How do you remember people? Do you use mnemonics, or acronyms or mind mapping? Or are you one of those people who has an eye for the little details? Is it the face you remember, or the voice, or the perfume?
Memory is a funny thing. Anything can trigger a once-buried picture into either painful or joyous resurrection from the deepest, darkest regions of the hippocampus or temporal lobe.
In a hens-teeth email from my father (as in ‘as rare as..’) he wondered what images of him were built in the minds of close friends and family.
We had just been sent a picture of my grandparents when they were both very young. My grandfather is impossibly chiseled in white tie and tails. My grandmother is radiant in floor length chiffon, blissfully unaware of just how many children she’s going to have. It is Christmas Eve. She is sporting a brand new engagement ring. They are both very happy.
They are not the parents my father remembers. He remembers my grandfather with a perpetual cigarette in his right hand. I barely remember him, because he died when I was very small.
It’s the little details that you remember, the trivia that acts as infill and enriches the bigger pictures. You might remember a person’s filthy anecdotes, you might remember their grating verbal tics. All of it adds up to a memory. I remember a person’s clothes.
It might seem shallow to see the world through material things (in both the literal and figurative sense) but your memory glues itself to the aspects of a person to which you pay the most attention. It seems that I’ve been a clothes monomaniac since conception.
My father? Shirts. Floral shirts form Liberty, stripes by Paul Smith. My mother? Black Agnes b and rows of jersey wrap dresses hanging in their dry cleaning bags. My brother is tracksuit pants occasionally tucked into socks, my sisters are cocktail dresses and bright, Alexander Wang-ish vests, the collars slightly blemished by the odd dab of foundation. My mother’s mother is a pair of neatly ironed slacks in stone and olive.
It’s this way of thinking that leads me and many others to believe in the importance of vintage clothing. Every piece tells a story. It might mean nothing you you, but that tie belonged to a father, a brother. Even though they may have discarded it, it can still hold some powerful and distinctive memories for another person (if not a powerful and distinctive odour). That Penneys top may be super-cheap and on-trend, but is it really that special? Is it the stuff that memories are made of?
This isn’t a diatribe against cheap clothing and for designer goods, it’s a call to realise how important old clothes are. Because, when a loved one leaves you, what are you left with? There’s you. There is a full, yet empty wardrobe. And there are your memories.
Showing posts with label Licentiate Columns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Licentiate Columns. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Licentiate Column 02/06/11: Made In Cork
Cork Fashion Week is a bit of a misnomer. A fashion week is industry only. In Cork, shows are ticketed and open to all. The clothes you see on a runway are shown six months ahead of production. What you see in Milan in February, you won’t see in Brown Thomas until September. In Cork, what you see is already, or very soon to be manufactured. Fashion weeks are intense, fraught and cloaked in mystique, albeit a mystique that dissolves a little bit as each season passes.
In Cork, we take a much more leisurely pace. It’s both our idiosyncratic advantage and the perpetual pebble in our shoe.
It was with that in mind that I went to ‘Made in Cork: A Prequel to Cork Fashion Week’ in the Woodford Bar last Sunday. As I was waiting to go in, a possibly drunk, possibly homeless man tried to climb a tall, spiked, wrought-iron gate opposite the bar. He made a decent go of it, but impaled himself in the groin over two spikes and had to be lifted off the gate by a bartender and a slightly wobbly passer-by, who managed the whole procedure with a cigarette clamped between his teeth.
A Garda van pulled up, obscuring the view. Then, the sound of denim ripping and a very loud, sharp intake of breath. It was time to go inside. An inauspicious start in any circumstance.
I hoped that this wouldn’t be the marker for the event. Taking a seat inside the smoking area afforded the best views and elbow room, so that was where I sat myself, with a notebook, an unfortunate looking BIC pen and an endless supply of fizzy pop.
The crowd was a mix of models, photographers, fashion lovers and one small, very bored looking boy in Communion garb. Unlike London fashion week, where everyone is stressed beyond belief, the attendees looked genuinely happy. They were smiling, greeting each other with hugs, buying pints (of champagne), trading bon mots and making plans for the evening.
It was as if they were actually glad to be there (with the exception of Communion Boy, who had a pout that Andre Leon Talley would spontaneously combust with jealousy over). This is not the fashion week the world was used to. I was bamboozled. Pleasantly bamboozled.
The first half of the show was excellent. Trends were expertly curated. The preppy looks were a particular favourite - all white jeans and jumpers casually knotted over shoulders, ready for a game of tennis in the Hamptons. The vintage dress selection from Miss Daisy Blue was excellent as usual, with a mix of psychedelic print maxis, prom dress and LBDs that looked classically and contemporary.
It’s always good to see something grow and expand. I’m very proud to have been a witness of such growth from Cork Fashion Week’s inception. This September promises to be the most diverse and exciting Fashion Week yet.
Each year it gets a little bit bigger and, as Cork become even more creative and focused on fashion niches, the community at large adapts and rallies around it. Even if it’s something as ridiculous as lifting a stuck wino off a gate.
In Cork, we take a much more leisurely pace. It’s both our idiosyncratic advantage and the perpetual pebble in our shoe.
It was with that in mind that I went to ‘Made in Cork: A Prequel to Cork Fashion Week’ in the Woodford Bar last Sunday. As I was waiting to go in, a possibly drunk, possibly homeless man tried to climb a tall, spiked, wrought-iron gate opposite the bar. He made a decent go of it, but impaled himself in the groin over two spikes and had to be lifted off the gate by a bartender and a slightly wobbly passer-by, who managed the whole procedure with a cigarette clamped between his teeth.
A Garda van pulled up, obscuring the view. Then, the sound of denim ripping and a very loud, sharp intake of breath. It was time to go inside. An inauspicious start in any circumstance.
I hoped that this wouldn’t be the marker for the event. Taking a seat inside the smoking area afforded the best views and elbow room, so that was where I sat myself, with a notebook, an unfortunate looking BIC pen and an endless supply of fizzy pop.
The crowd was a mix of models, photographers, fashion lovers and one small, very bored looking boy in Communion garb. Unlike London fashion week, where everyone is stressed beyond belief, the attendees looked genuinely happy. They were smiling, greeting each other with hugs, buying pints (of champagne), trading bon mots and making plans for the evening.
It was as if they were actually glad to be there (with the exception of Communion Boy, who had a pout that Andre Leon Talley would spontaneously combust with jealousy over). This is not the fashion week the world was used to. I was bamboozled. Pleasantly bamboozled.
The first half of the show was excellent. Trends were expertly curated. The preppy looks were a particular favourite - all white jeans and jumpers casually knotted over shoulders, ready for a game of tennis in the Hamptons. The vintage dress selection from Miss Daisy Blue was excellent as usual, with a mix of psychedelic print maxis, prom dress and LBDs that looked classically and contemporary.
It’s always good to see something grow and expand. I’m very proud to have been a witness of such growth from Cork Fashion Week’s inception. This September promises to be the most diverse and exciting Fashion Week yet.
Each year it gets a little bit bigger and, as Cork become even more creative and focused on fashion niches, the community at large adapts and rallies around it. Even if it’s something as ridiculous as lifting a stuck wino off a gate.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Licentiate Column 26/05/11: Do it Like a Dude
It’s not often that you’ll picture The Queen (of Great Britain, natch) and Jessie J in the same room, let alone the same thought, but lately I’ve had the two on the brain. One is a monarch, the other one is not. But they both do it like a dude.
Elizabeth II is one of only eight disputed premier queens to ascend to the throne since 1066 and has somehow managed not to be overthrown, arrested after nine days, dominated by her husband or die of dropsy - which is no mean feat in itself. Jessie J is not that important when it comes to explaining myself, but her song is.
Elizabeth II is one of those rare breeds of women - the women of the old guard who don’t have to resort to trousers to assert their power. The royal wardrobe has always been sleek, tailored, severe - but never masculine. It’s all kitten heels and handbags at dawn, the contents of which are often disputed. I’m thinking a paisley-upholstered hipflask of scotch, some menthol cigarillos and a filofax with the nasty details and unlisted numbers of every PM, baron and magnate alive today. And a lipstick.
When most women look to protect themselves, whether it’s protecting your interests in business or your modesty on a blustery day, a woman will wear trousers. If not trousers, a suit of some kind. Lines are sharp, shades are assertive in their boldness. No pastels for the bright women warriors of today, for she is strong and deserves a strong colour. Also, light colours stain so easily don’t they?
Dressing in the conventional masculine sense is spread over a broad spectrum. On one end, you have a pair of jeans. A person almost forgets that jeans were worn by men before they were assimilated into the murky genderless, unisex realm. On the other end are the unashamed, unabashed, totally admirable drag kings, who stuff tube socks down their trousers (not unlike some men, the Loose Women-watching part of me wants to add) and dot stubble and goatees on their faces with the precision of a Renaissance master.
Somewhere in the middle is my favourite kind of androgyne - Marlene Dietrich in a tux. Masculine tailoring meets a feminine figure, with perfected painted eyes, coiffed hair and heeled shoes. With the coming of YSL’s Le Smoking suit in 1966, it was official: Suits are sexy.
Women dress in the male/female dichotomy for a multitude of reasons. Some do it for fashion, some for function, some for self-expression. Many women are not aware of the gender implications of buttoning up a shirt.
Some wear masculine tailoring as a type of armour. It says, “I am powerful. I mean business”. On the flipside, it also highlights our own vulnerabilities. Are we so afraid of being powerless that we refuse to be feminine?
The Queen knows better. After almost sixty years as a titular head of stare, she knows that power is not necessarily in the way that you dress. Clothes do not necessarily maketh the (wo)man. Sometimes trousers are good for nothing but outdoor pursuits.
A queenly caveat, though - if there’s a dress code, you’d better stick to it. Watch your step,
Kate Middleton.
Elizabeth II is one of only eight disputed premier queens to ascend to the throne since 1066 and has somehow managed not to be overthrown, arrested after nine days, dominated by her husband or die of dropsy - which is no mean feat in itself. Jessie J is not that important when it comes to explaining myself, but her song is.
Elizabeth II is one of those rare breeds of women - the women of the old guard who don’t have to resort to trousers to assert their power. The royal wardrobe has always been sleek, tailored, severe - but never masculine. It’s all kitten heels and handbags at dawn, the contents of which are often disputed. I’m thinking a paisley-upholstered hipflask of scotch, some menthol cigarillos and a filofax with the nasty details and unlisted numbers of every PM, baron and magnate alive today. And a lipstick.
When most women look to protect themselves, whether it’s protecting your interests in business or your modesty on a blustery day, a woman will wear trousers. If not trousers, a suit of some kind. Lines are sharp, shades are assertive in their boldness. No pastels for the bright women warriors of today, for she is strong and deserves a strong colour. Also, light colours stain so easily don’t they?
Dressing in the conventional masculine sense is spread over a broad spectrum. On one end, you have a pair of jeans. A person almost forgets that jeans were worn by men before they were assimilated into the murky genderless, unisex realm. On the other end are the unashamed, unabashed, totally admirable drag kings, who stuff tube socks down their trousers (not unlike some men, the Loose Women-watching part of me wants to add) and dot stubble and goatees on their faces with the precision of a Renaissance master.
Somewhere in the middle is my favourite kind of androgyne - Marlene Dietrich in a tux. Masculine tailoring meets a feminine figure, with perfected painted eyes, coiffed hair and heeled shoes. With the coming of YSL’s Le Smoking suit in 1966, it was official: Suits are sexy.
Women dress in the male/female dichotomy for a multitude of reasons. Some do it for fashion, some for function, some for self-expression. Many women are not aware of the gender implications of buttoning up a shirt.
Some wear masculine tailoring as a type of armour. It says, “I am powerful. I mean business”. On the flipside, it also highlights our own vulnerabilities. Are we so afraid of being powerless that we refuse to be feminine?
The Queen knows better. After almost sixty years as a titular head of stare, she knows that power is not necessarily in the way that you dress. Clothes do not necessarily maketh the (wo)man. Sometimes trousers are good for nothing but outdoor pursuits.
A queenly caveat, though - if there’s a dress code, you’d better stick to it. Watch your step,
Kate Middleton.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Licentiate Column 19/05/11: What's Your Time Period?
Everyone has their time period. This isn't a nod to mortality - although, in the fashion world, trends only live for a few months and some careers at fashion houses, even less. Death isn't really relevant.
When a trend dies or fails to get out of the starter gate it is instantly forgotten about, until a designer runs out of ideas and decides to revive it in lieu of actual creativity. Lest we forget, bulky 70's rainbow crochet and macrame are going to be huge this winter. Apparently.
Some trends never die out. That's because they have more meat and room for maneuvering than the average twice-yearly expelling of stress-induced creative juices from a frazzled designer's brain.
The trend is synonymous to a way of life, a philosophy, a musical style or is a vital part of a rich vein in art or literature. It was not gestated by a figure in the fashion industry, but was definitely popularised by several. It doesn't belong to one person, but is eternally tied to young people - all in their teens and twenties, all growing up in one time period.
Everyone has their time period. Whether it's the one you grew up in or one you wish you were there for, everyone has one. It's half misguided nostalgia, half style inspiration and a liberal seasoning of fantasy.
One friend would have fitted in perfectly with the dying days of the debutante balls, in peach satin and white gloves, one foot in the old world and one foot looking towards a different and wholly brighter tomorrow. Another's anarchic spirit wouldn't be out of place in the Manchester of the early 80's, listening to Joy Division and A Certain Ratio, wearing forest green donkey coats and severe buttoned-up shirts.
Once, my father and I were watching a segment on a current affairs programme about 70's punk in Dublin. "You should have been alive then, Sarah", he said to me. " You would have really fitted in."
It was an observation that stuck with me, because up until then I was unaware that my father was any different at twenty than he was at fifty. In my mind he always wore suits and worked in an office and reserved his best terrible floral shirts on holidays. I never contemplated that he could have gone to see The Clash or worn drainpipe jeans or perhaps even taken some pride in looking a little bit like Paul Weller (yes Dad, I know this is conjecture, but your haircut at the time had a definite Modfather vibe).
Everyone has their time period. If clothes maketh the person, then who are you? Are you a punk? A Fab Fourophile? A 30's screen siren? A make do and mend Blitz babe? Are you into the grunge look? Or your time period the one you live in today?
What will it look like to the next generation? We only have to wait and see.
When a trend dies or fails to get out of the starter gate it is instantly forgotten about, until a designer runs out of ideas and decides to revive it in lieu of actual creativity. Lest we forget, bulky 70's rainbow crochet and macrame are going to be huge this winter. Apparently.
Some trends never die out. That's because they have more meat and room for maneuvering than the average twice-yearly expelling of stress-induced creative juices from a frazzled designer's brain.
The trend is synonymous to a way of life, a philosophy, a musical style or is a vital part of a rich vein in art or literature. It was not gestated by a figure in the fashion industry, but was definitely popularised by several. It doesn't belong to one person, but is eternally tied to young people - all in their teens and twenties, all growing up in one time period.
Everyone has their time period. Whether it's the one you grew up in or one you wish you were there for, everyone has one. It's half misguided nostalgia, half style inspiration and a liberal seasoning of fantasy.
One friend would have fitted in perfectly with the dying days of the debutante balls, in peach satin and white gloves, one foot in the old world and one foot looking towards a different and wholly brighter tomorrow. Another's anarchic spirit wouldn't be out of place in the Manchester of the early 80's, listening to Joy Division and A Certain Ratio, wearing forest green donkey coats and severe buttoned-up shirts.
Once, my father and I were watching a segment on a current affairs programme about 70's punk in Dublin. "You should have been alive then, Sarah", he said to me. " You would have really fitted in."
It was an observation that stuck with me, because up until then I was unaware that my father was any different at twenty than he was at fifty. In my mind he always wore suits and worked in an office and reserved his best terrible floral shirts on holidays. I never contemplated that he could have gone to see The Clash or worn drainpipe jeans or perhaps even taken some pride in looking a little bit like Paul Weller (yes Dad, I know this is conjecture, but your haircut at the time had a definite Modfather vibe).
Everyone has their time period. If clothes maketh the person, then who are you? Are you a punk? A Fab Fourophile? A 30's screen siren? A make do and mend Blitz babe? Are you into the grunge look? Or your time period the one you live in today?
What will it look like to the next generation? We only have to wait and see.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Related #1: Fashioning Nightwear
Every so often, I write a column where five hundred words just isn't enough. There's all kinds of pictures and resources that I would love to share. I'm starting a series of posts the day after each column comes out in print (ehm, that's Friday then) with some supplementary material. It won't ebe every Friday, but it will be a recurring thing.
If you read yesterday's post, then you'll know that I don't really take nightwear too seriously. I do, however, have huge love for pajamas. Pajamas are great. The best pajamas are the sartorial equivalent of a hug. The ultimate in loungewear, a nice pair of a pajamas is only one point in the triangle of the perfect relaxing winter evening (the other two points being a hot drink and a good book).
Here's some pajama related information and inspiration.
When Pajamas Weren't the Cat's Pajamas.. Or Were They? from Here's Looking at You, Kid.
Vintage Fashion Guild Guide to Pajamas.
If you read yesterday's post, then you'll know that I don't really take nightwear too seriously. I do, however, have huge love for pajamas. Pajamas are great. The best pajamas are the sartorial equivalent of a hug. The ultimate in loungewear, a nice pair of a pajamas is only one point in the triangle of the perfect relaxing winter evening (the other two points being a hot drink and a good book).
Here's some pajama related information and inspiration.
 |
| The Poetry of Pajamas by A.K MacDonald |
Vintage Fashion Guild Guide to Pajamas.
 |
| Pauls Stuart Pajamas, the pajama grandaddy (source) |
 |
| Claudette Colbert in Clark Gable's PJs from It Happened One Night. |
 |
| Lana Pajama Rama (more here) |
 |
| 1940's Pajama Set from Japan from Moonchild Vintage at Etsy. |
 |
| Candy Dream 1950's pajamas from Lasthouse at Etsy (very tempted to buy these). |
 |
| 1980's Cabana pajamas from A Hula Girl at Heart at Etsy. |
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Licentiate Column 12/05/11: Fashioning Nightwear
What do you wear in bed? Burberry pajamas? Silk kimonos? Calvin briefs? Something saucy by Elle MacPherson or (cue scandalised gasps) Ann Summers?
The politics of nightwear aren’t so much convoluted as they are unexplored. I can’t remember the last time a fashion magazine dedicated a shoot to fashionable nightwear, if ever. I doubt somehow that the sticky subject of what to wear while unconscious and riding the waves of REM has Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington engaged in vicious debate over the best hemline for a babydoll nightie.
A straw poll taken amongst my female friends (the answers the males gave are unfit for print and would probably result in a mental-picture induced fainting fit) revealed that fashion has no place between the sheets, unless grey Marks and Spencers t-shirts are the new Spring/Summer trend that Vogue have unforgivably forgotten to report on.
We already over-analyse what we should wear to weddings, to dates, at work and at play. Why not stir a pot already overloaded with spoons and discuss the ramifications of what you wear in bed? That grey tee will never look the same again.
1) Pajamas. Loose fitting shirt and trousers, often made in a cotton or silk material. A much beloved Christmas present from clueless maiden aunts the words over, pajamas are basically slouchy suits. The pajama is the formal matriarch of the nightwear family. It is staid, perennial and probably best worn in cream silk with reams of pearls, a la Coco Chanel. Here’s a bonus fun fact: Pajamas were, up until the 1940’s, an acceptably chic form of daywear. Those girls who go to Tesco in their best Penney’s piggy print know more than they’re letting on.
2) Baby-doll nighties. Super short, often transparent nightgowns, sometimes sold with matching underwear. Much-maligned, under appreciated and terminally neglected now that suggestion just doesn’t cut it in the sexy stakes, baby-dolls were once the pinnacle of Playboy risque. Modern baby-dolls are close cut on the hips and have slightly seedy connotations. If buying, vintage baby-dolls are your best bet. Be warned, old polyester can scratch like angry sandpaper and if worn by the wrong person, can make you resemble a circus tent with legs.
3) T-shirt and underwear. By far the most popular answer in the straw poll, the thinking behind this combo is that, before bed, you take off everything but your underwear and cotton vest. And that’s it. No effort equals high function and low impact. Many women labour under the thought that this is actually the sexiest option for bed-time attire and they’d be right, unless their partner watches too many exotic films. It’s you with the absolute minimum of clothing on - what’s not for your partner to love?
4) Funzie - The adult version of a onesie, this is best indulged on a lonely night in front of the tv, with a tub of ice cream and a dab of paraphilic infantilism. Just say no.
The politics of nightwear aren’t so much convoluted as they are unexplored. I can’t remember the last time a fashion magazine dedicated a shoot to fashionable nightwear, if ever. I doubt somehow that the sticky subject of what to wear while unconscious and riding the waves of REM has Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington engaged in vicious debate over the best hemline for a babydoll nightie.
A straw poll taken amongst my female friends (the answers the males gave are unfit for print and would probably result in a mental-picture induced fainting fit) revealed that fashion has no place between the sheets, unless grey Marks and Spencers t-shirts are the new Spring/Summer trend that Vogue have unforgivably forgotten to report on.
We already over-analyse what we should wear to weddings, to dates, at work and at play. Why not stir a pot already overloaded with spoons and discuss the ramifications of what you wear in bed? That grey tee will never look the same again.
1) Pajamas. Loose fitting shirt and trousers, often made in a cotton or silk material. A much beloved Christmas present from clueless maiden aunts the words over, pajamas are basically slouchy suits. The pajama is the formal matriarch of the nightwear family. It is staid, perennial and probably best worn in cream silk with reams of pearls, a la Coco Chanel. Here’s a bonus fun fact: Pajamas were, up until the 1940’s, an acceptably chic form of daywear. Those girls who go to Tesco in their best Penney’s piggy print know more than they’re letting on.
2) Baby-doll nighties. Super short, often transparent nightgowns, sometimes sold with matching underwear. Much-maligned, under appreciated and terminally neglected now that suggestion just doesn’t cut it in the sexy stakes, baby-dolls were once the pinnacle of Playboy risque. Modern baby-dolls are close cut on the hips and have slightly seedy connotations. If buying, vintage baby-dolls are your best bet. Be warned, old polyester can scratch like angry sandpaper and if worn by the wrong person, can make you resemble a circus tent with legs.
3) T-shirt and underwear. By far the most popular answer in the straw poll, the thinking behind this combo is that, before bed, you take off everything but your underwear and cotton vest. And that’s it. No effort equals high function and low impact. Many women labour under the thought that this is actually the sexiest option for bed-time attire and they’d be right, unless their partner watches too many exotic films. It’s you with the absolute minimum of clothing on - what’s not for your partner to love?
4) Funzie - The adult version of a onesie, this is best indulged on a lonely night in front of the tv, with a tub of ice cream and a dab of paraphilic infantilism. Just say no.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Licentiate Column 05/05/2011: Fun in the sun
If 2011 has taught us anything, it’s to expect the unexpected. Millions of Irish people who professed nothing more than a simple loathing of the British Royal family and the overstuffed pomp of a wedding in Westminister Abbey are, at time of writing, now glued to their television sets, dabbing moistened, nostalgic eyes with tissues. It’s like that everywhere except, possibly, Kleenex HQ, where everyone is capering around with glee at the thought of how many extra units of Balsam they’ve managed to shift.
In January, much of North Africa was a prime tourist destination. Now it’s a war zone. And April of this year has been hot. Unseasonably hot. It’s not so much ‘April showers’ as ‘April exsiccated’ - but that doesn’t trip over the tongue quite as nicely as the aqueous version.
We know who’s to blame for this weather. No, not Al Gore. College students. Sod’s Law has proven itself yet again by making sure that no clouds sully the perfect sky while college students have to stay inside and prepare for exams. We can expect similar weather in June when the Leaving Cert starts.
In the meantime though, we’re stuck with a dressing dilemma. What to wear in this hot weather that, let’s face it, is only hot in terms of Irishness? It’s only real shorts-wearing weather between the hours of eleven and two. Before or after that, summer dresses adorn bluish, goosepimpled flesh (lobster red if they’re lucky).
The weather can be deceptive. It’s always sunny, but it’s not always warm. Irish weather is changeable and our memory is so bad that, in a game of Mastermind, a goldfish would win every time.
Here’s a few tips for people who want to see out summer in style. Since it’s now May, you may want to cut out and keep this column until June, when we inevitably emerge from a ‘Day After Tomorrow’ type blizzard, blinking into the sunlight and in need of a pair of shorts.
1) Always wear sunglasses. Yesterday, today and forever, sunglasses are a perennial and eternally useful favourite. The right pair not only look good, but will protect your eyes from sunlight. You can’t put SPF on your eyeballs - glasses are the next best thing. Not only will you be shielding your eyes, you will also save others from your looks of over-admiration/disgust at the nearest human being wearing what looks like a napkin and three lengths of dental floss.
2) Cover up - I can see what you had for breakfast. If it’s hot, shorts and a tee are fine in almost every circumstance. A bikini is what you wear while sunbathing, not grocery shopping. The only time it’s acceptable for a man to be topless in a densely populated urban area is when he’s working as a bricklayer; then it’s a requirement. Know your environment and if in doubt, don’t go topless. It’s not rocket science.
3) If you are going to go nude, please wear something. I’m not talking condoms (although that’s also an excellent idea), I’m talking SPF. I don’t know what it stands for, or how it works, but it stops me from peeling like a crimson Cheesestring, which is the way it should be. Pop some of this magical unguent on your skin and go have some fun in the sun.
If worst comes to the worst and we end up in a drought situation, we have our bases covered - pre-emptive irrigation with the reservoir of public tears spilled over Will and Kate’s nuptials.
In January, much of North Africa was a prime tourist destination. Now it’s a war zone. And April of this year has been hot. Unseasonably hot. It’s not so much ‘April showers’ as ‘April exsiccated’ - but that doesn’t trip over the tongue quite as nicely as the aqueous version.
We know who’s to blame for this weather. No, not Al Gore. College students. Sod’s Law has proven itself yet again by making sure that no clouds sully the perfect sky while college students have to stay inside and prepare for exams. We can expect similar weather in June when the Leaving Cert starts.
In the meantime though, we’re stuck with a dressing dilemma. What to wear in this hot weather that, let’s face it, is only hot in terms of Irishness? It’s only real shorts-wearing weather between the hours of eleven and two. Before or after that, summer dresses adorn bluish, goosepimpled flesh (lobster red if they’re lucky).
The weather can be deceptive. It’s always sunny, but it’s not always warm. Irish weather is changeable and our memory is so bad that, in a game of Mastermind, a goldfish would win every time.
Here’s a few tips for people who want to see out summer in style. Since it’s now May, you may want to cut out and keep this column until June, when we inevitably emerge from a ‘Day After Tomorrow’ type blizzard, blinking into the sunlight and in need of a pair of shorts.
1) Always wear sunglasses. Yesterday, today and forever, sunglasses are a perennial and eternally useful favourite. The right pair not only look good, but will protect your eyes from sunlight. You can’t put SPF on your eyeballs - glasses are the next best thing. Not only will you be shielding your eyes, you will also save others from your looks of over-admiration/disgust at the nearest human being wearing what looks like a napkin and three lengths of dental floss.
2) Cover up - I can see what you had for breakfast. If it’s hot, shorts and a tee are fine in almost every circumstance. A bikini is what you wear while sunbathing, not grocery shopping. The only time it’s acceptable for a man to be topless in a densely populated urban area is when he’s working as a bricklayer; then it’s a requirement. Know your environment and if in doubt, don’t go topless. It’s not rocket science.
3) If you are going to go nude, please wear something. I’m not talking condoms (although that’s also an excellent idea), I’m talking SPF. I don’t know what it stands for, or how it works, but it stops me from peeling like a crimson Cheesestring, which is the way it should be. Pop some of this magical unguent on your skin and go have some fun in the sun.
If worst comes to the worst and we end up in a drought situation, we have our bases covered - pre-emptive irrigation with the reservoir of public tears spilled over Will and Kate’s nuptials.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Licentiate Column 28/04/11: Shopping Irish Vintage
I have two fashion bugbears. One is the bizarre weekly columns of a certain fashion writer for a certain Irish National newspaper, which I pore over weekly like a small child examining the progress of a greenish, particularly notched scab on his knee. Each week I’m increasingly boggled by the factual inaccuracies, patronising attitudes and overdone, lazy ‘shoes-equal-life’ metaphors and Coco Chanel quotes casually executed (in the ‘death by firing squad’ sense) by this writer.
But that’s a column for a country without libel laws. That column will never exist, which is a good thing, because writing it would probably result in such a cathartic burst that I’d expire of sheer happiness on pressing the ‘send’ button.
The other bugbear is much more manageable. That bugbear is the Irish vintage market. As complicated and full of cozeners as the average Dickens scenario, as full of scammers, well-meaning innocents and true-blue fanatics as an X Factor audition and more complicated than a marathon run of Twin Peaks, your average vintage market is not to be ventured into unless you’re very well-educated or have a weight to offload in the wallet area.
In Ireland, people aren’t out to make a profit; they’re out to make a killing. The vintage sector is no different. The problem of overpricing, in my estimation, is obvious in at least half of the Irish vintage vendors.
This is due to many different factors. Vendors buy from abroad and the price of shipping has to be factored in. Vendors buy a dress that they love, but is that little bit too expensive, so the price is doubled for resale. Sometimes vendors are just total chancers and slap a fifty euro price tag on a dress bought from Oxfam or worse, a dress that is obviously from the high street and only a few seasons old, but with the tags not-so-suspiciously missing.
A good rule of thumb is, if you like it and you think it’s worth it, then buy it. If you have any doubts, walk away. In a world where ‘vintage’ has somehow become a by-word for individuality, you’d be surprised how often similar items to the one you just passed up will come along. What’s for you won’t pass by you.
But, if you’re a tight-fisted miser like me, here’s some good resources.
1) Etsy. Etsy is a worldwide vintage and handmade market. The majority of the sellers are from The US, so the dollar to euro conversion will almost definitely work in your favour. Shipping is almost never as expensive as you’d expect and a bargain is never far away if you’re willing to cyber-rummage.
2) Elsa & Gogo. This Irish vintage accessory store has a carefully chosen edit of pretty, ladylike bracelets that look like they came right from Peggy Draper’s dressing table, at very reasonable prices. Elsa & Gogo have one up on the average vintage seller; their packaging is very beautiful and ripe for the gift-giving.
3) Tabitha Vintage. This online shop can be found on Facebook and is the brainchild of bloggers Una O’Boyle and Louise Ryan of Glamrocks Luna, an Irish fashion blog that compiles the very best of style inspiration. Their clothing is superlative grunge-chic, with prices so low I almost want to rub my eyes with surprise like a cartoon character. So, there you have it. Go forth, and shop wisely.
But that’s a column for a country without libel laws. That column will never exist, which is a good thing, because writing it would probably result in such a cathartic burst that I’d expire of sheer happiness on pressing the ‘send’ button.
The other bugbear is much more manageable. That bugbear is the Irish vintage market. As complicated and full of cozeners as the average Dickens scenario, as full of scammers, well-meaning innocents and true-blue fanatics as an X Factor audition and more complicated than a marathon run of Twin Peaks, your average vintage market is not to be ventured into unless you’re very well-educated or have a weight to offload in the wallet area.
In Ireland, people aren’t out to make a profit; they’re out to make a killing. The vintage sector is no different. The problem of overpricing, in my estimation, is obvious in at least half of the Irish vintage vendors.
This is due to many different factors. Vendors buy from abroad and the price of shipping has to be factored in. Vendors buy a dress that they love, but is that little bit too expensive, so the price is doubled for resale. Sometimes vendors are just total chancers and slap a fifty euro price tag on a dress bought from Oxfam or worse, a dress that is obviously from the high street and only a few seasons old, but with the tags not-so-suspiciously missing.
A good rule of thumb is, if you like it and you think it’s worth it, then buy it. If you have any doubts, walk away. In a world where ‘vintage’ has somehow become a by-word for individuality, you’d be surprised how often similar items to the one you just passed up will come along. What’s for you won’t pass by you.
But, if you’re a tight-fisted miser like me, here’s some good resources.
1) Etsy. Etsy is a worldwide vintage and handmade market. The majority of the sellers are from The US, so the dollar to euro conversion will almost definitely work in your favour. Shipping is almost never as expensive as you’d expect and a bargain is never far away if you’re willing to cyber-rummage.
2) Elsa & Gogo. This Irish vintage accessory store has a carefully chosen edit of pretty, ladylike bracelets that look like they came right from Peggy Draper’s dressing table, at very reasonable prices. Elsa & Gogo have one up on the average vintage seller; their packaging is very beautiful and ripe for the gift-giving.
3) Tabitha Vintage. This online shop can be found on Facebook and is the brainchild of bloggers Una O’Boyle and Louise Ryan of Glamrocks Luna, an Irish fashion blog that compiles the very best of style inspiration. Their clothing is superlative grunge-chic, with prices so low I almost want to rub my eyes with surprise like a cartoon character. So, there you have it. Go forth, and shop wisely.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Licentiate Column 21/04/11: The Man Repeller
Are you a Man Repeller?
I don’t mean in the literal sense, as if you had an internal chromosonal magnet tuned to the same polarity as all men.
Nor am I asking if you smell bad, or are ugly, or have a terrible personality - because I know you don’t (and even if you did, there’s still someone out there for you - more than likely a belching farting, incredibly hostile someone, but a special someone all the same).
The Man Repeller is a blog written by New Yorker Leandra Medine. In it, she talks about all the clothes that your friends go bananas over, but make men scratch their heads in puzzlement,which sometimes happens when women do things not exclusively for their masculine amusement.
Capes, detachable collars, fringing, feathers, sequins, print clashes, harem pants, clogs, shoulder pads and boyfriend jeans are all incorporated into outfits that are both cheerfully tongue-in-cheek and dead-serious stylish. Not since the suffragette movement has something that comes so naturally to women been so totally incomprehensible for men.
The Man Repeller is a person too. She’s me in glaring neon pink jeans. She’s my best friend with tattoos and leopard print. She’s that girl in the shop with a Dellal esque demi-shaved head.
She’s you in your absolute favourite pair of shoes. She’s all of us - the Carrie Bradshaw part that wears what she wants, not what is expected of her. She’s the kind of person who keeps up with the trends, but dresses only for herself. No kitten heels may pass the threshold of her wardrobe doors, for there are too many of clunky Acne/Topshop/Penneys wedges taking up space inside.
Why wrap up in a sensible coat on a cold winter’s day when you can dress like a yeti a la Chanel? Greasy locks? Leave the dry shampoo to one side and pop on a turban. The Man Repeller might look a bit bonkers to the general public, but her fellow Repellows knows that she’s channeling Old Hollywood meets Roaring Twenties meets Opium Den. She doesn’t really care what the general public thinks anyway. She loves the turban. Her taste is just so good it goes beyond the realms of normal human perception. That’s good enough for me.
For anyone who thinks that fashion can’t be feminist, think again. For those who maintain that shopping is a shallow pursuit, well, you might be right; but you have to admit that the Man Repeller adds credence. Freedom of expression and non-conformity will always be a good thing - even if it’s only in outfit form.
The Man Repeller doesn’t hate men, she likes them - most of the time. She also likes being her own person. That is where the disparity lies. It’s a toss on a doubled-sided coin. Heads to please yourself. Tails to attract the opposite sex. For the Man Repeller, heads wins every time.
I don’t mean in the literal sense, as if you had an internal chromosonal magnet tuned to the same polarity as all men.
Nor am I asking if you smell bad, or are ugly, or have a terrible personality - because I know you don’t (and even if you did, there’s still someone out there for you - more than likely a belching farting, incredibly hostile someone, but a special someone all the same).
The Man Repeller is a blog written by New Yorker Leandra Medine. In it, she talks about all the clothes that your friends go bananas over, but make men scratch their heads in puzzlement,which sometimes happens when women do things not exclusively for their masculine amusement.
Capes, detachable collars, fringing, feathers, sequins, print clashes, harem pants, clogs, shoulder pads and boyfriend jeans are all incorporated into outfits that are both cheerfully tongue-in-cheek and dead-serious stylish. Not since the suffragette movement has something that comes so naturally to women been so totally incomprehensible for men.
The Man Repeller is a person too. She’s me in glaring neon pink jeans. She’s my best friend with tattoos and leopard print. She’s that girl in the shop with a Dellal esque demi-shaved head.
She’s you in your absolute favourite pair of shoes. She’s all of us - the Carrie Bradshaw part that wears what she wants, not what is expected of her. She’s the kind of person who keeps up with the trends, but dresses only for herself. No kitten heels may pass the threshold of her wardrobe doors, for there are too many of clunky Acne/Topshop/Penneys wedges taking up space inside.
Why wrap up in a sensible coat on a cold winter’s day when you can dress like a yeti a la Chanel? Greasy locks? Leave the dry shampoo to one side and pop on a turban. The Man Repeller might look a bit bonkers to the general public, but her fellow Repellows knows that she’s channeling Old Hollywood meets Roaring Twenties meets Opium Den. She doesn’t really care what the general public thinks anyway. She loves the turban. Her taste is just so good it goes beyond the realms of normal human perception. That’s good enough for me.
For anyone who thinks that fashion can’t be feminist, think again. For those who maintain that shopping is a shallow pursuit, well, you might be right; but you have to admit that the Man Repeller adds credence. Freedom of expression and non-conformity will always be a good thing - even if it’s only in outfit form.
The Man Repeller doesn’t hate men, she likes them - most of the time. She also likes being her own person. That is where the disparity lies. It’s a toss on a doubled-sided coin. Heads to please yourself. Tails to attract the opposite sex. For the Man Repeller, heads wins every time.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Licentiate Column 14/04/11: Royal Wedding Mania
A few weeks ago I was chatting to my mother on the phone. This is not an unusual occurrence, but I always look forward to our chats because my mother is, often unwittingly, the source of both the divine and the absurd inspiration when it comes to the writing of this column.
She’s convinced that I take artistic license, that she can’t possibly be the person that’s described in (very) brief terms every few weeks. She just hasn’t come to deal with that fact that, like every parent I have ever met, under the fragile veneer of normality, she is totally bonkers. Deal with it Mom. You’re an inspiration to us all.
This chat was a doozy. ‘Who do you think will be designing Kate’s wedding dress?’ she said. ‘I hear Alexander McQueen will be doing it’.
‘No... I don’t think so. You do know that Alexander McQueen is dead, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do’, she trilled, (this is the point where my mother puts down the paper and thinks ‘I never trill! What are these filthy lies!’. This is all true, by the way. Scouts Honour) ‘I mean the person that’s taken over at McQueen’.
‘I don’t know Mom. It’s possible. She’ll probably pick a British designer’.
‘And what do you think the dress will look like? Won’t it be lovely! I’m going to have a garden party to celebrate the day.’
I feel at this point that I should reassure you that my mother has more than two brain cells to rub together. She is just suffering from an unfortunate affliction that reaches epidemic proportions whenever a famous person gets married. Double symptoms if said famous person is a member of a royal family.
This affliction revolves around one thing and one thing only; the dress. Not the ceremony, not the honeymoon, not the guestlist. It’s all about the dress. The dress, the dress, the dress.
This year we have two Kates getting married. Kate Middleton. Kate Moss. One wants her dress to be a surprise for her husband to be. The other asked John Galliano to design hers, but now she’s having second thoughts. Send answers in on a postcard, but don’t expect a prize. Either way, both are leading the media and the terminally curious on a merry dance around the bridal shop.
We want to be a part of these weddings. We want to be in on the bride’s secrets. I think the reason that the dress is the nexus of all our obsessions is that it’s a common denominator. Every woman who wants to get married has, in theory, the option to wear a white dress. It’s simple, it’s reliable and it’s a shared experience between you and every beautiful woman who ever said I do.
You may not marry a prince, or be a famous model. The guest list may not include Elton John and the honeymoon may not be in St. Barts - but the dress will always be there. That’s something that you and my mother and Kate Middleton will always have in common. ‘Til dress do you part.
She’s convinced that I take artistic license, that she can’t possibly be the person that’s described in (very) brief terms every few weeks. She just hasn’t come to deal with that fact that, like every parent I have ever met, under the fragile veneer of normality, she is totally bonkers. Deal with it Mom. You’re an inspiration to us all.
This chat was a doozy. ‘Who do you think will be designing Kate’s wedding dress?’ she said. ‘I hear Alexander McQueen will be doing it’.
‘No... I don’t think so. You do know that Alexander McQueen is dead, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do’, she trilled, (this is the point where my mother puts down the paper and thinks ‘I never trill! What are these filthy lies!’. This is all true, by the way. Scouts Honour) ‘I mean the person that’s taken over at McQueen’.
‘I don’t know Mom. It’s possible. She’ll probably pick a British designer’.
‘And what do you think the dress will look like? Won’t it be lovely! I’m going to have a garden party to celebrate the day.’
I feel at this point that I should reassure you that my mother has more than two brain cells to rub together. She is just suffering from an unfortunate affliction that reaches epidemic proportions whenever a famous person gets married. Double symptoms if said famous person is a member of a royal family.
This affliction revolves around one thing and one thing only; the dress. Not the ceremony, not the honeymoon, not the guestlist. It’s all about the dress. The dress, the dress, the dress.
This year we have two Kates getting married. Kate Middleton. Kate Moss. One wants her dress to be a surprise for her husband to be. The other asked John Galliano to design hers, but now she’s having second thoughts. Send answers in on a postcard, but don’t expect a prize. Either way, both are leading the media and the terminally curious on a merry dance around the bridal shop.
We want to be a part of these weddings. We want to be in on the bride’s secrets. I think the reason that the dress is the nexus of all our obsessions is that it’s a common denominator. Every woman who wants to get married has, in theory, the option to wear a white dress. It’s simple, it’s reliable and it’s a shared experience between you and every beautiful woman who ever said I do.
You may not marry a prince, or be a famous model. The guest list may not include Elton John and the honeymoon may not be in St. Barts - but the dress will always be there. That’s something that you and my mother and Kate Middleton will always have in common. ‘Til dress do you part.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Licentiate Column 07/04/11
Last week I was lucky enough to attend a talk given by one of Ireland’s foremost fashion editors. She spoke about her teenage years and the birth of a clothes obsession, raiding her granny’s wardrobe for vintage threads, taking the bus to London and razoring the Topshop tags off her purchases (a pre-EU measure to throw the customs man off the scent).
It sounds a lot like the gestation period of any fashion-fixated teen, except now we’re detagging tops from Woodbury Common, not Oxford Street. It seems as if nothing has changed. Is this a template that we all follow? Discover the joys of clothing at an early age, then let it develop naturally through occasional, light cross-border smuggling?
But, while the measures in which the individual grows to love clothes never changes, society goes through convulsive totterings, from one cultural extreme to another, and often because of the most unexpected catalysts.
In 1995, there was a heatwave. Not the Irish heatwaves that we’re used to, in which there’s three days of fine weather and everyone migrates to the beach purely out of fear that the nice weather will end before the planning permission for the first sandcastle comes through. A proper heatwave - with water rationing and yellow grass and a million lobster-skinned Hibernians hovering around the place with barely any clothes on, displaying tatty bra straps and previously unseen cleavage.
It was this heatwave, the fashion editor proposed, that was the driving force that knocked Ireland headfirst into modernity. Before then, we were prudish about showing our breasts, unaware of the technology of ceramic plates for hair-straighteners and unwilling to let our unique Irishness be subsumed into a European mould.
Before 1995, the bodycon dresses that we see in every town in Ireland on every Saturday night would have been the Church-intervening kind of scandalous. Afterwards, the typical pale-faced colleen was about as visible as a unicorn. That summer was the starting point for a baby boom and, some might argue, the real start of the Celtic Tiger phenomenon. We had our first taste of the good life; the heat, the cleavage, the acts that inevitably precede a baby boom. We didn’t want it to end.
Could a heatwave really be the starting point for Modern Ireland? Were these the bra-straps seen around the world? Well, yes.
It’s a perfect storm. A heatwave did change the way that we wear clothes, but it’s was a rare combination of cultural,economic and social factors that accelerated this change, going from zero to couture in less than a decade.
It was the start of a decade of excessive prosperity. It was the decade when the Catholic Church loosened it’s moralising grip on the country. Travel became cheaper. Women began to see what life was like on the other side. We wanted change. We wanted progress. We wanted freedom.
It was then that Dunnes started selling lacy bras. See what I mean? The perfect storm.
It sounds a lot like the gestation period of any fashion-fixated teen, except now we’re detagging tops from Woodbury Common, not Oxford Street. It seems as if nothing has changed. Is this a template that we all follow? Discover the joys of clothing at an early age, then let it develop naturally through occasional, light cross-border smuggling?
But, while the measures in which the individual grows to love clothes never changes, society goes through convulsive totterings, from one cultural extreme to another, and often because of the most unexpected catalysts.
In 1995, there was a heatwave. Not the Irish heatwaves that we’re used to, in which there’s three days of fine weather and everyone migrates to the beach purely out of fear that the nice weather will end before the planning permission for the first sandcastle comes through. A proper heatwave - with water rationing and yellow grass and a million lobster-skinned Hibernians hovering around the place with barely any clothes on, displaying tatty bra straps and previously unseen cleavage.
It was this heatwave, the fashion editor proposed, that was the driving force that knocked Ireland headfirst into modernity. Before then, we were prudish about showing our breasts, unaware of the technology of ceramic plates for hair-straighteners and unwilling to let our unique Irishness be subsumed into a European mould.
Before 1995, the bodycon dresses that we see in every town in Ireland on every Saturday night would have been the Church-intervening kind of scandalous. Afterwards, the typical pale-faced colleen was about as visible as a unicorn. That summer was the starting point for a baby boom and, some might argue, the real start of the Celtic Tiger phenomenon. We had our first taste of the good life; the heat, the cleavage, the acts that inevitably precede a baby boom. We didn’t want it to end.
Could a heatwave really be the starting point for Modern Ireland? Were these the bra-straps seen around the world? Well, yes.
It’s a perfect storm. A heatwave did change the way that we wear clothes, but it’s was a rare combination of cultural,economic and social factors that accelerated this change, going from zero to couture in less than a decade.
It was the start of a decade of excessive prosperity. It was the decade when the Catholic Church loosened it’s moralising grip on the country. Travel became cheaper. Women began to see what life was like on the other side. We wanted change. We wanted progress. We wanted freedom.
It was then that Dunnes started selling lacy bras. See what I mean? The perfect storm.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Licentiate Column 31/03/11: Reactionary Dressing
If my Junior Cert science knowledge serves me well (and it probably doesn't), one of Isaac Newton's laws of physics is, 'for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction'. While this applies in relation to centrifrugal forces, it's also relevant to our everyday lives - and to think we were convinced that it would have no practical application once we left school.
Whatever your political preference, whether left, right or maddeningly, non-commitally dead-centre, we are all rebellious reactionaries. Reactionary dressers, that is.
Like most deep set neuroses, I believe that this starts in early childhood. A child is dressed by his or her parents. They are the dictator of the toddler closet, the holders of the keys to Gap Kids. You will wear those pink corduroy dungarees and you will have this pudding-bowl haircut. You have no choice in the matter.
From a very early age, a person gets a sense that there's a way that you want to dress and a way that you have to dress, and ne'er the twain shall meet.
Both of these things play off each other. The more rigid the uniform, the more expressive and off-the-wall the remainder of your wardrobe will be. This is where Newton comes into the equation. Here's the science bit.
Friend A works in a chain sportwear shop on the high street. He is required to wear Brand X for work, but his distaste for X means that he now buys Brand Y for his days off. In fact, he buys much more Y than he did before he started at work. It's a reaction to the dreaded brand X. Q.E.D.
Friend B is a impossibly polished medical consultant in a large private hospital. When someone sneezes in her presence, she thinks they're making a medical point about Jimmy Choos. She get manicures twice and blowdries thrice weekly because of the sheer wilful need to look professional in front of her influential, much older, mostly male peers. On her off days she goes to Tesco in her pajamas.
In a wider scope, almost all countercultural movements of the twentieth century are reactions to the establishment. The hippie ethos was born out of disgust with the American government and stifling social norms, but the clothing was a calculated counter-attack to these norms. It shocked Johnny Crewcut out of his complacent haze and into a more, er, lycergic one - one that involved bell bottoms and a helluva lot of suede fringing.
For some reason, this is a phenomenon that has only come to maturity within the past hundred years. The Surrealists shocked the world in the earlier part of the century, but part of their shock value was that they looked incredibly respectable, in three-piece suits and soft homburgs. Even then, their clothing was a reaction - a deliberate effort to buck against what was expected of them, which was to outwardly express what deviants they were.
From shoes, to outfits, to social groups, from traditional national dress to battle uniform even to schisms in society at large, all reactions are governed by the actions that precede them. Once you start to notice these reactions, you life may start to take on a Da Vinci Code-esque significance as you count all the coincidences that pop up almost out of nowhere. For me though, there's a straightforward explanation - it's simple fashematics.
Whatever your political preference, whether left, right or maddeningly, non-commitally dead-centre, we are all rebellious reactionaries. Reactionary dressers, that is.
Like most deep set neuroses, I believe that this starts in early childhood. A child is dressed by his or her parents. They are the dictator of the toddler closet, the holders of the keys to Gap Kids. You will wear those pink corduroy dungarees and you will have this pudding-bowl haircut. You have no choice in the matter.
From a very early age, a person gets a sense that there's a way that you want to dress and a way that you have to dress, and ne'er the twain shall meet.
Both of these things play off each other. The more rigid the uniform, the more expressive and off-the-wall the remainder of your wardrobe will be. This is where Newton comes into the equation. Here's the science bit.
Friend A works in a chain sportwear shop on the high street. He is required to wear Brand X for work, but his distaste for X means that he now buys Brand Y for his days off. In fact, he buys much more Y than he did before he started at work. It's a reaction to the dreaded brand X. Q.E.D.
Friend B is a impossibly polished medical consultant in a large private hospital. When someone sneezes in her presence, she thinks they're making a medical point about Jimmy Choos. She get manicures twice and blowdries thrice weekly because of the sheer wilful need to look professional in front of her influential, much older, mostly male peers. On her off days she goes to Tesco in her pajamas.
In a wider scope, almost all countercultural movements of the twentieth century are reactions to the establishment. The hippie ethos was born out of disgust with the American government and stifling social norms, but the clothing was a calculated counter-attack to these norms. It shocked Johnny Crewcut out of his complacent haze and into a more, er, lycergic one - one that involved bell bottoms and a helluva lot of suede fringing.
For some reason, this is a phenomenon that has only come to maturity within the past hundred years. The Surrealists shocked the world in the earlier part of the century, but part of their shock value was that they looked incredibly respectable, in three-piece suits and soft homburgs. Even then, their clothing was a reaction - a deliberate effort to buck against what was expected of them, which was to outwardly express what deviants they were.
From shoes, to outfits, to social groups, from traditional national dress to battle uniform even to schisms in society at large, all reactions are governed by the actions that precede them. Once you start to notice these reactions, you life may start to take on a Da Vinci Code-esque significance as you count all the coincidences that pop up almost out of nowhere. For me though, there's a straightforward explanation - it's simple fashematics.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Licentiate Column 24/03/11: Dress Codes
The unprecedented has happened. This month, I have not one, but two awards ceremonies to attend. This time last year, I was lucky to have not one, but two pub quizzes with which to grace my presence.
Awards ceremonies are tricky. Go long, or short? On-trend colour pops or classic monochrome? Stripes or spots? Hair - up or down? Bags - clutch or envelope? Consort - is he holding your bag or the drinks? It's one of the (very) few occasions when I wish that I was a man instead of a woman, accessory holding notwithstanding.
Black and white tie is strictly regulated - for the guys. You must wear black dress socks, you must have a black satin cummerbund, you must have the right coloured bow circling a stiff, starched collar in a brilliant shade of white. For women, it's slightly more difficult.
What then, if traditional dress codes go out the window? Black tie is now the stuffy formal mode of dressing - far too rigid for us hipsters and awards attendees. We have to have a different language; a new set of buzzwords for a new generation. We don't need your bourgeois, stinking dress codes, man!
We think that we've thrown off the shackles of sartorial suppression, but we've only made things worse. By opening up the remit in which we get dressed, we leave ourselves open to a whole new level of disaster. If you're going somewhere special and you want to look appropriate (an attribute that is severely underappreciated in modern existence), then dress codes are vital.
Imagine going to a wedding wearing jeans while your partner rocks up to the church in a bedazzled suit that the combined efforts of Versace and Liberace could not surpass in terms of extreme, overarching, gaudy glamour. Not a good image, now is it? Especially if your partner is a blocky, Beamish drinking, aggressively heterosexual nightclub bouncer named Craig.
Even if you don't have a Craig-esque partner, or even have a partner at all, the new series of dress codes are so utterly stumping that you can just about manage to worry only about yourself. Gone are the days of transparent codes, here to stay is Blank Chic, the code where the word 'chic' is preceded with something utterly meaningless, something that magicks up only a vague image that could be interpreted in a million different ways.
Last week a friend of mine told me about a party she attended - the dress code was 'safari chic'. What does that even mean? Did she need a pith helmets and and elephant gun to go with her Breakfast at Tiffany's cocktail dresses? Perhaps a scad of malaria to give that perfect touch of je ne sais qois to an LBD?
People generally don't like rules and regulations; it's a sign of suppression and bureaucratic measures, it limits creativity and personal freedoms and lest we forget, people don't really like doing things against their will.
But we're not talking about totalitarian government, nor are we really talking about awards ceremonies. We're talking about weddings and graduations, christenings and office parties - any formal occasion.
It's nice to be free and loose, but sometimes it's better to do what is right and proper - this includes a dress code.
Awards ceremonies are tricky. Go long, or short? On-trend colour pops or classic monochrome? Stripes or spots? Hair - up or down? Bags - clutch or envelope? Consort - is he holding your bag or the drinks? It's one of the (very) few occasions when I wish that I was a man instead of a woman, accessory holding notwithstanding.
Black and white tie is strictly regulated - for the guys. You must wear black dress socks, you must have a black satin cummerbund, you must have the right coloured bow circling a stiff, starched collar in a brilliant shade of white. For women, it's slightly more difficult.
What then, if traditional dress codes go out the window? Black tie is now the stuffy formal mode of dressing - far too rigid for us hipsters and awards attendees. We have to have a different language; a new set of buzzwords for a new generation. We don't need your bourgeois, stinking dress codes, man!
We think that we've thrown off the shackles of sartorial suppression, but we've only made things worse. By opening up the remit in which we get dressed, we leave ourselves open to a whole new level of disaster. If you're going somewhere special and you want to look appropriate (an attribute that is severely underappreciated in modern existence), then dress codes are vital.
Imagine going to a wedding wearing jeans while your partner rocks up to the church in a bedazzled suit that the combined efforts of Versace and Liberace could not surpass in terms of extreme, overarching, gaudy glamour. Not a good image, now is it? Especially if your partner is a blocky, Beamish drinking, aggressively heterosexual nightclub bouncer named Craig.
Even if you don't have a Craig-esque partner, or even have a partner at all, the new series of dress codes are so utterly stumping that you can just about manage to worry only about yourself. Gone are the days of transparent codes, here to stay is Blank Chic, the code where the word 'chic' is preceded with something utterly meaningless, something that magicks up only a vague image that could be interpreted in a million different ways.
Last week a friend of mine told me about a party she attended - the dress code was 'safari chic'. What does that even mean? Did she need a pith helmets and and elephant gun to go with her Breakfast at Tiffany's cocktail dresses? Perhaps a scad of malaria to give that perfect touch of je ne sais qois to an LBD?
People generally don't like rules and regulations; it's a sign of suppression and bureaucratic measures, it limits creativity and personal freedoms and lest we forget, people don't really like doing things against their will.
But we're not talking about totalitarian government, nor are we really talking about awards ceremonies. We're talking about weddings and graduations, christenings and office parties - any formal occasion.
It's nice to be free and loose, but sometimes it's better to do what is right and proper - this includes a dress code.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Licentiate Column 16/03/11: Couples with matching jackets
Normally, I quite like the stories that my parents tell me about their courtin’ days. Bike rides to the beach on the Kerry coast and trips to see Thin Lizzy and Eric Clapton are played in my mind through a fuzzy, hazy sunshine imbued filter not unlike that used in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
In reality, my parents are one part Sundance and Etta and another part Homer and Marge Simpson. For example, my father brought my mother a box of chocolates on the night of their debs ball. Par for the course, except that he ate all of the soft centres. For every instance of cutesy-poo, there’s another one that is mind-bendingly embarassing (but still very sweet).
Once, my parents decided that it would be a good idea to purchase and wear matching jackets. Not just matching jackets, but matching silver puffa jackets. With red and blue stripes. The mind boggles.
My mother now reassures me that it wasn’t a conscious decision. My father was living in Dublin, my mother in Tralee. She bought the jacket, knowing that my father liked it, but reasoning that they would never turn up in the same place, wearing the same jacket. She was very wrong. Apparently, this was one of the most testing periods in their relationship. If anything, it’s proof that my parents have very middle-class problems.
I told myself that this would never happen to me. That lasted about five minutes when I started going out with my first proper boyfriend. The silver puffa jacket was, mercifully, not an option, but we would manage to turn up separately for afternoon dates in battered converse, slim jeans (skinnies had yet to be invented) and leather bomber jackets. We looked like the world’s worst Ramones tribute band. Don’t get me started on the time we both wore sparkly LBDs to a family wedding... This may not have happened.
For better or worse, if you pick a partner with similar tastes to yours, it’s likely that this will extend to your clothing. It could be little things, like wearing the same colours, or it could be a full-on matching fest of the highest, most tasteless order.
On one end of the spectrum, there’s Ralph and Ricky Lauren. Ricky’s effortlessly preppy style was what inspired the designer husband to branch into womenswear and today, both are perfect examples of co-ordinated collegiate cool. On the opposite end, there’s Posh and Becks. Do we remember the leather jumpsuits? The double disaster of cream and purple suits at their wedding? I don’t think I need to go any further.
In other countries, wearing matching outfits is a source of pride. In eastern Asia, where PDAs are frowned upon, it’s normal for unmarried couples to wear identical outfits as a sign of their togetherness. It has become so popular that retailers now sell outfits in pairs. It sounds terrible but it is probably no more visually offensive than the average PDA.
Like it or not, if you’re a part of the world at large, this dilemma is one you will have to face many times. So, look on the bright side; it’ll make a good story to tell your children - just don’t mention puffa jackets.
In reality, my parents are one part Sundance and Etta and another part Homer and Marge Simpson. For example, my father brought my mother a box of chocolates on the night of their debs ball. Par for the course, except that he ate all of the soft centres. For every instance of cutesy-poo, there’s another one that is mind-bendingly embarassing (but still very sweet).
Once, my parents decided that it would be a good idea to purchase and wear matching jackets. Not just matching jackets, but matching silver puffa jackets. With red and blue stripes. The mind boggles.
My mother now reassures me that it wasn’t a conscious decision. My father was living in Dublin, my mother in Tralee. She bought the jacket, knowing that my father liked it, but reasoning that they would never turn up in the same place, wearing the same jacket. She was very wrong. Apparently, this was one of the most testing periods in their relationship. If anything, it’s proof that my parents have very middle-class problems.
I told myself that this would never happen to me. That lasted about five minutes when I started going out with my first proper boyfriend. The silver puffa jacket was, mercifully, not an option, but we would manage to turn up separately for afternoon dates in battered converse, slim jeans (skinnies had yet to be invented) and leather bomber jackets. We looked like the world’s worst Ramones tribute band. Don’t get me started on the time we both wore sparkly LBDs to a family wedding... This may not have happened.
For better or worse, if you pick a partner with similar tastes to yours, it’s likely that this will extend to your clothing. It could be little things, like wearing the same colours, or it could be a full-on matching fest of the highest, most tasteless order.
On one end of the spectrum, there’s Ralph and Ricky Lauren. Ricky’s effortlessly preppy style was what inspired the designer husband to branch into womenswear and today, both are perfect examples of co-ordinated collegiate cool. On the opposite end, there’s Posh and Becks. Do we remember the leather jumpsuits? The double disaster of cream and purple suits at their wedding? I don’t think I need to go any further.
In other countries, wearing matching outfits is a source of pride. In eastern Asia, where PDAs are frowned upon, it’s normal for unmarried couples to wear identical outfits as a sign of their togetherness. It has become so popular that retailers now sell outfits in pairs. It sounds terrible but it is probably no more visually offensive than the average PDA.
Like it or not, if you’re a part of the world at large, this dilemma is one you will have to face many times. So, look on the bright side; it’ll make a good story to tell your children - just don’t mention puffa jackets.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
An Introduction to The Licentiate...
... for those who are coming from the Irish Blog Awards website, who have never seen this blog before, and have no idea what it's all about.
Hello, I'm Sarah and this is my blog, The Licentiate (pronounced 'lie-sen-she-ate' - but there won't be an oral test, I promise). EDIT: Here's a dictionary definition for curious comers. In retrospect, it wasn't the best name to pick, but I'm not one to make things easier on myself. This is what I look like.
I've been blogging for almost a year now on style, (hence being a finalist in the 'Lifestyle' category in this year's Irish Blog Awards *happydance*) subculture and it's various permutations in film, books and art. Any posts before the sixteenth of March '10 are imported from a previous blog. I'm a freelance journalist and write a column, also called The Licentiate, for The Cork Independent. You can read them here.
From the first Licentiate post:
Hello, I'm Sarah and this is my blog, The Licentiate (pronounced 'lie-sen-she-ate' - but there won't be an oral test, I promise). EDIT: Here's a dictionary definition for curious comers. In retrospect, it wasn't the best name to pick, but I'm not one to make things easier on myself. This is what I look like.
 |
| Did I mention that I hate having my picture taken and I'm very awkward and I don't normally look this smug and ohgoddontjudgemefromthispicture?!? |
I've been blogging for almost a year now on style, (hence being a finalist in the 'Lifestyle' category in this year's Irish Blog Awards *happydance*) subculture and it's various permutations in film, books and art. Any posts before the sixteenth of March '10 are imported from a previous blog. I'm a freelance journalist and write a column, also called The Licentiate, for The Cork Independent. You can read them here.
From the first Licentiate post:
This is the product of my obsessions including but not confined to; magazines, stealing my friend's SLRs and fiddling around with the aperture settings, internet shopping, colour schemes, frames of reference and inspiration, history of fashion, the tenets of style, bad taste, out-of-print fashion books, bad DIY, local goings-on, vintage, stuff collected on my travels, patterns and anything slightly insidious, off-kilter or weird.
That was the mandate then, and I've stuck to it as closely as possible. Here's a few posts for the first-time visitor. Consider it a cyber pocket guide.
Self-indulgent tripe
1 - A licentiate's backstory (involving me looking stupid in my graduation gear).
2 - Why I blog - You know the hows, now read the why.
3 - Ritualism - A blog post I wrote when my grandmother died and I nearly wore a tutu to her funeral.
4 - Nan's Legacy Part I and II - as you can see, my family is a big deal to me. I often write posts about both of my grandmothers, who were equally inspiring in wildly different ways. Here is some of my paternal grandmother's jewellery.
Favourites
2 - Is the blog the modern equivalent of the zine? A post about modern publishing and a full reproduction of original 70's zine 'How to Look Punk'. I can't tell you how much I love this zine - every night I go to sleep and mentally thank the person who upload this on the internet (I may not actually do this).
3 - WWDVD (What would Diana Vreeland Do?) - Or 'why I detest American Apparel'.
4 - Mixtapes at the Glucksman - A closer look at Linder Sterling. Oh, Linder.
Reader favourites
5 - Royal Wedding Bonanza!
I'm terrible at signing off, so I'll just say that you can say friend me on facebook, follow me on twitter or leave a comment to say hello. I love meeting new people (just as long as they don't follow me back to my apartment) and I hope that, if you like this, you'll come back again. Over and out *does awkward Vulcan salute*.
I'm terrible at signing off, so I'll just say that you can say friend me on facebook, follow me on twitter or leave a comment to say hello. I love meeting new people (just as long as they don't follow me back to my apartment) and I hope that, if you like this, you'll come back again. Over and out *does awkward Vulcan salute*.
Licentiate Column 10/03/11: Too Poor to be Stylish
This season's fashion weeks have drawn to a close. Catwalks have been dismantled in New York, London, Milan and Paris, models are now eating something other than cotton wool whorls dipped in orange juice and editors are now retreating to their desks to tell us what we'll be wearing next winter (polka dots, plaids and an obscene amount of fur, apparently).
I shall be wearing none of those things. I might indulge in some dot action, but they'll be Penney's polkas, not Prada's. Unless a Euromillions win is imminent, I'll never own anything hot off the catwalk. This isn't for lack of wanting. If wanting was a currency, I'd be richer than Warren Buffett.
But wanting isn't a currency. I am poor - the kind of poor that makes passing church mice think, 'there but for the grace of God'...
I am poor partly by circumstance and partly by choice. It's a trade off; either I work a job that I really don't want and have spending money or keep working towards something that will bear dividends only in the future. Looking at some of the people I know in the former situation, I feel as if the right choice has been made (especially when they buy me a slap-up dinner).
This kind of decision is not made lightly and it has an effect not unlike living on a faultline in a treehouse built of glass. The aftershocks are frequent; every small jolt affects your life.
As I grow less and less solvent, my means of spending become less and less. I've gone from frequent high-street buying, to infrequent, to charity shops, to a total clothing embargo. Now, due to a very large, very nasty bill, I am forced to sell the contents of my wardrobe.
You'd think that fashion would suddenly become less fun, wouldn't you? But, in reality, the less I have to spend and the narrower the sartorial leeway, the more interesting getting dressed becomes. Being poor opens you up to new horizons, new ways of dressing, new modes of expression.
Women with a higher level of disposable income might find that they don't know how to take up a hem or let out a jacket. They might not know how mix packets of machine dye to turn that shirt from white to the perfect, jewel-tone, deeply-hued magenta that can only be seen on the racks at Gucci. They might not know how to wear a maxi skirt as a mini-dress or even how to sew on a button. Necessity is the mother of invention and when there's no necessity, you get lazy. Trust me, I've been there.
It's not a new phenomenon either. Frugality has been an admirable trait since the austerity years of the Second World War, when 'Make Do and Mend', a pamphlet on stretching your clothing allowance, was first published. It is still in print today.
British Vogue recently resurrected their 'More Dash Than Cash' feature, which shows readers how to reimagine catwalk looks with a mixture of canny high-street buys, ingenuity and a steady hand with a pair of scissors. It maintains that a self-aware, resourceful person can always look stylish.
Some people will inevitably think that it's shallow to contemplate personal style when living below the poverty line. I think that it's essential for living. Being poor is debasing; it makes you feel inadequate, that you're not a real part of society at large. Dressing well is an outward declaration of your dignity. It tells a world that thinks otherwise that you will not be cowed, that you have integrity, that you will not compromise.
Expressing yourself is a basic human right. It's harder to do that without money - that's why getting dressed is so important.
I shall be wearing none of those things. I might indulge in some dot action, but they'll be Penney's polkas, not Prada's. Unless a Euromillions win is imminent, I'll never own anything hot off the catwalk. This isn't for lack of wanting. If wanting was a currency, I'd be richer than Warren Buffett.
But wanting isn't a currency. I am poor - the kind of poor that makes passing church mice think, 'there but for the grace of God'...
I am poor partly by circumstance and partly by choice. It's a trade off; either I work a job that I really don't want and have spending money or keep working towards something that will bear dividends only in the future. Looking at some of the people I know in the former situation, I feel as if the right choice has been made (especially when they buy me a slap-up dinner).
This kind of decision is not made lightly and it has an effect not unlike living on a faultline in a treehouse built of glass. The aftershocks are frequent; every small jolt affects your life.
As I grow less and less solvent, my means of spending become less and less. I've gone from frequent high-street buying, to infrequent, to charity shops, to a total clothing embargo. Now, due to a very large, very nasty bill, I am forced to sell the contents of my wardrobe.
You'd think that fashion would suddenly become less fun, wouldn't you? But, in reality, the less I have to spend and the narrower the sartorial leeway, the more interesting getting dressed becomes. Being poor opens you up to new horizons, new ways of dressing, new modes of expression.
Women with a higher level of disposable income might find that they don't know how to take up a hem or let out a jacket. They might not know how mix packets of machine dye to turn that shirt from white to the perfect, jewel-tone, deeply-hued magenta that can only be seen on the racks at Gucci. They might not know how to wear a maxi skirt as a mini-dress or even how to sew on a button. Necessity is the mother of invention and when there's no necessity, you get lazy. Trust me, I've been there.
It's not a new phenomenon either. Frugality has been an admirable trait since the austerity years of the Second World War, when 'Make Do and Mend', a pamphlet on stretching your clothing allowance, was first published. It is still in print today.
British Vogue recently resurrected their 'More Dash Than Cash' feature, which shows readers how to reimagine catwalk looks with a mixture of canny high-street buys, ingenuity and a steady hand with a pair of scissors. It maintains that a self-aware, resourceful person can always look stylish.
Some people will inevitably think that it's shallow to contemplate personal style when living below the poverty line. I think that it's essential for living. Being poor is debasing; it makes you feel inadequate, that you're not a real part of society at large. Dressing well is an outward declaration of your dignity. It tells a world that thinks otherwise that you will not be cowed, that you have integrity, that you will not compromise.
Expressing yourself is a basic human right. It's harder to do that without money - that's why getting dressed is so important.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Licentiate Column 03/03/11 - Teenagers
A good column topic is not easy to come by. Sometimes, it's a trend that gets disseminated. Sometimes, it's a 'how to wear' column. Sometimes, it's a mick-taking, joke-making, stick-shaking diatribe. This week, it's all of the above.
For the past few days, I've been thinking about teenagers. Not in a pervy way, of course (exception given to the male cast of Skins) but in a social anthropology kind-of-a-way. I almost want to go down to the park and study their movements, but I won't, because I could end up on some kind of register.
Being a teenager is a big deal. It's a slow moving behemoth that forms who you are through a careful blend of peer pressure, family tensions, hormones, exam stress and many a wardrobe faux-pas. It's a huge experience at the time, but it gets much smaller the further away you move from it. I'm twenty three and my goth years seem like a distant memory speck on the horizon.
For many adults, teens are unknowable, mysterious, elusive beings. Sublimely self-absorbed, aesthetically preoccupied, tumbling headlong into the ownership of their own lives and almost suicidally hellbent on self discovery; it almost seems like fun. Or it would be, if that view wasn't inaccurate, and highly patronising to boot.
While teen life isn't exactly an episode of a certain E4 youth drama, there is one thing that teens do like no adult, and that is express themselves through their clothes. Through youth culture, the fashion world has discovered and co-opted bobby soxers, teddy boys, beatniks, mods, rockers, hippies, preppies, punks, grungeheads, goths and emos, a fraction of a percent of the countless teen clans that have popped up over the past half a century. In truth, all adults want to dress like teenagers.
I saw two girls this week that were perfect specimens of such self expression. The first I saw out shopping with her friends. She was wearing a multicoloured, dizzily patterned, zip-up sweatshirt, a plaid shirt, a pair of black sequinned leggings and the most perfect battered Converse, accessorised with a wavy mane of hair that covered most of her face. She look awkward, but superbly confident. The other I saw trying to sneak into a nightclub with her friends. Her outfit was nothing special, but strapped to her feet were the most fabulous pair of clunky crimson wedges, wrapped with chiffon ribbon. She looked like she had strapped breezeblocks to her feet. She went where few grown women would dare. She looked great.
There's a lot that we can learn from teenagers, not least in how they dress. Here's a refresher course.
1) Throw your style prescription out the window and try new things. Remember, it's about the journey, not the destination.
2) If you're not sure about an outfit, try it on anyway. Some fashion disasters can make beautiful mistakes.
3) Don't be afraid to clash. Your clothes, that is. If you're out of your teens, you should probably avoid clashing with your parents.
3) You can be an individual but still be part of a group. One source of motivation behind youth subcultures is the desire to stand out but also fit in - to assert one's individuality, but be part of a movement. So don't worry that your choices might isolate you; after all, the world is far too small for you to be the only one dressed like that.
Anyway, teenagers have probably been dressing like that well before you thought of it.
For the past few days, I've been thinking about teenagers. Not in a pervy way, of course (exception given to the male cast of Skins) but in a social anthropology kind-of-a-way. I almost want to go down to the park and study their movements, but I won't, because I could end up on some kind of register.
Being a teenager is a big deal. It's a slow moving behemoth that forms who you are through a careful blend of peer pressure, family tensions, hormones, exam stress and many a wardrobe faux-pas. It's a huge experience at the time, but it gets much smaller the further away you move from it. I'm twenty three and my goth years seem like a distant memory speck on the horizon.
For many adults, teens are unknowable, mysterious, elusive beings. Sublimely self-absorbed, aesthetically preoccupied, tumbling headlong into the ownership of their own lives and almost suicidally hellbent on self discovery; it almost seems like fun. Or it would be, if that view wasn't inaccurate, and highly patronising to boot.
While teen life isn't exactly an episode of a certain E4 youth drama, there is one thing that teens do like no adult, and that is express themselves through their clothes. Through youth culture, the fashion world has discovered and co-opted bobby soxers, teddy boys, beatniks, mods, rockers, hippies, preppies, punks, grungeheads, goths and emos, a fraction of a percent of the countless teen clans that have popped up over the past half a century. In truth, all adults want to dress like teenagers.
I saw two girls this week that were perfect specimens of such self expression. The first I saw out shopping with her friends. She was wearing a multicoloured, dizzily patterned, zip-up sweatshirt, a plaid shirt, a pair of black sequinned leggings and the most perfect battered Converse, accessorised with a wavy mane of hair that covered most of her face. She look awkward, but superbly confident. The other I saw trying to sneak into a nightclub with her friends. Her outfit was nothing special, but strapped to her feet were the most fabulous pair of clunky crimson wedges, wrapped with chiffon ribbon. She looked like she had strapped breezeblocks to her feet. She went where few grown women would dare. She looked great.
There's a lot that we can learn from teenagers, not least in how they dress. Here's a refresher course.
1) Throw your style prescription out the window and try new things. Remember, it's about the journey, not the destination.
2) If you're not sure about an outfit, try it on anyway. Some fashion disasters can make beautiful mistakes.
3) Don't be afraid to clash. Your clothes, that is. If you're out of your teens, you should probably avoid clashing with your parents.
3) You can be an individual but still be part of a group. One source of motivation behind youth subcultures is the desire to stand out but also fit in - to assert one's individuality, but be part of a movement. So don't worry that your choices might isolate you; after all, the world is far too small for you to be the only one dressed like that.
Anyway, teenagers have probably been dressing like that well before you thought of it.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Licentiate Column 24/02/11 The Red Shoes
Have you ever heard the Tale of the Red Shoes, written by Hans Christian Anderson? A vain girl tricks her adoptive mother into buying her a pair of much-coveted red shoes, which causes her to pay no attention in church. She stops attending services and goes to a party in her bescarleted feet instead. Once she starts to dance, the shoes will not allow her to stop. She dances and dances without an end in sight, through storms, through her mother's funeral, until she reaches the point of insanity or death, when a man take mercy on her and chops off her feet.
She eventually realises the folly of emotionally blackmailing a parent into irresponsible shoe buying, then she dies. So, a happy ending for everyone involved. Or maybe not.
In 1948, a seminal dance film was released, also called The Red Shoes. In it, aspiring prima ballerina Vicky Page gets the chance to dance the lead role in the titular ballet, but eventually has to choose between love of a man or love of her art, symbolised potently in the form of a pair of red ballet slippers. The consequences are predictably disastrous.
That's the trouble with red shoes: They symbolise the things that a woman are, very unfairly, restricted from freely having. These stories are designed to encourage women to conform. Dedicate yourself to your artistic passion instead of looking after a husband? Indulge in hedonism and freedom of self expression? Be an independent person who answers only to herself? Then prepare to have your legs chopped off with a rusty axe before repenting your wicked, wicked ways.
Even now, the world at large doesn't want us to own a pair of proper red shoes. After spending a day in town with my friend Fiona, bemoaning the dearth of such appendages, she came home and asked a question on Facebook; 'what do red shoes mean?' The answers were varied, but the real corkers included such gems as 'red shoes, no knickers' and 'red shoes = Amsterdam window girl'. Apparently, only whores get to don red shoes.
In this day and age, it's surprising that such asinine restrictions actually exist in terms of a simple primary colour. I want a pair of red shoes. Preferably with a very high heel and all kinds of ribbons and general fripperies. And yet, I have never ever had sex in exchange for money - what kind of topsy-turvy world do we live in?
My non-purchase is not as a result of these utterly sophomoric preconceptions; it's the conditions that these preconceptions may have precipitated. There are just no nice red shoes to be had. Of the 1000 or so pairs of women's shoes available on behemoth e-tailer ASOS.com, just fifteen are red, and even then, maybe only two pairs are even slightly close to that particular shade or rich, tomatoey, viscid, brilliantine red that has provoked centuries-long controversy.
It's damnably sexist to assume that such a shade of footwear automatically shrills 'come to bed NOW'. Don't get me wrong, it commands your attention - but the sexual attention can be unwanted or unintended. Red holds immense, often untapped power. Just look at the pope. He wears red shoes, and you don't see anyone wolf-whistling at him or mistaking him for a call girl, now do you?
She eventually realises the folly of emotionally blackmailing a parent into irresponsible shoe buying, then she dies. So, a happy ending for everyone involved. Or maybe not.
In 1948, a seminal dance film was released, also called The Red Shoes. In it, aspiring prima ballerina Vicky Page gets the chance to dance the lead role in the titular ballet, but eventually has to choose between love of a man or love of her art, symbolised potently in the form of a pair of red ballet slippers. The consequences are predictably disastrous.
That's the trouble with red shoes: They symbolise the things that a woman are, very unfairly, restricted from freely having. These stories are designed to encourage women to conform. Dedicate yourself to your artistic passion instead of looking after a husband? Indulge in hedonism and freedom of self expression? Be an independent person who answers only to herself? Then prepare to have your legs chopped off with a rusty axe before repenting your wicked, wicked ways.
Even now, the world at large doesn't want us to own a pair of proper red shoes. After spending a day in town with my friend Fiona, bemoaning the dearth of such appendages, she came home and asked a question on Facebook; 'what do red shoes mean?' The answers were varied, but the real corkers included such gems as 'red shoes, no knickers' and 'red shoes = Amsterdam window girl'. Apparently, only whores get to don red shoes.
In this day and age, it's surprising that such asinine restrictions actually exist in terms of a simple primary colour. I want a pair of red shoes. Preferably with a very high heel and all kinds of ribbons and general fripperies. And yet, I have never ever had sex in exchange for money - what kind of topsy-turvy world do we live in?
My non-purchase is not as a result of these utterly sophomoric preconceptions; it's the conditions that these preconceptions may have precipitated. There are just no nice red shoes to be had. Of the 1000 or so pairs of women's shoes available on behemoth e-tailer ASOS.com, just fifteen are red, and even then, maybe only two pairs are even slightly close to that particular shade or rich, tomatoey, viscid, brilliantine red that has provoked centuries-long controversy.
It's damnably sexist to assume that such a shade of footwear automatically shrills 'come to bed NOW'. Don't get me wrong, it commands your attention - but the sexual attention can be unwanted or unintended. Red holds immense, often untapped power. Just look at the pope. He wears red shoes, and you don't see anyone wolf-whistling at him or mistaking him for a call girl, now do you?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Licentiate Column 17/02/11 Colour Blocking: A Guide
Colour blocking is a little bit like nuclear fusion. We all have a vague idea of what it is, but only people with specialist knowledge can explain it coherently or know how to work it properly. Colour blocking isn't the driving force behind the most powerful explosive men has ever known, but still, if you make one wrong move, everything is very liable to blow up in your face.
This particular trend has been all over the catwalks and in shops for several seasons now, but it has been hovering around the fringes of decorating, graphic design, home interiors, visual merchandising and art for much, much longer. If someone wants to draw your eye to something, be it a window display or a bathroom wall, colour blocking is one of the most effective ways to do it.
And yet, it is damnably hard to explain in simple, linear terms. I've spent a solid week researching and trying to write synopses, but the only one-line answer to colour blocking that I can come up with is this: If you look like a Fruit Pastille ice pop, then you're doing it right.
Colour blocking should be easy. In it's most basic term, it's the wearing a few contrasting colours in one outfit. Yep, it really should be easy - but it isn't. It's the sartorial equivalent of a sixteen year old trying to unhook his girlfriends bra. The swaggering confidence as the task begins soon turns, first to frustration, then crushing disappointment, insecurity and finally, an unsatisfactory conclusion for everyone involved.
There are a hundred and one simple rules for working colour blocking like a pro, but I only get five hundred words per column. I've wasted two hundred of them already joking about how difficult it is, so I'll just give you the basics. This is the fruit of reading about a hundred articles and embarking on some terrible wardrobe experiments, one of which resulted me going shopping in town resembling a human rubiks cube.
1) Only wear two or three colours at any one time. See rubiks cube statement above.
2) Pretend that you're colour blind. Remember 'blue and green must never be seen'? Rejoice, for the restraining order between cerulean and emerald has been lifted. A detente has been reached and the good news is ringing out all over your wardrobe. Red and pink are similarly jarring bedfellows.
3) The Clash is more than just an band. Red with blue? Yes please! Purple and green? Don't mind if I do! Yellow and teal? Why, I'll have a double portion. Please sir, I want some more!
4) Patterns are not your friends. Red and green is fine, if a little festive. Red and green stripes are a no-no. You're not Bosco, but wear that combo and you'll be sent back in your box. Patterns are generally eye-catching anyway, so they tend to have an America's Next Top Model-worthy fight for attention with contrasting trends. Remember, colour blocking = blocks of colour. That means no patterns allowed. No exceptions.
5) Neutrals are a welcome relief. If your multi-tonal antics are on the verge of inducing seizure, break up the colour party by introducing a neutral shade. Grey works well with cool blues and greens, tan and beige colours can look unexpectedly striking with warm tones. It makes an on-trend twist to all the boring basics.
So now you know the rules. Go forth and block your colours like there's no tomorrow. And if you find yourself looking longingly at stripes, just think to yourself - what would Bosco do?
This particular trend has been all over the catwalks and in shops for several seasons now, but it has been hovering around the fringes of decorating, graphic design, home interiors, visual merchandising and art for much, much longer. If someone wants to draw your eye to something, be it a window display or a bathroom wall, colour blocking is one of the most effective ways to do it.
And yet, it is damnably hard to explain in simple, linear terms. I've spent a solid week researching and trying to write synopses, but the only one-line answer to colour blocking that I can come up with is this: If you look like a Fruit Pastille ice pop, then you're doing it right.
Colour blocking should be easy. In it's most basic term, it's the wearing a few contrasting colours in one outfit. Yep, it really should be easy - but it isn't. It's the sartorial equivalent of a sixteen year old trying to unhook his girlfriends bra. The swaggering confidence as the task begins soon turns, first to frustration, then crushing disappointment, insecurity and finally, an unsatisfactory conclusion for everyone involved.
There are a hundred and one simple rules for working colour blocking like a pro, but I only get five hundred words per column. I've wasted two hundred of them already joking about how difficult it is, so I'll just give you the basics. This is the fruit of reading about a hundred articles and embarking on some terrible wardrobe experiments, one of which resulted me going shopping in town resembling a human rubiks cube.
1) Only wear two or three colours at any one time. See rubiks cube statement above.
2) Pretend that you're colour blind. Remember 'blue and green must never be seen'? Rejoice, for the restraining order between cerulean and emerald has been lifted. A detente has been reached and the good news is ringing out all over your wardrobe. Red and pink are similarly jarring bedfellows.
3) The Clash is more than just an band. Red with blue? Yes please! Purple and green? Don't mind if I do! Yellow and teal? Why, I'll have a double portion. Please sir, I want some more!
4) Patterns are not your friends. Red and green is fine, if a little festive. Red and green stripes are a no-no. You're not Bosco, but wear that combo and you'll be sent back in your box. Patterns are generally eye-catching anyway, so they tend to have an America's Next Top Model-worthy fight for attention with contrasting trends. Remember, colour blocking = blocks of colour. That means no patterns allowed. No exceptions.
5) Neutrals are a welcome relief. If your multi-tonal antics are on the verge of inducing seizure, break up the colour party by introducing a neutral shade. Grey works well with cool blues and greens, tan and beige colours can look unexpectedly striking with warm tones. It makes an on-trend twist to all the boring basics.
So now you know the rules. Go forth and block your colours like there's no tomorrow. And if you find yourself looking longingly at stripes, just think to yourself - what would Bosco do?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Licentiate Column 10/02/11 Transitional Dressing and how to work it
I sometimes wonder who thought up the phrase 'Spring has sprung', because I can categorically guarantee that he or she was not an Irish person. In February Spring doesn't so much leap and bound about like an Easter rabbit as it does limp like a semi-retired March hare with a double hip replacement and an inner ear problem.
We all know that there are four seasons; Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter - Ireland is but one temporal nexus in a massive clump of countries where all four seasons make an appearance in one day. You step out on the street in the morning and the walk to work is punctuated by dangerous, icy puddles. It's blisteringly hot as you eat a sandwich in the park on your lunch break.On the way home, your much-needed umbrella gets turned inside-out by gale force winds powered by the unholy sneezes of Zeus.
In the month of February, fashion magazines are stuffed to the gills with articles on transitional dressing, that is, the subtle art of bridging the gap between winter and summer wardrobes without looking like the little girl who broke into her grannies dressing up box and decided that the denim hotpants and the feather-lined parka made a stylish and practical ensemble for all weather eventualities (if you have your own granny-esque dress up box then you deserve a high five - if your granny happens to have a pair of denim hotpants in her dress-up box then give her a high five from me).
Transitional dressing is a bit of a misnomer for temperate places like Melbourne or Cork or Glasgow or Reykjavik, where the time span between seasons can be a matter of minutes. We are forced to dress transitionally all year round, peeling off and putting on more layers than Salome dressed up as an onion at Hallowe'en.
A pessimistic person could argue that the emphasis put on the perceived importance of transitional dressing is one of the unwelcome side effects of global warming; the increasingly uncertain weather means that we have to be prepared for any outcome. A cynical person could argue that transitional dressing is a concerted effort by clothing manufacturers and fashion magazines to sell more clothes and draw in enough full-page advertising to make Vogue look like the Argos catalogue. A realistic person knows that everyone will always be somewhere between hot and cold most of the time, unless you happen to live in Antarctica or on Mercury, so dress accordingly.
There's really only one rule when it comes to transitional dressing, and that is layering. Layer, layer again, then add another layer for luck. Is it rainy but warm? Layer on a light raincoat. Wearing a floaty floral summer dress but unsure of the temperature? Leggings and fine knits are your new best friends.
The cardigan is perpetually useful when the seasons are having mood swings. Simultaneously demure and sexy, in a clichéd 'seductive librarian' way, it can be worn buttoned up, open, around the shoulders, with rolled up sleeves or knotted around the waist.
Transitional dressing is as easy as putting on your clothes. If you can't master that (I'm looking at you, Jodie Marsh) then all hope is lost. For everyone else, this is one trend that will outlast the seasons.
We all know that there are four seasons; Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter - Ireland is but one temporal nexus in a massive clump of countries where all four seasons make an appearance in one day. You step out on the street in the morning and the walk to work is punctuated by dangerous, icy puddles. It's blisteringly hot as you eat a sandwich in the park on your lunch break.On the way home, your much-needed umbrella gets turned inside-out by gale force winds powered by the unholy sneezes of Zeus.
In the month of February, fashion magazines are stuffed to the gills with articles on transitional dressing, that is, the subtle art of bridging the gap between winter and summer wardrobes without looking like the little girl who broke into her grannies dressing up box and decided that the denim hotpants and the feather-lined parka made a stylish and practical ensemble for all weather eventualities (if you have your own granny-esque dress up box then you deserve a high five - if your granny happens to have a pair of denim hotpants in her dress-up box then give her a high five from me).
Transitional dressing is a bit of a misnomer for temperate places like Melbourne or Cork or Glasgow or Reykjavik, where the time span between seasons can be a matter of minutes. We are forced to dress transitionally all year round, peeling off and putting on more layers than Salome dressed up as an onion at Hallowe'en.
A pessimistic person could argue that the emphasis put on the perceived importance of transitional dressing is one of the unwelcome side effects of global warming; the increasingly uncertain weather means that we have to be prepared for any outcome. A cynical person could argue that transitional dressing is a concerted effort by clothing manufacturers and fashion magazines to sell more clothes and draw in enough full-page advertising to make Vogue look like the Argos catalogue. A realistic person knows that everyone will always be somewhere between hot and cold most of the time, unless you happen to live in Antarctica or on Mercury, so dress accordingly.
There's really only one rule when it comes to transitional dressing, and that is layering. Layer, layer again, then add another layer for luck. Is it rainy but warm? Layer on a light raincoat. Wearing a floaty floral summer dress but unsure of the temperature? Leggings and fine knits are your new best friends.
The cardigan is perpetually useful when the seasons are having mood swings. Simultaneously demure and sexy, in a clichéd 'seductive librarian' way, it can be worn buttoned up, open, around the shoulders, with rolled up sleeves or knotted around the waist.
Transitional dressing is as easy as putting on your clothes. If you can't master that (I'm looking at you, Jodie Marsh) then all hope is lost. For everyone else, this is one trend that will outlast the seasons.
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