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High/Low: Style Therapy Hero #1

As I've stated many times, both on this blog and to many of my clients, it's not always about the label. A defining characteristic of a true stylemaster is the ability to mix high and low items effortlessly. My favorite Style Therapy hero does just that; I'll refer to her as Clara Wang.

I remember Clara when she was a student at Parsons and I was Tim Gunn's assistant. Years ago, during my undergrad years at university, most students had a default outfit for class. Boys and girls alike wore flared jeans and oversized sweatshirts. For bar night, they'd keep the jeans and trade-up to a tight shirt and platform boots (boys and girls alike here, too). They were essentially mixing low and lower. At Parsons, the design students did not mess around. Even though they were doing labor intensive work around the clock, for the most part, they understood the importance of looking sharp. I think they were inadvertently motivating one another not to be slobs. They remain the best turned-out people I've ever worked with.

Yet, Clara Wang always stood out. I can't overestimate the importance of the word POLISHED. I'm not referring to the overdone, talking-head anchor look. Being polished is more organic and personal. The hair is neat, without being stiff. Makeup is applied with a steady hand, not caked on. Clothing is pressed, clean and tailored. There are just the right amount of accessories, and it never jingles and jangles when walking. It's a modern elegance.

Clara Wang was special because she made this ladylike aesthetic her own. When other people her age were slumming it in heavily whiskered jeans and tattoo t-shirts, she exeduded quiet elegance. But that's not why CW is a Style Therapy Hero. Once, when she was an intern in the design department of the contemporary label we both worked for, I commented on a blouse she was wearing. It was an off-white silk number with interesting pleating at the neckline. I assumed it was Doo Ri or Philip Lim. When she told me she had picked it up at the thrift store for $7, I was floored. She used her design background to tailor the sleeves a bit, but the integrity of the shirt was in tact.

Another time, we'd met up with some other Parsons/contemporary clothing brand friends for brunch. Naturally, Clara was styled beautifully. She wore what I believed to have been the Yves Saint Laurent Tribute sandals. I was left astounded, once again, when she revealed that they'd been picked up from Bakers, which is kind of like Kinney.

Clara Wang has that uncanny ability to style herself through instinct. I believe that's something one is either born with or picks up from a very early age. Sure, she owns beautiful pieces by PRADA, Saint Laurent, the aforementioned Doo Ri, and other higher end designers. But to wear head-to-toe designer intentionally can wreak of fashion victimhood. There's a level of insecurity if one relies on the runways to dictate their every move and poo poos anything they deem beneath them. In fact, there's a word for that in the Style Therapy Book of Diseases: Labelwhoritis. You may know someone who has it, or suffer from it yourself. I had a brief, but acute, case of it back in the summer of 2002.

I applaud Clara for her bold take on fashion. She knows what she likes. She knows what works on her. And she's not afraid to integrate a Chanel bag with a secondhand shirt. This is true, original style. She never has to worry about looking dated, unlike the desperate fashion victims who wouldn't be caught dead at a Kinney or a Zara. And there's nothing wrong with insisting on good, quality pieces. But to insist on a name is another thing entirely. I, for one, proudly position my YSL pumps next to my Aldo boots in my closet. There's never any shame in a good high and low Style Therapy game.

Using Academics to Indulge In Reality

I'm currently studying fashion history in the Visual Culture master's program at NYU. Costume, dress, clothing - or whichever term I'm in the mood to use at the time - has taught me a great deal about society as a whole. From aspects both anthropological and sociological, a great deal can be learned about mankind through the study of vestments. 

However, I've used my passion for dress to defend my watching of certain television programs. The Real Housewives franchise is probably the biggest culprit in my reality repertoire. While others cringe at the McMansions, Botox, and petrol devouring SUVs, I absorb every minute of it as if watching a PBS documentary. Nova and P.O.V. simply don't carry the same level of intrigue for me. 

"Conspicuous consumption" is my answer when asked why I watch what some consider garbage. In my defense, I really am interested in Thortstein Veblen's ideas about the nouveau riche of the late 19th century and their practice of consumerism. If you have the time, read his 1899 book, The Theory of the Leisure Class. In laymen's terms, conspicuous consumption is the purchasing of luxury goods and services with the express purpose of showing off wealth and inciting envy in others. 

I'm not sure much has changed, or we wouldn't be in the financial feces we're in right now. Those college credit cards we opened 10 years ago when we were still jobless and had two semesters until graduation? Still paying them off and recently started paying the principal, and not just the interest! Unless exceptionally evolved, we're all susceptible to keeping up with the Joneses, the Jacksons, the Jimenezes, and the Patels. 

Perhaps the credit crisis will cause us to rethink what we purchase and why. With my Style Therapy clients, I encourage them to buy pieces with legs and staying power. It's not just about being able to wear something to work during the day and drinks afterwards. Can your suit blazer be worn with jeans or a cocktail dress? Can you see yourself wearing it for the next couple of years? 

Whether we care to admit it, we're all guilty of conspicuous consumption on some level. The Housewives of Orange County, New York, and Atlanta just happen to be more visible because they're on television and their episodes are repeated ad nauseam. Until the economy recovers, repeat this Style Therapy Latin mantra when at the next sample sale: Veni, Vidi, Ambulavi. In English, it translates as "I came, I saw, I walked."

Can She Afford That?

I own a beautiful, black leather Jil Sander blazer. It's perfectly tailored, with a piping detail on the front, down the back, and on the sleeves. It's void of a collar and carries no pockets. When I put it on, the jacket has the fit of a bespoke piece. That's if I put it on. Whenever I do decide to wear it and people comment on it, the inevitable question arises: "Who is it?" When I say Jil Sander, an incredulous expression flashes across their face. "Is it vintage?" Vintage meaning used, worn by someone else prior to my ownership, significantly cheaper than something straight off the rack. Affordable.

I don't think everyone is subjected to this line of grilling. Oprah, Donald Trump, The Sultan of Brunei, and Bill Gates can wear and buy whatever they please without someone questioning their ability to pay their credit card bills at the end of the month. I'd like to think I'm above this crass and vulgar bit of judgment, but I've caught myself on more than one occasion.

While working in the design office of  a contemporary clothing line, a coworker mentioned that one of the assistants on another floor was toting a new Hermès Birkin bag. Incredulity flashed across my face and I insisted that it must be a fake. My desk mate, who had gotten over her initial disbelief, assured me that it was the real thing. I shook my head and said there's no way an assistant could afford a Birkin. What about the waiting lists? Impossible. Must have been a rich oil or shipping heir boyfriend who picked up the tab for her. I simply couldn't believe it. A leather Jil Sander jacket is pricey, but an Hermès bag is in a completely different stratosphere. This was my line of reasoning.

Just as others had done with me and my item, I was questioning the authenticity of a complete stranger's bag based on her job title alone. Site unseen. I'd never even cast a glance at the owner or the bag. I wasn't proud of myself, but it made me wonder where this unsavory part of human nature came from. Heuristics is a good place to start. The American Heritage Dictionary defines it as "Of or relating to a usually speculative formulation serving as a guide in the investigation or solution of a problem", basically it's an argument derived from past experience. The only other young woman I knew with a Birkin received it from a wealthy, hedge fund chap. Therefore, either THIS assistant's must be a knock-off or a gift. I deduced that since I was an assistant, our paychecks were comparable. If I saved up every single dollar from my wages for the entire year, maybe I would be able to purchase a Birkin of my own. But then there's that dreadful waiting list! With all of these variables, that's how I came up with my blockhead conclusion.

The young lady could have saved up for the bag herself. She could have been an heiress working as an assistant instead of collecting on her trust fund. She could have stolen the bag. Perhaps she was the highest bidder on eBay or bought it on consignment. Bottom line, it was truly none of my business. The fact that she was capable of owning the bag to begin with made me question my own station in life. I believe that's what got me worked up. I think the people that pry into my Jil Sander jackets origins are doing a bit of the same. Even those that make far more than I would have that look of disbelief. 

We all have insecurities. When money and class are thrown into the mix, it can get prickly. We can feel less than. If you're on the receiving end of the incredulous look, it's possible to preempt their question by asking, "Is everything ok?" That should give them the splash of water they need in their face to snap out of it. Now if you're on the opposite end, even if the bag is screaming "I bought this on Canal Street!" at the top of its lungs, just nod and smile. Nod and smile.

The Muffintopitis Pandemic!

In the August 28, 2005 edition of the New York Times, William Safire described the muffin top as "the roll of excess flesh spilling out primarily in front but possibly all around." At some point within the past 10-15 years, slovenly sloppiness became commonplace. I'm not sure if the blame lies with the grunge movement, business casual, or more form fitting clothing on pregnant women.

I didn't start noticing this proclivity for untidiness until Hollywood moms-to-be started showing off their bumps. While I'm not a proponent for any kind of belly-baring (whether it's six-pack abs or layers and layers of rolls), an expectant mother gets more of a pass. Frankly anyone else exposing their gut shares the physical aesthetics of an abusive drunkard. Wife-beater anyone? Pasty-haired paunchy potbelly in a stretched out ribbed white undershirt with beer stains down the middle. That's the mental image the ubiquitous muffin top evokes.

I remain under the impression that no self-respecting woman would leave her house with her gut spilling out over her low rise jeans. Low rise jeans. Yes! They contributed to this dreadful mess of a movement as well. At the turn of this century the incomparable Sisqo bellowed "Let me see that thong!" So the young women of America obliged. Showing off their tail whale tattoos and vibrantly colored g-strings, it seemed as if ladylike behavior had gone the way of the VHS tape. Only old farts still believed in it.

Girls bought copious amounts of hip huggers in every rinse available. Britney was their patron saint. At the time she had abs of steel was able to rock the look. Tarty, but not exactly unkempt. Nothing jiggled and bits and pieces remained in their place. Then one day either the jeans shrunk in the wash or women started putting on a few LBs. Either way, they continued wearing them as if nothing had happened. How an appendix has never ruptured is a miracle. Around 2002, UGGs, the muffin top of footwear, gained momentum. Somehow a gut spilling over a waistline corresponded well with the wooly stuff at the top of the boot. Picture a volcanic eruption at Mount Etna. Add a cropped, velour zip up and a look was born. And it refuses to die!

I'm perplexed as to why the loved ones of these girls and women haven't staged interventions. Luckily, none of my friends are guilty of this most egregious of sartorial offenses. Like most of my mates, my weight fluctuates in my midsection. Depending on the time of the month or if I've had an extra hearty brunch, my tummy can expand significantly. But if I wear anything remotely close to a low-rise, I take the precautionary measures: a blazer, cardigan, or loose fitting top. When I say loose fitting, I don't mean something that will create gratuitous volume. I mean just enough to conceal that additional order of roasted potatoes.

If you (or someone you know) suffer from muffintopitis, it's not too late to seek help. Simply discard any jeans, trousers, or skirts that don't fit and allow yourself to look marvelous in clothing that's your size! If you need professional help, go to the Stanton + Williams Style Therapy website (www.swstyletherapy.com) and make an appointment. Do not mistake pride in appearance for vanity. It's self-preservation. Your appendix, large intestine, small intestine, spleen, and pancreas thank you in advance.

Excuse Me, I Have to Go Powder My Nose

Since when has it become acceptable to do one's entire face on the subway platform? Last week, I was waiting for the train during morning rush hour. A sea of people stood shoulder to shoulder anticipating the next A train. To my left was a petite woman, with semi-damp hair, in a dove grey skirt, suit looking up at a compact mirror. Not only was she applying her lipstick, but she swiped her concealer stick to hide the dark circles underneath her eyes. She also whipped out her eyeliner, lipliner, liquid foundation, blush, eyeshadow, and pressed powder. The piece de resistance was her eyelash curler. That's the one that really knocked the wind out of me.

In front of scores and scores of people, this woman was doing what I believe to be an intimate act of grooming. Makeup application is akin to plucking nose hairs and shaving armpits. It's something you do to maintain, but it's something to be done behind closed doors. Why stop at makeup? Why not bring a portable hairdryer on the train and maximize time that way?

Yesterday, another woman worthy of a role in I Pagliacci, was doing herself up. This time on the train itself. It was the early afternoon on the G, so the train was significantly empty, which made her actions even more pronounced.

There's nothing wrong with a quick patting of a shiny nose or the gliding on of lipcolor. But this kind of public makeover has reached egregious levels. An eyelash curler on the train platform. (Shaking head in disbelief). Was she serious?