elements of—oh, forget it

All right, then.  So, the era of “complete transparency and openness about sewing purchases” has ended. It was fine when this whole shebang was a private repository for my sewing thoughts, but now it feels. . .icky.  This is most hilarious because a) no one reads this hogwash and b) one of my most recent fabric purchases literally involved me printing off a picture from a blogpost and carting it down to the store (stalker).  We are now entering the Era of Emailing [Me] If You Want to Know How Much Something Cost.  All formal and capital-like and everything.

Onward!  I’ve been thinking a lot about style lately.  Really, I’ve been fretting about style and whether or not I have any.  I have a pretty clear idea of how I’d like to look but, ah, don’t dress that way.  Yeah, I know.  ​ For some people, the Internet has done a really fantastic job at narrowing the gulf between aspiration and reality.  Access to blogs has really democratized fashion and has inspired people to reconsider both who they are as consumers and how they express themselves as individuals.  I’m not one of those people.

I went through the classic American Jackie Kennedy Onassis idolization period.  The entire Internet seems to be suspended in that loop, with good reason.   It scarcely gets any better than JBKO.  Well, that is until we shift into the nineties and meet one Kate Moss.


Behold!  The face that launched a thousand gray t-shirts.  Seriously.  I have come to the conclusion that no one looks as good in anything as Kate Moss does in everything.  That sentence barely made sense, such is the awe she inspires.  I grew up in the nineties, and she was (and is) just it.​  I should be able to end this right here, but then my mind turns towards slim crops and boatneck sweaters.  What about Audrey?


Then I start thinking about Dior, and full-skirted fifties extravagance.  A bit of a belt, a low-ish heel, a tea-length skirt, enough fabric to choke a mammoth.​

Grace Kelly completes the trinity (Audrey, Jackie, Grace—I find that Marilyn people are Marilyn people).  But that can’t be it?  What about Myrna Loy and Lauren Bacall?  What about Marilyn, anyway?  Katharine Bloody Hepburn!  The street-style girls on The Sartorialist and Tommy Ton?  Babe Paley and Gloria Vanderbilt.  Garance Doré, patron saint of curly girls with cameras.  Pam Grier.  Some days I wake up and I need to look like Pam Grier.  Also, OscarPRGirl and Anna Karina and everybody ever.  Sensory overload!

What if we didn’t have all this?  What if we lived in a vacuum and just made stuff?  I have a really hard time picturing that.  Now I’m getting optimistic.  What if it’s not people being influenced by style, but rather people recognizing parts of themselves in others?  Maybe?  Geez, I just want to look like I just finished hanging out with Truman Capote, okay?  Live Truman Capote, not the Capote corpse.  Now to make that happen.


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