If you bring someone close to you, you may broaden your relationship. I asked a question, but first I said to my father in a whisper, "I want to ask a question. Is that OK?" And then Dad asked the final question of the day, comparing sports writing to fashion writing, and Cathy Horyn said she had been told by Grace Mirabella that she wrote like a sportswriter. In fact, she said, "My greatest fear was always that I'd have to write about the clothes." It would have been difficult to plan a more suitable concluding line.

6. Going to hear an expert in your field is good incentive to practice your own skills. In addition to a peanut Prada sweater (I believe Imogen of Inside Out Style would call the color 'rose beige camel') and black Varinas, I wore the Claudia Kussano earrings my brother gave me. Remember, I was trying to look like I wasn't trying. Also the salesperson in the Prada store told me Miuccia is all about the crafty, vintage jewelry look. I decided to trust him. Diamonds would have been wrong, wrong, wrong.

I even paid attention to my makeup. Sponged on Armani foundation #5, then Cle de Peau concealer in Beige on age spots and the reddened areas around my nose. I never use concealer under my eyes, it hurts to apply and Sturdy Gals don't think pristine undereyes are worth pain. I added peach YSL Cream Blush, then MAC Multiple in Riviera over that so as not to be too orange. One never wants to be too orange. I outlined my lips in MAC Spice lip pencil, added NARS lip gloss in Giza, wiped everything off a bit, and added a layer of NARS Lipstick in Cruising on top. For a smudgy, artisanal nude-ish mouth. Or so I told myself.

Whether or not my ministrations mattered, I felt good. In fact, the entire experience made me feel good. A cool day, a university campus, an expert. As my father said, standing outside the Humanities Center in the shade of an oak, "That was a very pleasant event."

*You can find Ms. Horyn on Twitter, @CathyHorynNYT, or here on her blog, On The Runway. The links I've included here provide a glimpse at her writings as well as the impression she's made on her industry.

*Note that I did not take notes, and therefore I may not have reported Ms. Horyn's words completely. I believe the sense is correct.

Image: me

What Do You Wear To Meet Your Idol?

What should one wear to hear Cathy Horyn, fashion reporter for The New York Times, speak at the Stanford University Humanities Center? Because that's where I'm going today. 

  

In standard High WASP tradition, one would rather wither in obscurity than be seen trying. Better to settle for a cultural costume then to attempt Fashion. (One might wonder whether it's not dreadfully tiring to use the pronoun one all the time. Yes. It is.) In my case, the cultural costume of Northern California High WASPs means Levi's, white tee, new peanut-colored Prada cardigan, Ferragamo Varinas. The Varinas for a certain My-Aunt-Wore-Them je ne sais quoi. Oh, and one tall, handsome, retired professor of English as power accessory. Dad was the second director of the Humanities Center, back when. Thanks Pops. You're better than Bittar. 

 I know, of course, that it doesn't matter one whit what I wear. I do not plan to besiege the woman nor, most likely, even to say more than "How do you do?" should the chance arise. But it's kind of fun to run my old sartorial anxiety movie and remember how the theater light flickered, and how the film ran, clickety clack, clickety clack. 

 With due Bloomian credit to kidchamp's imaginary reading group: 01 What would you wear to this function? 02 Who is your own private Horyn? 03 Extra pencil or use a pen? 04 Compare and contrast the use of accessories in Miuccia Prada's recent show to relevant sources in The Preppy Handbook. Extra credit for reference to True Prep updates. 05 Did you know Bloom's The Anxiety of Influence can be found on Google Books? I did not. You have 90 minutes. Please bring the blue book to the front of the lecture hall when you're finished. Be sure to sign the honor pledge. Begin. 

How To Dress Like A Million Bucks. For $31 Dollars

A couple of weeks ago I made a very trendy fashion haul.

I went to Target. Someone in Target's top management is wearing smartypants and sources goods that speak to most everyone. Their tees, in my experience, are top notch, albeit with a somewhat abbreviated lifespan.

My haul cost all of $31. My family fortune, as I have said, is fading. My desire to turn myself out well, is not.

Voilà.

Merona gray and black striped Ultimate Tee, $13. Cowl-neck Mossimo Drapey tee, $10 (this exact version not online).

A marinière. Some 70s style. I am telling you, we wore the heck out of cowl-necks in the 70s. How else to balance the long skirts and boots? And if I want to call that a marinière, don't break my heart. It's much less baggy than it looks. Check it against the real thing here.

The third overwhelmingly fashionable item I bought was a new navy tee. For $8. What am I talking about? Jeans and a navy shirt count as minimalist, monochromatic dressing. Jeans are navy. They are.

Add pearls, and a pair of non-trivial black flats, and you're quite presentable. A triple-strand may seem a little much for an $8 tee. Impunity, my friends, impunity. And recently I've been wearing the heck out of my 80s vintage mabe pearls. Those big buttons look good for the first time in years. Mine came from my sister, but you can find others at Beladora, here.

Alternatively, gold is always a good accessory for navy.


The watch doesn't have to be a Rolex. Frankly, it'd be a better outfit were this a vintage man's timepiece of a lesser-known brand. Or a Russian ladies' watch with Soviet implications. The earrings are from Chinatown, small discs with a dragon engraved, noteworthy for the tell-tale coloration of 24K gold. Again, gold-plated would look just fine. Square, for example, but simple. The point is to enrich a blue monochromatic outfit with fairly subtle variations across the yellow spectrum - yellow-brown, red-brown, gold, bronze.

You will note signs of fraying above. The Manolos' heel and the watch strap's #1 loop are both in need of repair. This Sturdy Gal approach to classic dressing requires spending almost nothing on what you'll wear for only a season. Conversely, one spends a reasonable amount on that which should last several years, i.e. blue jeans, and invests a fair amount of time and money to maintain what's worn for decades.

I wear my shoes for 10 years, sometimes. Rubber half-soles, and heels, are our friends.

The Sturdy Gal approach also requires us to have faith. So we won't be buying Jean-Paul Gaultier's version of the marinière. It's not necessary.

Last week I walked up a hill in San Francisco, in jeans, pearls, Ferragamo Varinas, the striped tee I will persist in calling marinière, and a James Perse peacoat. A street person asked me if I designed clothes. I said no. "You dress well," he replied. I took it as a compliment, even though I knew he was angling for a donation. Which I gave. I suppose you could say I felt like a million dollars.


No compensation has been taken, yet, for any of these recommendations. However, a relationship with Beladora, vintage jewelery extraordinaire, is in the works.

What I Believe Is Called A Smackdown, "W" Magazine vs. Vogue's September Issue

Last Exit To Brooklyn, from "W"

The fashion world recently suffered a management shakeup. Stefano Tonchi left the New York Times Style Magazine, often titled simply, "S" to head up "W." Are we, style-lovers of America, happy about the change? Use the handy scorecard below to decide. But first a brief aside. Will we all rush out and purchase the clothes in Mr. Tonichi's new mag? Heck no. This stuff is expensive. But mid-tier retailers are watching carefully. The zeitgeist so skillfully evoked in September's "W" will start to infiltrate J. Crew, and Anthropologie, and maybe even Talbots. Like smoke under the doors of closed rooms. You're Busy, You Want Plot Synopses If you hate fashion magazines, here's your plot synopsis for "W," September, 2010:

The Women of Mad Men - both the full skirted, floral, 50s gals, and the sheathed, monochromatic 60's - got bitten by vampires and moved to Red Hook, Brooklyn. Where they knitted some things in tweed.

If you like fashion magazines:

Fashion you can make sense of - woven patterns, tonal color, more subdued but more textured shoes, matte bags eschewing billboard logos, an in-your-face restraint - I could if I wanted to, but I won't. Luxe minimalism. The "pop" of color, made famous by Stacy London and her pal Clinton Kelly, is finally laid to rest.

But on to the competition. "W" Scorecard - An Extravagance of Plus - As Evidenced By: 1. XIV Sins and Virtues Jewelry by Jessica McCormack. In the style of her key pendants, below, only each piece represents a sin or virtue. Anger has a claw, Sloth some feathers. These keys give Tiffany a steampunk run for their money, no? "W" has exclusive images of the Sins line. 2. De rigueur photo of mouth covered in dark red lipstick, shiny as polyurethane. Title? True Blood. 3. Last Exit to Brooklyn. The photo shoot at top, in which everything I said in the synopses is proved to be true. 4. The "What" photo series showcasing objets de desir. Avec tarantulas. And black chicken feet. No, I promise, it's amazing. 5. A casual reference to and photo of Chanel "Stigma" nail polish, a "shimmering blackberry." Pictures of this color aren't even available online. Now I want it more. By The Amazing Peter Phillips, who was also responsible for "Jade," and the Chanel temporary tatoos. 6. Revealing that Etro is stepping up to play a slightly more affordable aide-de-camp in the Dries van Noten mortgage-your-house-for-a-print brigade 7. Highlighting the Loewe "Amazona." In a world where even Louis Vuitton now explains that their logos are "discretely placed," Loewe has been turning this model out for 3o years. And yes, LV says "discrete" instead of "discreet."

8. A short piece on Ikou Tschuss. A small company which supports Swiss grandmothers knitting and may soon do the same for New York omas, farmors, grannies, and grandmamas. Even if I don't buy many woolens the idea tickles my apparel fancy. 9. Ads for Strenesse. German, in the Jil Sander vein, with a less expensive line called Blue. Jil Sander calls her less expensive line Navy. See what I mean? And Gabrielle Strehle made me want a leather shift, of all things preposterous. 10. Campaigns indicating even Versace's gone minimal. When a brand known for ornamentation and excess slaps you across the face with black and white ads, featuring models in sculptural outfits, both brand and trend benefit. (-2 points for disingenous articles about how people rich enough to own helicopters host informal weddings with barefoot guests, and how a woman with D breasts isn't sad about her chest any more. But these things come with the territory.) Vogue Scorecard - A Drone of Minus - As Shown By:

1. Boring essays on culture. If I want some really good boring essays on culture I'll read the New Yorker.
2. Self-congratulatory navel-gazing about Fashion's Night Out. I don't live in New York and I'm not going. It's nice you guys get a street fair. We have them too, with dogs, balloons, and local wines.
3. Vogue may have become, just like Chanel, a "dusty" brand. I didn't make this up.
4. In this media-jaded day and age, once you've read a magazine with its accompanying documentary playing in the background, it's tough to go back to naked print. Go watch The September Issue again, and skip 2010.
5. This issue had not a single image I was compelled to share. That's saying something, because I like pictures.

(+3 points because Anna Wintour is still Anna Wintour, we presume Grace Coddington is around somewhere, and Halle Berry is on the cover representing African Americans for the first time since 198o-something.) Final score: "W" 13, Vogue -2. I know, I know, "W" is bigger than a mailbox.* But the next time you're running for a plane, craving a way to amuse yourself, pick up "W" instead of Vogue. If you really want to thank me I think I'd like Jessica's key necklace. Oh, how kind. You shouldn't have. *As aptly described by Worthy's fiance. Images: Last Exit to Brooklyn, via Tom and Lorenzo. Who completely disagree with me about "W"'s brilliance. Jessica McCormack key pendants via her blog Etro via Style.com Loewe's Amazona via Loewe's Versace F/W 2010 Ad Campaign via porcelain fashion

The Low-Down On High WASP Sunglasses

The Sturdy Gal, sporting Ray-Bans, on a boat in the Stockholm Archipelago.

High WASPs do have their favorite sunglasses. Like IBM in the 1970s, no High WASP was ever fired for buying Ray-Ban. That's me, up above. And yes, I did Photoshop out a wee bit of my frown lines. I have not yet achieved the nirvana of a vanity-free midlife. Full disclosure. But I digress.

My middle sister wears Ray-Bans. And I did a Twitter poll of my preppy friends. While not all High WASPs are preppies, and not all preppies are High WASPs, in the sunglasses arena we're pretty well aligned. Ray-Bans win in a landslide. Tortoise shell a plus. From @AgathaMChristie*, we have the recommendation for these cat-eyes. $145. Sturdy Gal can go a little Artsy.
As @girltuesday and @Agatha also reminded me, we have been known to go for the occasional pair of Pradas, or Oliver Peoples. These are Peoples' "Riley" glasses. Also just a little bit artsy. Love the transparent frames. $365. Or Persol. These are $255. I have been ogling that particular hinge detail for, oh, 25 years now? My youngest sister wears Persol. Oh, yes. Don't think I haven't noticed.
What if you want to sport a Grande Dame look, in what we affectionately call our 'sunnies?' It wouldn't be Versace, or Dolce and Gabbana. Just because it wouldn't.

Hopsy loves Lilly Pulitzers. If I'm going Grande Dame, I'm wearing the logo with impunity. You want a logo that stands for something. Lilly does that. $170. Why logos are OK for sunglasses and not for other things, I don't know. You'd have to ask a real Grande Dame.
Muffy chimed in with Chanel. I did buy a Chanel pair once. During our recent turn-of-the-century madness and concurrent stock market heights. They were black, with that matelasse detailing on the side. I loved them. I lost them. Now I rather like these below, in white. Especially the expansion of the famous double C's to include the stylized camellia. Brilliant. I have no idea what they cost. Chanel figures if I have to ask I don't want them. Fine then. If you're going Grande Dame, go all the way to Florida.
Chanel can also take us pretty much all the way to Artsy. Silver fronds of plant material are definitely not Sturdy.


Or, for even more Artsy, given that these are a special secret probation fashion insider brand, try Karen Walker. She doesn't give us prices either.


Espoused, in a show of secret and only suspected edgy fashionable depths, by our favorite Preppy Princess. Preppy waters run deep. I've said so all long.

Lest you worry I'm advising we all return to giddy, profligate, turn of the century ways, be assured. The Sturdy Gal likes Target specials just fine. That's what my mom wears. She's from the generation before all this brand folderol.

But Foster Grants are even better. $20.

Because the Sturdy Gal loses her sunglasses all the time anyway.

Watch that video. No, you don't have to buy high end for good eye protection. But, things being what they are, you might do it just because.

Ray-Ban here.
Oliver Peoples here.
Persol here.
Lilly Pulitzer here.
Chanel here.
Karen Walker here.
Target here.
Foster Grant here.
Thank you to the Hostess for asking about sunnies. Thanks also to Worthington and Lauren for their contributions.
* The @thingie is how people show up in their Tweets. Their user name, if you will.

Whilst In Sweden; The Sturdy Gal Wears

No little black dresses over here. Of course my sisters and I had to confer to make sure that was really OK. Feels a little naked for High WASPs to travel without a way to dress for dinner.

Sense prevailed. Here's as dressed up as I will be. New metallic orange Havianas. A new belt. Which I'm pretending is Artsy. Do not break my heart and tell me otherwise.

Khakis. Diamond studs, I mean, I'm only going to have one pair of earrings for goodness sake.

And L.L. Bean chambray. I had to buy a man's shirt. The women's weren't classic enough. And then, of course, it was too big. So then, of course, I had to take it to the tailor. Surely you have tailored a basic before? Maybe just not quite this basic.

I'm going to pretend I look like Katherine Hepburn. Channel her wind-swept hair and wind-burned cheeks. Sit on a rock, stretch my feet before me, clasp my knees. My khaki-clad knees, sure, but still knees..

The Sturdy Gal Dreams Of A Grand Resort, v.2011

In recent weeks the fashion industry has been showing its Resort collections. High WASPs love resorts. They are places of tennis, sand, and alcohol. What's not to like? We aren't sure, however, what the point is of Resort collections, shown in the summer, and not available until 2011. We think it's an "industry thing," which makes us think of commerce, which makes us have to lie down.

As long as we are lying down, we will look at the clothes. Good news. There's something for everyone.* The Sturdy Gal, Artsy Cousin, and Grande Dame can all participate in what the fashion pundits have deemed a "2011 Resort trend." Good news. For us, or for the industry, of course, I cannot say.

But one might wonder, what trends of the season does the Sturdy Gal like?

Brogues, otherwise known as boy shoes. Black and white. Belts that hold your pants up.

Akris, via simple+pretty

If it's a girly day, we change out pants for a skirt. We don't, however, frown. Sturdy Gals are nothing if not cheerful. And we aren't sure why this woman is so cranky. After all, she's modeling and she's over 16. Shouldn't she be full of joy at breaking ground?

Organic, by John Patrick, via simple+pretty

We can even do dresses. Bottega Veneta bags are our secret vice. We have been known to pat them on the sly.

Bottega Veneta, via simple+pretty

Given these predilections, you can see why the Sturdy Gal worries about her Artsy Cousin. Artsy lives for prints. She adores a good floral, even those haunted by ghosts of upholstery past.

Kenzo, via Style.com

And, while the Artsy Cousin will sometimes wander into Sturdy Gal territory, tending on those occasions towards the wistful colors of seaglass green, fallen peach, and dusty berry,

Calvin Klein, via simple+pretty

she is never happier than when she glows like a multicultural flame. Which the Sturdy Gal just doesn't get. Why would anyone want to wear clothes that, um, show up?

Alberta Ferretti, via Style.com

Now the Grande Dame is, of course, another story altogether. She lets her wild side out. On vacation. Sometimes. Dramatically. With dignity.

White looks so good with a perfect tan and fabulous sunglasses. The Dame rules in Lanvin. Meanwhile Sturdy Gal dreams secretly of a love that would blow her skirt askance. Failing wild romance, a trade wind or two will do. Too bad the sunscreen she is never without lessens white's impact.

Lanvin, via simple+pretty. It appears that the above is a wedding dress. The Grande Dame is considering the etiquette of such a choice.

For a cocktail party, the Dame toes a structured line. Sturdy Gal perks up. "Really? That counts as dressing up? Can I wear flats? Take off the bracelet?" Sturdy Gal makes some allowances for glamor, but none for pain in her feet, or accessories that interfere with eating.

Chris Benz, via simple+pretty

There always comes a moment, in the midst of vacation, when the Grande Dame mutters, a little grimly, "Resort be damned. I say it's a dinner dance and I'm wearing long and tight. Long, tight, and black." The intellectual Grande Dame loves the semiotics of this dress, brazen references to beauty caught in symbols and hieratic rites. Or maybe it's the lace. She's a sucker for lace.

Oscar de la Renta via Style.com. The Grande Dame's friend, is Oscar.

The Sturdy Gal, having arrived early to the dinner dance as she does to everything, sits and eats her salad. At the sight of the Grande Dame in her finery, Sturdy Gal cocks her head. If she squints, she is reminded of favorite tees with silly sayings. Writ large, as they say. Writ wizard. Not a bad thing. Everyone wants to make a mysterious and magic entrance, come the Resort.

*The Sturdy Gal, Artsy Cousin, and Grande Dame are High WASP style archetypes. If you're curious, just type the names into the blog search box and see what we're talking about. In future, I'll put up a page devoted to explicating this curious taxonomy.

Hunting For An Elusive Item Of Clothing - The Standalone Top

In the days when I worked, my wardrobe was easy to put together. Set.

Wardrobe X = [(tees x jackets) + Armani pants = formal work] + [(tees x jackets) + nice jeans = casual work] + casual jeans + house trashwear + exercise gear + little black dress. (Not to mention the old ball gown waiting in the back of closet for some imaginary event).

Now that I'm mostly at home, well, let's see.

Wardrobe Y = [yoga pants x tops = in house and actual yoga] + [casual jeans & khakis x tees = can leave the house at least] + nice jeans + even nicer jeans + little black dress. (Old ball gown still waiting in the back of closet for you know what).

Here's the problem with Wardrobe Y. It is topless. For all intents and purposes. My old tees used to look good only because a) I wore a jacket over them b) I was younger and my waistline more defined.

Time for the next step in Wardrobe Y optimization. The wardrobe for a life where you have lost your job may be lost, but not your wish to look pulled together. Standalone tops required. Jackets become sort of a pain in the neck. How do I know? Because I've been wearing this, every time I have any desire to make a showing of any sort.

Because until it got hot I wore my Naracamie shirt all the time.

What is your favorite standalone top? The one you can throw on over jeans to go shopping, for lunch at a good restaurant? For an early dinner, outside, with white wine, goat cheese and honey? For me, it's a tunic. I'm tired of holding in my stomach. If it's going to thicken, okay, I suppose. I concede. But I don't have to parade that little pudge all over the known universe.

I went hunting for tunics online. We have the <$100 contenders from J. Crew and J. Jill. Not quite enough panache to carry off what I'm envisioning.

We have the $100-$200 contenders from the Tunic Queens, Lilly, Milly (was $245, on sale down to $145), and Tory (was $345, on sale down to $162). I've liked pieces from these designers before, but this year, not so much.

Various other contenders in this price range, include Tahari, a line called Johnny Was, and my favorite, Geoffrey Parkinson. (Was $225, but on sale down to $129).

And yes, net-a-porter has a host of tunics to look at, but they were all either too froofy, too long-sleeved, too expensive. or the wrong color for me. Women in their 50s should not wear anything named "baby doll." Even if it's just a silhouette. You may find something perfect.

I found perfection online at Brown's.

A little houndstooth for ironic classicism, a little global sophistication, some navy. What could be better? For £295, or $430. Ouch.

When the answer to an online quest is Dries van Noten, most of us have to switch strategies. If the envisioned solution doesn't exist, we have to enter the real world. One thing I've found is that dreaming is the stuff of, well, dreams, but you have to be prepared to throw everything aside and deal with what is. Keep your vision in mind, sure, but focus on a solution.

Time to hit retail-on-the-ground. See? That isn't so bad.

Images:
Lace tunic, Laundry, by Shelli Segal. And all this time I thought it was Tory Burch:).
J. Crew striped, belted, J. Jill White, buttoned
The Tunic Queens, Lilly Pulitzer, Milly via Nordstrom and ShopStyle, Tory Burch,
Tahari flowered via Saks, Johnny Was multicolored via Neiman Marcus, Gregory Parkinson low-necked via Barney's
Dries van Noten via Brown's

Do We Buy Christian Louboutin For Design Or For The Brand?

 I'm going to New York at the end of next week. To visit my kids, stay in a new hotel, wander through the city looking. (All those dressed up people walking on rough sidewalks past windows.) During said trip, it's possible that I will need to wear my little black dress. It's possible that ever since I acquired said little black dress that I have been wistfully remembering matching Louboutin pumps the fab Barney's salesguy showed me. And it's possible that I am fortunate enough to occasionally receive generous presents. Let's move to the realm of the certain. This is one of my new shoes. I do have two. I promise. We might ask, why these? Why did they pester me, for months? Design? Brand? What? The design is absolutely impeccable and reasonably comfortable. I bought a half size up and had them put a pad in. We Sturdy Gals, even when we Grande Dame it up, aren't a fan of foot pain. Although in my dreams I was wearing what Mr. Louboutin, or his minions, call the Jazz Decollete 100 pump, with a heel height of 3 3/4", in fact I don't do heels higher than 3". Luckily, Mr. Louboutin, or his minions, have deigned to offer similar shoes in the Simple 70. With an internal platform that brings the experienced heel height down to about 2 3/4". That internal platform also transforms a plain black pump into a terrible object of desire. Where to start? It was the lines that did me in. The underside curve from heel to sole juxtaposed against the toe. What they call the "almond" toe. Almond as in fingernails - not pointed, not squared, not round. That same internal platform also creates a snub nose, adding a touch of what in a woman we would call "jolie laide." The ugly pretty of a sleek brute. Reminds me of a Chrysler 300, another shape that bedeviled me for months and months and months.

Luckily the quality of the shoe matches the hissing yes of the design. Soft kid. Lovely, quirky gold lettering on the instep. A well-made red sole. Yeah, wait. That red sole. A necessary part of the design, but also the brand. The moral equivalent of a logo. We might well ask, how do we feel about Louboutin's extremely recognizable red-soled brand? The mythic image of the shoe vs. the actual product? Your mileage may vary. I believe I bought the shoes 80% for the design, 20% for the brand. But it's a very mixed 20%. Complex. Worthy, I think, of some deconstruction.

• Did I buy just because they were Louboutins? No. Clearly not. I wanted these shoes, and only these. I searched through 3 stores, passing up dozens of other Louboutins.

• Would I have bought them if they were not Louboutins? Imagine everything else was the same, even to the red sole, but they had been made by some nameless other Italian shoe manufacturer? Not so clear. Maybe. First of all, how would I have known they existed? How would I have become convinced that only these shoes would make my wardrobe for Manhattan complete? I don't, all evidence to the contrary, spend that many of my days shopping. But let's say that fab salesguy had shown me identical nameless Italian shoes. Would I have bought? Maybe. Probably.

However, I wouldn't have paid over $400. So Louboutin's savvy non-marketing, with a red-carpet and celebrities platform, has in my case reaped a luxury premium. Why did I think Louboutins were worth more? Damned if I know. A tangle of inferred quality and desirability. Difficult to deconstruct. Perhaps I wanted some Angelina Jolie bruised-mouth glamor to rub off? To feel that I can participate in a trend, even at 53? Or maybe just to buy status? Which brings us to the next question.

• Do I like the fact that, because of the red sole, everyone knows that I have Louboutins? A flash of yes, and then, no. No. Not really. Which is complicated. I don't mind people knowing I spend a lot of money on items of clothing and accessories. Evidently. In fact, as I have confessed before, luxury goods assuage some unresolved identity issues.

But I do mind the possibility that people will think I own these shoes just because I want to own a name brand, that I am, in fact, a status wh***e. Because while I may be a status loose woman, so to speak, I want to suffer only the censure I deserve. I wish that the red sole did not so clearly identify the maker. I would like to keep my Louboutin love to myself. To my way of thinking, the Louboutin brand, because it's so obvious, has in fact jumped the shark. At least the High WASP shark. I would have loved it more two years ago. When only the cognoscenti knew.

• Will I buck up and cease to perseverate over these issues with luxury goods, as long as I am going to continue to buy them? Good lord I hope so. My new shoes are so beautiful to me that I have one sitting next to me on the sofa as I write. Just to admire the play of light on the leather. Privilege should be enjoyed. Shared whenever possible. Perseverate is the big word of the day. My sister the academic taught it to me.

And with that in mind: Shoes, Christian Louboutin Simple 70 Pumps via Neiman Marcus, Nars Sheer Lipstick in Cruising via Sephora, pearls via my life. Et voila. Manhattan here I come. With Paris, evidently, on my side.  

At "Already Pretty," Subversive Style

Today I am at Already Pretty, explaining my tricks on how to dress with originality even in conservative workplaces. With photos of red shoes and Issey Miyake blouses.

Already Pretty is the brainchild, and heartchild, I'd say if I were Northern Californian (oh wait, I am), of Sally McGraw. It's an oasis of positive body image and very original, exuberant style. She's also one of the more genuine people I have found in the blogosphere and I'm honored that she accepted my idea for this guest post.

I hope to see you there.

The Basics Of Basics; How To Build A Weekend Wardrobe

One way to dress with style is to build a wardrobe from nifty pieces, accessorizing with flair. Or, you can focus carefully on basic, fundamental, quality of even the most casual clothing. Optimize a uniform, if you will.

Let's look at the weekend, shall we? Given that another one is just around the corner? I live in black tees.

But black tees are a dime a dozen. What makes this basic better than any other black tee, and why has it found its way into my weekend uniform?

A wardrobe based on basics, if you will, has to do a few things absolutely right.

• Define the desired silhouette
• Fit like crazy
• Perfect fabric
• Shine with just a few details

Getting dressed is, for all intents and purposes, drawing a picture of your silhouette with cloth. You may want to accentuate the silhouette you've got, or you may want to presto change-oh it up a bit. In my case, at the silhouette level, I've got broad shoulders, a long torso, and what was, before children, a small waist. I still pretend about the waist. So when I define a Katherine Hepburn-ish silhouette, I feel especially stylish, having drawn the picture of myself that I want to inhabit.

Fit is fit. Nothing too tight, nothing too lose. Perfect fabric is perfect fabric. And details should be seen just at the edge of perception, visible on close inspection, the effect felt at a distance.

For black tee optimization I rely on Petit Bateau. Their cotton is knit to just the right thickness and stretch. I hear they don't work so well on more curvy people, but for us angular folk they are perfect. I can't estimate how many I've owned over the last couple of decades.

I have been known to switch up my black tees with a white shirt. So adventurous like that.

But this really isn't just any white shirt. It has a slightly low neckline, a graceful collar, and little white stripes in the weave. Audrey Talbot, in case you're inspired.

I also wear khakis. I'm very picky. I've been wearing my son's for a year or two now. Because everyone's in denial about one thing or another. So I finally bought a new pair. To create the afore-mentioned silhouette, I need my khakis to fit tight at the hips and then fall straight to the ground without stopping to chat with my thighs. No stretch. It's quite hard to find nowadays. These just-purchased L.L. Beans fulfill the fit criteria, but the fabric is a little too unrefined. Oh well. It's the journey. And I love the little blue striped waist detail, even if no one sees it but me.

As anyone does who tends towards the classics, but lives in Northern California, I wear jeans a lot. A lot. When I go to San Francisco, it's Seven for All Mankind's Ginger version. Tight at the hip, dark wash, wide leg. Elongating short legs and balancing the long torso for all I'm worth. But on the weekends, I pull out my Levi 501s. Those buttons just slay me.

You might be wondering, how does a 53-year old woman wandering around in white or black shirts, khakis, and jeans, lay claim to any style? That's what shoes, belts, and earrings are for.

Nothing elaborate. The quilt of the shoes (Manolo Blahnik), crocodile skin of the belt (Wilkes Bashford private label), and diamondness of the diamonds, provide as much subtle effect as I feel like taking on come the weekend. And if I fall from grace, and wind up in black Aerosoles, or flipflops - because Sturdy Gals cherish happy toes, if I leave off the belt because those two kids expanded my ribcage enough that my waist abhors restraint, the outfits degrade pretty gracefully. Graceful degradation is key, on weekends.

Have a lovely one. Weekend, I mean. In whatever uniform suits you.