Closet Case

I am undertaking a project in my new apartment involving photos of my shoes, a step ladder, some rubber cement, and some shoe boxes.

Can you guess what I'm up to? I'll post the finished results later on.

Betty, Joan, Peggy

Yes, admittedly I have a certain show on the brain.  But this brilliant ad campaign from Louis Vuitton calls so much more to mind than just the hair color palette of it's main female protagonists.

Steven Meisel shot Natalia Vodianova, Karen Elson and Christy Turlington for Louis Vuitton on a set that is in many ways reminiscent of fifties and very early sixties glamour.  One imagines a starlet like Natalie Wood, Lana Turner or Marilyn getting a final dab of powder across her dainty chin before shooting her scene.

I'm not saying even for a minute that Mad Men influenced the art direction for this ad campaign, but I do think it's worth mentioning that the winds of fashion have definitely shifted (for the moment) to a place of refinement, a place that focuses on the curves of the female form rather than the straight up and down angularity of drop-waist mini-skirted mods and rock club girls in their shredded t-shirts and impossibly skinny jeans.  In it's fancier moments, the fifties abounded with this silhouette: one of bosoms, nipped waists, and full skirts that hit at the knee. The fantasy of the ladies in these photos exist in the lives we imagine they live outside of the context of the photographs. How does she live out her days?  In my mind, she dresses for lunch, wears driving gloves, and writes thank you notes with a fountain pen.

(Click to enlarge)

I am totally enraptured with this campaign. Beautifully lit and intricately posed (right down to the placement of fingers), something so very necessary for the strong sense of womanly refinement and austerity that the clothing conveys.  The fantasy world of these glowing girls from a golden age inspires and excites.  Even during the time period that this collection draws on, little girls never shied away from the dressing-up box:

Marc, Meisel, Natalia, Karen and Christy bring it all together to present day, and masterfully so.

Late to the Party

Yes, late. Not tardy. This is Chanel nail polish we're talking about after all - I can pop my pinky out as I hold my teacup and at least attempt to have some semblance of refinement.

I am specifically speaking of the minty robin's egg pastel hue known as Novelle Vague 527.  These first two photos are from The Cherry Blossom Girl.  Alix, the ridiculously stylish French lady who runs the blog, got her hands on it as did many others.  But not me.  I waited.

And I waited far too long, it seems, because I learned on Friday, after speaking with two different employees at two different Chanel makeup counters, this specific nail polish is sold out company-wide and world-wide.  You cannot get it anywhere.  Well, maybe eBay, where last I checked bids are starting at around a hundred dollars.  This is what I get for waiting until the last possible minute to decide on whether or not I like something.

I spoke first with a gentleman at Nordstrom, but then rallied myself for a quick trip across the street to Neiman Marcus, where this particular Chanel counter employee told me the same sad story.  Gone. Sold out worldwide.  I thanked him and turned to go, but as I was walking away, he called out after me.

"Did you know that is the exact polish Liza Minelli wears in Sex and the City 2?"
I spun around. Now this guy was speaking my language.  I walked back to him.
"No, I did not!"
"It's true!" he said. "You have to look really fast or you'll miss it, but she does."

Isn't it a wonderful world we live in where I can walk into Neiman Marcus feeling dejected over Chanel nail polish and walk out having bonded with a new comrade in Liza-dom and her greens nails which she also sported in Cabaret, thankyouverymuch. 

Which was a subject we of course discussed as well.

So. With a slightly less heavy heart I trudged to a beauty supply store, where row upon row of teeny nail polish bottles in every color of the rainbow stand at attention.  My mission was to fake it, find an imposter, and go on with my day.  The one that came the closest was Essie's Mint Candy Apple.  The lady behind the counter dryly remarked that everyone who couldn't get Chanel Novelle Vague was buying this one.  I can't decide if that made me feel better or worse.

And now for some gratuitous shots of this Essie polish in action, featuring a low-rent version of Alix's spellbinding tableaus, as well as photos of freshly pedicured toes slipping into blush colored shoes.

Know Your Rights

There's a theory with band t-shirts, especially those of bands that are no longer together.

I didn't come up with it, but I think it makes good sense, despite my philosophy that I am certainly not the one to bestow "rules of dressing" upon others. That said, if you're going to wear an old band shirt, it's probably a good idea to wear a shirt of a band that you genuinely love, and/or only if you know at least 75% of their songs by heart.  It prevents awkward moments with earnest, eager people who start talking to you about a band they care about, and when you have nothing to offer in terms of conversation, you look like a jerk.  Wearing a shirt of a band you love also lets you rise above folks who wear band shirts just because it gives their outfits a certain 'look.'

I have maybe four band t-shirts. Give me a vintage Madonna tee and my collection will be complete.

But don't listen to me, with my smug as fuck smile on my face. God, I make the weirdest faces in my photos. Anyway, do what you will, to thine own self be true, but above all, dress with sincerity.

Shirt - Wasteland

Jeans - vintage Wranglers

Suspenders - American Apparel

Shoes - Christian Louboutin

San Francisco Summer Attire

Sweater -Trovata

Blouse - vintage

Trousers - H&M

Shoes - Cole Haan

All That Heaven Allows

There's an absolutely glorious spread in July's Vogue, styled to the likeness of stills from a Douglas Sirk film, resplendent with deep, rich color and drama that I am completely smitten with.  This fashion story is cinematic through and through, as each shot leaves it's characters (Natalia Vodianova and Ewan MacGregor) poised for tragedy, ready for the audience to watch the perfectly coiffed as their seemingly perfect world falls to pieces.

I'm just going to show the whole thing. (You can click each photo to enlarge)

The 1950s style silhouettes of Prada and Louis Vuitton that I wrote about earlier this month are perfectly suited for this story.

The title of this Grace Coddington-directed story, Magnificent Obsession, is in fact also the title of a film of Sirk's, made in 1954.  His more famous movies, like All That Heaven Allows and Imitation of Life, were often about people from different classes crossing through each others' lives, with controversial (for the times) consequences.   Todd Hayne's 2002 film Far From Heaven was a gorgeous homage to this niche genre. If you're interested in watching a film from today that goes far beyond costuming to create the feeling of being made fifty years earlier, I highly recommend it.

The Old and The New

It's been a long while since I've posted an outfit.  Here is a pair of those thrifted jeans I was talking about the other day.  I cuffed them because the inseam is not nearly long enough.

Jacket - Elizabeth and James

T-shirt - American Apparel

Jeans - thrifted Levis 517s

Belt - Eugenia Kim

Necklace - Fenton

Shoes - Christian Louboutin

If It Comes Back to You, It Was Meant to Be

Show of hands: who has scoured the earth for something, peeked under every rock and inside every hat box, only to give up in the end and resign yourself to the fact that some things are too difficult to acquire and you just have to give it up, only to later on down the road come across this seemingly unattainable thing in plain sight, in a completely unexpected place?

Months ago when I learned of the existence of a new magazine called The Gentlewoman (brought to you by the brilliant team behind Fantastic Man) I was very intrigued.  I learned about The Gentlewoman on the very same day I learned about Worn, and we all know my feelings on that.  The Gentlewoman seemed to offer everything I look for in industry publications: smart, insightful writing and photography on topics of interest and people who have something real to offer, not just the latest celebutaunte du jour.  Put another way, all killer and no filler. I mean, Phoebe Philo is on the cover for god's sake.  Nary a Gossip Girl cast member in sight.

I knew it would be tough to get ahold of the first issue of The Gentlewoman and believe me I tried. I am not a famous enough blogger to simply be sent a free copy. I visited quite a few stores and made many a phone call to various specialty newsstands. I was put on waiting lists, but every effort I made proved fruitless.  In the end, as John Lennon said, I just had to let it go. And I did. But then.

Last weekend I was waiting to go to a baseball game with my cousin.  She texted to let me know she was running late, so I slipped into the Borders near the ballpark with the intention of doing nothing but kill time.  The Gentlewoman was not on my mind at all.  I had given up ever finding it months ago, until I came face to face with it in the magazine aisle, just nestled in there with Marie Claire and Vanity Fair. It was just killing time too.  We had found each other.

At Borders. Borders? Borders. Really? Really.

Even more perplexing was the fact that there were three copies.  Sure, they were a bit banged up (having been sitting there no doubt since April or so) but I grabbed the least scratched one and headed for the check out.  I handed The Gentlewoman over to the cashier with trembling hands.  And then the shock wore off, excitement took over, and I became That Crazy Lady in Line.  I suppose every one is at one point or another, last Saturday was just my day.

The worker at the cash wrap was so kind as I babbled to him.  I vaguely remember saying hyperbolically idiotic things like

I...cannot even TELL you...how long I was looking for this!
Do you even KNOW what this IS?
How is it possible that you have THREE copies?
This is IMPOSSIBLE  to find!
I had given up HOPE completely!
You have NO idea what this MEANS to me!

He was a champ, sliding my prize ever so tenderly into a bag and patting me on the head as my lips incessantly flapped.

And yes, this magazine is dope.  It was worth the wait.

Smells Like Jean Spirit

One summer night in 1993, my twelve year old ass stayed up very late watching a marathon of Murder She Wrote (don't judge!) while painstakingly destroying my one pair of blue jeans, shredding the hems to perfection with a toothpick and a nail file.

That summer, for reasons that went flying far above my head, the winds of fashion were changing quickly.  The big sweatshirt and black leggings look that had carried me through years of school all of a sudden felt boring and outdated.  It seemed like everyone was wearing items borrowed from their dads' closets: old t-shirts, worn leather belts, fuzzy plaid button downs, and jeans that were anything but pristine.  I didn't ask why, but I did blindly follow suit.  I could only handle so much at once, and there were many other things beside fashion on my mind: did Martin Miller like me? Was our family going to move to Oregon? Why is Jessica Fletcher's nephew Grady almost constantly being accused of murder?

Part of the reason why I failed so miserably at looking grungey (you probably figured that part out on your own, yes?) was because I made it way more complicated than it should have been.  Earlier this year I was feeling a gravitational pull toward those Current Elliot paint splattered jeans.  I liked how they looked old, weathered, and world-traveled.  I tried them on at Barneys but even on sale they were well over a hundred dollars.  I just wasn't sure it was in my nature to plunk down that kind of money on something that, though expertly made, looked the particular way it did.  Why not just go to the genuine article? So today I went a-thriftin' and came away with two pairs of vintage Levi's 517s.  One pair fits a bit looser than the other, and both of them together cost less than ten bucks.

Historically, 517s are a 100% cotton mens jean with a high waist, zipper fly, slight bell and an overall slim fit.  With the looser fitting pair I will transform into cutoffs (maybe while watching Father Dowling Mysteries or Quantum Leap!) and the other I will leave as is, in it's naturally whiskered, faded, slightly shredded, paint splattered glory.

Tonne Goodman Has a Posse

On Thursday my friend Geri-Ayn and I stopped by Pier 38 for a party Etsy was throwing to celebrate the opening of their new San Francisco engineering offices.  Although I'm easy to spot at a fashion show or blogging event, I don't often frequent parties thrown for the Bay Area tech community. I never know anyone there, and most of the time the conversation topics fly far over my head, with very sincere people shouldering Chrome backpacks, talking start-ups, code, and Twitter platforms. As friendly as everyone is, nodding my head as I sip my drink and shuffle my feet from side to side is not my strong suit.

In one corner of the space was a one-inch button making machine, with stacks of magazines to offer inspiration.  I'm not one to shy away from buttons, and as I flipped through the latest issue of Vogue, I came upon the perfect image with which I could proudly let my own particular freak flag fly.

No one at the party knew why I chose this seemingly random person, and I was happy to pin her to my shirt.  It was a badge of honor I wore for the rest of the night, a DIY medallion to signal the specific niche group I proudly belong to.  

Links à la Mode

Fashion Blogger’s Delight

Edited by Jennine/IFB

After a small hiatus of Links à la Mode it was great to revisit all the wonderful links submitted to the community each week. As bloggers grow, so do concerns about growing pains. Sugar & Spice talks about bridging the gap between her online identity and real life one, Retro Chick ponders the pros and cons of niche blogging and Miss Vinyl Ahoy shares tips protecting your content with a Creative Commons license. But that’s not all… there are loads of interviews from Fasshionaburu meets Rachel Roy and M.I.S.S. interviews a vintage vixen for a stunning video (try saying that 3x). All a great mix, so grab a cuppa tea and enjoy!

Images via Poetic & Chic, Confessions of a Fashion Editor, Parker + Muse, and M.I.S.S.

Links à la Mode : June 10th

• 365 Fashion Rehab – Lookbook #1-White Blouse 4 Ways
• a la Modest – The Invisibility Cloak: The Desire to Be Noticed
• c u f f i n g t o n – Easy, inexpensive tricks in wearing your chic flats without socks and not succumbing to blisters and calluses.
• Confessions of a Fashion Editor – Playing ‘Dress’ Up
• Dedicated Follower of Fashion – Prized! – Win a T-Minx Cropped Tee!
• Fasshonaburu – Interviews the glamorous, yet down to Earth, Rachel Roy!
• Fete a Fete – iPad Leather Covers from April in Paris
• For Those About To Shop – Plus-size Fashion Good For Business
• Holier Than Now – Shoes You Can Use
• Independent Fashion Bloggers – Are Bloggers Getting Stressed?
• kaKofonie Of si(gh)lenS – Interview with Heather Martin of mono
• M.I.S.S. – Follow the Leader, Episode #1–Vintage Vandalizm
• mimosas in bed – SF indie mart
• Miss Vinyl Ahoy – Protecting your blog and copyright
• Parker Muse – Interview with Felice Lee’s Wabi Sabi
• Poetic & Chic – The Great Shoe Wake
• Retro Chick – Don’t Box Me In
• Return to Sender: A Fat Girl's Letters to the World – Urban Outfitters: Eat Less. Actually, just Shut up.
• Style Eyes Fashion Blog – Age Appropriate Dress
• Stylish Distractions – Ring Toss
• Sugar and spice and all things nice: – I write a fashion blog… And I’m proud of it.
• the Citizen Rosebud – the Bobby Burns
• The Coveted – Late Night Drugstore Haul

Phyllis Neffler, You Love Miu Miu Too?

Proving that one of my most favorite childhood films of all time, Troop Beverly Hills, is as relevant as ever, look how my present world, where a borderline unhealthy infatuation with all things Miu Miu S/S '10 collides with my past, on one of the most glamourous movie characters to ever exist: Phyllis Neffler, played by Shelley Long.

You can guess where I'm going with this, right?

(I've seen editorials with the bird pinned to the shoulder of a model as well, I just couldn't get to any digital copies at the moment.  If you have any, by all means, send them my way.)

Theodora Van Runkle, costume designer for Troop Beverly Hills as well as many other films (including a little picture called, ahem, Bonnie and Clyde) whose costuming was the subject of a very early Cuffington post) certainly was ahead of her time, no? 

(Also! Check it: my friend Rachel shows us how to make our own Miu Miu inspired birdie pin)

Sally Forth!

This morning brought yet more news of substantial change in the fashion publishing world. Sally Singer, Fashion News/Features Director of Vogue is leaving the magazine to head T, The New York Times' supplemental style magazine.  While I enjoyed her presence at Vogue immensely (her writing, while sometimes discussing subjects and situations that I could not immediately relate to, was always artfully composed, compelling, and a pleasure to read) I think this new position as editor of T is a great place for her to be.  The people who hold the senior positions at American fashion magazines are one impressive deck of cards, and with all the shuffling and swapping that has been going on in the past few months, I'm wondering if things will be settled for good with this latest chapter in the seemingly ever-changing narrative.

It's funny because almost exactly one year ago to the date I sat in a large room with Sally Singer as she was interviewed about why fashion still matters in the new economy. She spoke with wit, intellect, enthusiasm, and above all an unmistakable mastery of how the industry works.  If you care to revisit that evening along with me, click here.

Best of luck, Sally, in your new position.  I'm sure you will shine.  And Mark Holgate, you have some big Tabitha Simmons platforms to fill, make no mistake.

What I Fall For (And What I Don't)

I'm just going to come out and say it.  Despite the fact that we are still in the first week of June, I've been thinking about fall fashion a lot lately.  Maybe because in San Francisco it is still ever so windy and gray so much of the time.  For me, long sleeves rule the day 365 days a year.  I enjoy shopping for fall, because I know I'll get so much use out of things.

This fall I'm going to try something new in terms of silhouettes.  I have never done the hourglass thing. I've never seen it as being all that flattering on someone like me, who is tall and lanky with little womanly curves to speak of.  Me in a bustier, or anything with boning for that matter, is a joke. But a few key looks from Prada, Louis Vuitton and Oscar de la Renta got the wheels turning.

That coupled with the fact that I moved to a new neighborhood with a to-die-for vintage boutique whose storefront I pass twice a day.  They are in the habit of displaying fifties house dresses, artfully styled, on the dummies in the front windows.  After a while I started picturing myself in those dresses.

This photo of the girl from My Father the Hero (in a smashing de la Renta frock) is from the June issue of Bazaar, which I recently canceled my subscription to.  I enjoy their comprehensive coverage (unlike other magazines, which can be quite selective in what from any given season they choose to show) but their recent choices to feature Miley and Bristol Palin, and a slew of reality TV celebutauntes in its pages is the biggest fashion boner killer for someone like me, who reads fashion magazines pretty much only for the quality of the editorials/photos and the quality of writing.  And I honestly think the writing is sliding into a place I'd rather not inhabit as well.  Too many ghost-written celebrity essays. I don't like Ashton Kutcher telling me how to dress.

But long sleeved dresses with full skirts are something I can get behind.  And come fall, I'll be plunging right in.

Runway photos via style.com

Strawberry Fields Forever

On Sunday, I was in Marin and Sonoma, two counties directly north of San Francisco.

The neighborhoods in San Francisco that I tend to inhabit are densely populated, so when I go to a part of this region where things are a bit more spread out and it's not totally out of the ordinary to see a cluster of cows in a field or a fruit stand on a corner, it feels like I've traveled hundreds of miles away, rather than just a few dozen.

The Moms does not live in the country at all, but her neighborhood is peaceful enough for a city girl like me to notice how quiet and still it actually is.  Falling asleep to nothing but the sound of one's own breathing (instead of music or sirens or neighbors talking unbelievably loud on their phones) is startling when you've become so used to constant noise.  I treasure the sound of silence.

I also treasure brunch with my mother.  What does The Moms treasure, you ask? Coffee, mostly.

When asked if she wanted a small or large she chose large. Well, a size large is served in a bonafide BOWL. No handles to speak of. She had to prop it up to her mouth with both hands in order to drink out of it.  I could not stop laughing.

Yes I laugh openly at my mother sometimes. I also take pictures of family heirlooms and trinkets.

(If you grew up Catholic you'll probably recognize these little books.)

Le jardin.

Such a lovely weekend.

This Brings Out My Inner Smug Snob

And I make no apologies.

Not sure of this image's origins, but I found it on Coke Talk.  Hate me if you will, I stand by my statement and the fact that reading this made me yelp like I was being licked by a giraffe.

Louise and Me

I generally hate it when people talk about what they dream about when they sleep.  It's almost always boring, and inevitably my eyes glaze over as I feign interest.  Don't judge me, I'm sure my friends do it to me all the time, so I fully deserve what I get.  And I'm sure you're about to do this to me too, because after learning about the death of Louise Bourgeois yesterday, I have to tell you all something that just a couple people on this earth know about.

In college, my classes focused primarily on American and English literature, theater, gender studies, and art history.  Naturally, these fields of study overlapped each other quite a bit, and for me, the most fascinating intersections occurred when art history and gender studies melted into each other.

In the fall of my junior year I took a class from Professor Connie Waltz, where we spent an entire semester studying nothing but female visual artists from the Renaissance to present day.  Professor Waltz, a stocky, bookish woman in her mid-fifties, had devoted her life to art history.  She'd come into class every day right on time with a sideways smile on her face, like she was trying to hide her excitement with just how pleased she was that today she got to tell us about Cindy Sherman, or Judy Chicago, or Mary Cassatt.  Of course, some class time was devoted to Louise Bourgeois as well, her sculptures and paintings, and part of what was so interesting to me about her was how she achieved fame so late in life, and also her uncanny resemblance to Ruth Gordon, the actress who plays Maude in Harold and Maude.

Anyway, I was saying.  I must have readily absorbed Professor Waltz's enthusiasm and reflected it right back at her.  Despite the fact that that class began at nine in the morning (a time when some college students go to bed) I bounded into that room each day, settling into the awkward wooden desk, ready for note-taking.  Professor Waltz dimmed the lights so we could better see the slide shows that she had expertly prepared.  I never missed a class.  Once at a party, my friend Karl, a computer science major, mentioned that he had once taken a class from Professor Waltz, to fulfill his arts requirement.  "How can you stand it?" Karl asked me. "Her voice is so dull...and those dimmed lights, how can you not just keel over and fall asleep?"  Karl clearly did not get it, and I defended Professor Waltz's honor as a top notch educator who delivered breathlessly amazing lectures. Well. In my mind they were amazing.

A few months after my class with Professor Waltz was over, I had one of the most vivid dreams I've ever had in my life.  In it, there was a huge fire that quickly ravaged the gigantic, sky-scraper like dormitory that my best friend and I lived in.  I got out of the building, and all over campus it was absolutely chaotic, hundreds of students screaming and running around.  I couldn't find my friend, who at the time was my closest friend on earth.  I stumbled into an administrative building, not sure how I got there, and opened a door to an office.  About six women in tweed suits sat in a typing pool-like setting.  It was obvious that these women were the people who ran the entire school, behind the scenes, making it work.  All the women stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me.  One of them stood up.  I immediately recognized her as Louise Bourgeois.  She spoke.

"You're afraid now, but all will be well.  At the moment it feels like you've lost everything.  Your books, your clothes, your papers, and your best friend.  But it's okay.  Your friend is alive.  For a second, you thought you had lost everything on this earth.  But today you learned something: all you need in this life are your friends and your art."

I woke almost immediately after this moment.  Details of the dream have become fuzzy over the years but those last words that were said to me I can still hear, as clear and true as spring water poured from a crystal pitcher.

The following fall semester, we all returned.  Except Professor Waltz. She had died over the summer.  She had cancer, a fact she had mostly kept to herself.  There's something so unbalanced about someone dying suddenly before you can say goodbye, before you even know that you should.  Things feel unfinished, and for a while it seems like they're just away, and are going to pop back through the door any second.  Except they never do.

I'm not the sort of person who follows messages that are delivered to me in dreams.  I want to believe that they have weight and mean something.  I want to believe that it all matters, that a short film your brain concocts as you sleep can crack open the secret of life.  But it isn't for me.  That said, I think we make our own dreams.  I also think that living in a void where I am deprived of friendship and my art would feel very much like death.