A friend of mine majoring in Fashion Marketing once told me that Fashion designers dress like shit. I'm not a fashion designer per say, yet, but I'm currently getting my BA in Fashion Design. Though, I wasn't a bit bruised... more so flattered, I guess, that she thought it was okay to tell me this, like, my in cohesive ensembles were somehow forgivable to her immaculate sense of Fashion. And I bit my lip instead of telling her that her immaculate sense of Fashion was slightly offensive, so she could sleep right with her virtue.
The whole fashion world is hilarious. I think few people make sense of it... A conversation of preferences in fashion between a few fashion aficionados is like a Theology debate between Confucius, Britney Spears, Motley Crue, and God. Nobody is listening to one another, not even God. To study it seriously is difficult. It's the most abstract thing I've ever imagined getting involved in.
When I first started Fashion school, learning about many different designers, I selected John Galliano as my favorite designer for a project. I connected with his supposed irreverence to fashion and admired his talent a couturier... The next quarter I regretted even voicing my opinion as Galliano being my favorite designer, because he was no longer my favorite designer at all. I found his pieces to be overworked and imposed on themselves...despite my utmost respect for any designer in his position. Maybe he'll steal my heart again...who knows...next season, the next? Regardless, it's so silly so frivolous. All of my justifications for him as a master artist...out the window, on a whim. I still respect Galliano as a couturier but what I'm getting at is...it is now frustrating to me to see such effort so void of concept.
In a recent story on Yahoo News, I read "10 Things That Make Humans Unique" and I was glad to see that 'wearing clothes' made the list. It's an amazing freedom we have, we get to choose our skin...and if our own skin isn't good enough for us...then what is? As a designer, I don't know, I'm not well versed enough to have a unique aesthetic or an absolute style...but I can tell you this... to me, getting dressed is therapeutic.
I turned my miniature "one bedroom" apartment into a studio with a large closet. Because I love my clothes more than I love my bed. There are a handful of designer names that I got for a steal from leisurely trips consignment stores... loads of Betsey Johnson dresses that I collected while I worked there...but mostly you'll find an odd collection of sorts... different styles, seasons, sizes, gender implications and colors, garments that hang and lay together against the will of a meticulous fashionista.
See an XL DKNY button up that a boy that had a crush on me Sophomore year in high school used to wear EVERYDAY until he gave it me, we dated for three weeks and made out once. Six years later, it's on my back... at least twice a week.
There's an army-green sweatshirt, with no hood and only USMC and the USMC logo screenprinted small on the left-hand breast...ex-boyfriend, Junior year, loved him...when I was 17 I used it like a child does a blankie. I wear this all of the time and remember for a second I've forgiven him, even if he'll never know.
Most of my hats came from my Grandma, one she bought me when she was still alive when she took me shopping for my birthday, I was about 8, she isisted on getting me a hat, though I knew and she knew I wouldn't wear it...up until two years ago, I'd maybe worn it once. Every once in a while, I'll brave it...It's really a hat for a little girl in the nineties...so it makes conversation...I always get to tell how my Grandma picked it out for me.
An Abercrombie and Fitch Jacket, navy blue, marshamallow jacket, with a collar...no hood...my mom took me shopping for back-to-school clothes going into high school. I loved that jacket...it disappeared soon after I got it... (having an older sister around...these things happen) the jacket reappeared one day with two huge cigarette burn-holes in it that were definitely not from little 14 year old me...I wanted to kill my sister. She had it for some years after and recently I was pleasantly shocked to find it back in her closet... only for me to drag the thing back to San Diego.
"Are you really going to take that jacket back? That's kind of become a staple of mine" she says,
"Yesss, of course, I love this jacket," I tell her, removing it from the hanger. She looks at the jacket, sad, but comically adds... "I did a lot of drugs in that jacket", she smiles. I smile, "ha...I bet you did." Putting the jacket on, and fantasizing about all the drugs I might do in it before she steals it back again.
Should someone daresay, "Where did you get that shirt? I love it", and so on. I could tell them the story behind every garment I've pulled from my closet...I love getting dressed, there is absolute thought and a quiet virtue to what I wear. I create for myself an inner comfort...I'm reminding myself of images I can't see anymore. But people rarely pry, few girls at the magnanimously expensive fashion school I go to will admit to vying for my tattered "Support Your Local Strip Club" shirt, or my tacky hats from the nineties. Quiet and unpolished like the clothes on my back.I don't mind at all...It takes a keen eye to spot a one of a kind.
