I WAS GONE. DID YOU NOTICE?

Long time no ramble. It was an unintentional break. I still had things to say, but…

I literally forgot how to write. But not really literally, although the irony of using a word that’s lost all meaning other than as a mere filler, used with such frequency only secondary to that of ‘like’, for when the brain stalls and you want to sound emphatic and dramatic but words have given up on you so you’re left to drawl, ‘liiteerallly’, is not lost on me.

I grapple with my brain to shake some brilliance out of it. Rusty, shy, words don’t come and when they do they are stuttery like a machine gun without the lasting affect. I swill them around in my mouth, my tongue thick as I try to remember that word, what’s that word? Blank. My mind is blank. My thoughts however are constant. A stream that sometimes is ankle deep and sometimes rises quickly up beyond my knees, threatening to knock me over and carry me away with it. Too quick for me to write it down.

Sometimes I’m lost in thoughts so inconsequential I’m glad that only I can hear them - sometimes Kardashian centred, (rip Kourtney & Khloe as BFF). Sometimes big thoughts way beyond me, like the vastness of space and what’s really out there and the disappointment and relief that I’ll probably never really know. More often than not my brain is busied with worries, these thoughts are the worst. Their persistence tugs at me physically, punching through my day. Mostly they are ‘what ifs’, what if my meeting goes badly tomorrow, what if I don’t know the answer, what if I make a fool out of myself in front of everyone? 

For these types of worries they march on, rhythmic, palpable, echoing in the cavity of my chest. No room for organs in there, just tight with all the unspoken words. My stomach bottomless. My brain cloudy, distracted with the what ifs, but no woulda, coulda, shoulda-ing can give me that relief. Rather the clock ticks on, syncing to the pounding in my chest and head and shaking of my hands. It’s unstoppable. Until it isn’t. And the moment elapses. It’s over. Logic awakens and adrenaline overtakes. I ask myself ‘why was I so worried?’ It wasn’t even that bad. Until the next time when all previous experience is forgotten, replaced instead with the oh too familiar aNxIEtY.

And in between these bouts of anxiety is the after worry, like an after shock. The adrenaline of having overcome whatever situation nearly consumed me, wears off and the confidence that I survived whatever situation I was dreading, dissipates. My thoughts busied with what I think happened vs what actually happened. The edges of reality blurred with my own recollections. 

It’s exhausting. My respite was writing. Focusing the jumble of my mind into words of meaning. My brain on pause, focused totally on whatever stream of fashion consciousness I was wrapped up in. Complete conviction behind the keyboard. Until my escape, escaped me. My thoughts on fashion never stopped, I was just no longer able to make them make sense. Critical thinking about the intersection of fashion and culture isn’t fun when it’s forced. Like a deadline I set myself that I just couldn’t meet. 

Thoughts when not expelled can be all consuming, yet it’s hard to choose an audience. So often you’re met with what is supposed to be a comforting, ‘don’t worry’. Doing little but to test my restraint. To have an audience is to have a mirror up to your thoughts - how do they react? is it in proportion to how you’re reacting? or is it worse? better maybe? 

To see someone react to the very words that you’re struggling to verbalise is to see another person express what has until now been expressionless - the inner workings or failings of one’s mind, exposed. Perhaps that’s why I choose to write. Who even knows if anyone will read this. Does it even matter? My worries matter to me. My ramblings rated only by myself, on a scale created only by myself. So here it is. All out on the page. I guess I can write after all. 

So to summarise, I’m back. Happy New Year! 

THE MOTIVATIONS OF BUYING: IS IT GENUINE LIKE, OR ARE YOU JUST BEING INFLUENCED?

Last year I consciously cut back on my fashion purchases. This was something that I had intended to do for some time, but it took a pandemic for me to really confront my overconsumption. With no where to go and real fear as to the future, clothing ranked as a very low priority. 

Lethargy meant that loungewear prevailed and all energy was funnelled into buoying morale as opposed to bolstering ones sartorial credibility. As a consequence, I became untethered from the touchstones that typically kept me grounded, namely my personal style. 

As lockdowns came into force, were relaxed and then re-enforced and life stopped and stalled and re-started, my fashion groove has not been able to adapt, as I struggled to adapt. The elasticity of self seemingly outstretched and unable to ‘ping’ back. What to wear each day had become perfunctory, with thoughtfulness needed elsewhere, and my clothes coming to reflect this fractious self. I looked down, detached from the clothes about my body. But I reasoned, ‘if you can’t have an existential crisis during a pandemic, then when can you?’ However, this did little to alleviate the discomfort about myself.

In a desperate bid to resurrect my floundering personal style, I became somewhat dependent on social media: the escapability, the availability, the reliability, the distraction. Turning to these familiar strangers to advise me on what I like, because they know what I like, want, need. The manicured reality tempting in all its shininess, ensnaring me in the fickleness of it all and so I found myself literally buying into the very falsity that I claimed to be so aware of. 

Despite the futility of attempting to ‘keep up', evident by the very existence of TikTok ‘cheugy’ (translation: basic/over) videos, trendy became my aspiration. Hauls of new clothes, unboxed en masse, an advert for waste, and an attempt at mass appeal through mass consumption. The proliferation of waste a terrifying sight to behold, especially as a means of entertainment. The blatant over indulgence making it easier to remain detached from this particular medium of social media entrapment. Resistance to Instagram, however, proved much more difficult. One scroll turning into an afternoon lost and a hundred likes of things and stuff, that morph into wants and needs, its subtlety pervasive. 

Why think about what to wear, when one scroll offers thousands of images of inspiration that all promise perfection? New releases flood my feed as brands strive to stay relevant in retaliation to the algorithm that threatens to swallow them hourly. The same item repeated on different influencers, styled slightly differently; same, same but different. A trend borne as instantaneously as an Instagram upload and just as quickly over with a scroll. The newness addictive, the consequence an inability to distinguish between what I actually like and what I’m supposed to like.

This conundrum reached its apex when I became enthralled by a dress that is the definition of tRenDY: the Hockney dress by House of Sunny. The more I saw it, the more I liked it. Wanted it. Needed it. Yet my presumption of its fast fashion origins deterred me from actual committal to basket. That is until a curious click on their website enlightened me to the ethical and sustainable principles central to the House of Sunny brand and business. But whilst this discovery didn’t erase the trendiness of the Hockney dress, it did inspire a reconsideration of my preconceived ideas that this was a ‘wear it and bin it’ trend, that by buying into, I would be condoning in some way. Rather its trendiness was a reaction to it being a really nice dress, because it was a really nice dress and, as in such instances, these things are wont to gain in popularity. 

Yet despite my attempt to shop more responsibly and this dress being produced by ethical and sustainable means, buying based on this alone was still wasteful. The need for there to be a genuine like imperative to ensuring that the piece is worn and used and loved and worn some more. But the pervasive tRenDiNESs was tricky to disentangle myself from. Was my like authentic, or conditioned? - see it, want it, get it. The dress was everywhere, so perhaps bombardment was the cause of my supposed like? Maybe advertising had won, replacing personal style with the promise of something that had previously seemed unattainable. After all Kendall Jenner has worn this dress, so by buying into it, would I, by proximity, be buying into her appeal and attaining some of her credibility? Is that something I even wanted? 

Perhaps not, or perhaps not totally. It would be a lie not to admit that buying something worn by a person whose style you admire, is not tempting. For one, how often can you even afford to buy an item worn by a celebrity (and yes, you can interpret my use of 'celebrity' as loosely as you'd like here)? Yet positioning oneself in amongst celebrities, underscores the bubble that life has forced us into in recent months. These are not people that we 'rub shoulders with', rather they are people whose feeds we scroll through. The lack of interaction with the outside world, has skewed perspectives, allowing reality and the digital space to become conflated. This dress may be everywhere, with the exception of real life. 

With the trendiness of the dress limited to the digital sphere, my peers remain ignorant to its very existence. I therefore wasn't buying it to 'fit in'. And so it got me to thinking; ignoring a trend due to it being 'trendy', is just as disingenuous to ones personal style, as buying into a trend due to it being 'trendy'. I liked the dress and it was trendy, not because it was trendy. The confidence of style that I had been lacking would not be rediscovered by trend chasing or trend aversion, rather it would be reestablished by following my own likes and dislikes. And maybe some will accrue more 'likes' than others, but what will always remain central to my personal style, are my own likes.

(Pictures via: @houseofsunny, @_emwebs, vogue.co.uk & ellakarberg) 

WHAT TO WEAR POST LOCKDOWN, ACCORDING TO THE EUROVISION SONG CONTEST

*The Eurovision - though a year late - coincided with the advent of socialising. With going ‘out out’ now a renewed possibility in the UK, the predicament of having nothing to wear has been reignited. Though this conundrum has long existed, pre-dating covid, the time spent indoors has meant that the prospect of going anywhere has a renewed sense of excitement that was long lost in the time BC (before covid).

It seemed inconceivable that the freedom of going out would seemingly stop. The ability to socialise was always assumed and therefore taken for granted. And yet we found ourselves in the unforeseen circumstances of a pandemic, homebound and cut off from much of society. 

Now, over a year later, we’re on the precipice of a social life and despite what felt like endless time to prepare (though in fairness we were otherwise preoccupied with uh, survival), we find ourselves with nothing. to. wear. And quite serendipitously, the Eurovision Song Contest burst on to our screens.

In recent years the Eurovision has been something of a missed opportunity for me, in that I always seemed to miss it. Memories associated with the Eurovision are thus predominantly those of childhood nights spent up past bedtime, seeing glimpses of (what I thought to be) the whole world all singing and celebrating together - a comforting sentiment in the midst of post-lockdown/pre-normality (whatever that may mean). 

(Iceland)

It was the televisual equivalent of a mento in a glass of Coca Cola; it sounds like a good idea, your friends are all encouraging you, but it fizzes on the brink of entertainment and disaster, before leaving you with a big mess and a sugar hangover. Needless to say, I loved it. 

So when this year, I sat listlessly flicking between channels and happened upon the beginnings of the Eurovision, I saw it as a sign. When could a campy respite be more apt? And if ever there was an antidote to the loungewear that has been endemic of this past year, the Eurovision is it. 

It had everything that I remembered: unexpected stage performances (this year included a dancing thumb), questionable singing (the highest note in the competition’s history was attempted by Israel), sarcastic commentary (though Graham Norton is no Terry Wogan, RIP) and OTT outfits galore. 

(Germany)

Whilst the dancing thumb was confusing and the commentary drew a wry chuckle, I stayed for the clothing. The first lesson I gleaned was to dress like it’s a celebration, because it is! 

So many occasions have had to be cancelled or postponed indefinitely as a consequence of the pandemic. Being newly allowed out for the sole purpose of recreation feels like a small victory and clothing should reflect this. And the Eurovision purported this quite literally, with acts favouring all manner of sparkley, glittery things. 

The show began with Cyprus and an outfit constructed completely from strings of silver crystals and jewels artfully strewn about the body. Albania channelled Beyoncé’s ‘single ladies’ aesthetic in a metallic bodysuit and structured power shoulder. Malta and Moldova both chose silver sequined, tasselled mini dresses - Malta matching with thigh high silver boots, because enough is never enough. 

(Malta)

Israel too followed the theme of sparkles in a white overcoat with  black and silver sequin detailing, which was eventually slinked off to reveal a black barely there dress. Marking the first of many LBDs to enter the stage.

Belgium, Serbia and Azerbaijan all embraced the classic staple, albeit accessorised to create very different looks - Belgium’s moody, rocker aesthetic with eye-grazing bangs and heavy eyeliner; Serbia being described by Norton as “less Destiny’s child, more Destiny’s inappropriate aunt”, (make of that what you will!) and Azerbaijan borrowed Ariana Grande’s ponytail and paired with a jewelled garter, because, to repeat, enough is never enough.

Yet the visual stimulus was not limited to shiny, sparkly things, as the vibrancy of performances was equally matched by the vibrancy of clothing. Lithuania and Sweden embraced monotone, the former in head to toe yellow and the latter in a raspberry red suit (incidentally paired with jewel encrusted gloves because accessories). 

(Lithuania)

Germany was memorable (not only because of the random dancing thumb…) but due to their choice colour blocking, in pink short sleeved jacket and contrasting blue trousers. And Greece just couldn’t decide, so went with everything, in a catsuit that was both sparkley and bright purple and because more is more is more, it had both midriff and chest cut outs. 

Yet, sometimes dazzling metallics and vibrant colours just aren’t enough, and because an entrance can only be made the once, there were some outfits that were all about the spectacle. See Ukraine’s leather peplum, silver body chain and subtle fluro green ‘hair’ jacket; or Norway’s floor length white (faux?) fur overcoat and giant angel wings, which hid an all gold outfit and chest full of gold chains (because of course the underneath needs to befit the outer, much like a Kinder egg). 

(Ukraine)

Russia used theatrics to make statements both sartorially and politically; removing a large, patchwork tiered dress (manoeuvred on wheels), to reveal a red boiler suit in a bid to represent the difference between stereotype and reality. And in a much less nuanced way, Finland expressed - I’m not really sure what - by wrapping their middle fingers in red tape. Perhaps a new season accessory (??) though unsure if it’s the kind of message that one would want to put forth on initial reentrance into society… 

Though some expressed more restraint with their chosen wears, opting for classic outfits in all black, like Spain and the UK (although the UK embellished with a chunky gold chain for some geezer pizazz) and Portugal, who wore a classic black suit, ‘quirked up’ with dickie bow, wing tips and wide brimmed hat. 

(France)

France, whose pared back aesthetic stood out amongst its overdone peers, wore a black corset, with sheer panelling and black cigarette pants. T’was tres chic, though mildly risqué as fervent arm movements made for a passionate performance that was amazing both vocally and amazing that a nip slip did not occur. 

As Flo Rida sung out the show’s ending, it became wildly clear that anything goes. And perhaps that’s the only way to re-enter this newly configured normality. We’ve all been starved of social interaction and despite much excitement for a return to freedom, uncertainty still lingers. But as social limitations lift, so too should self-imposed restrictions, including those related to the sartorial. 

(Bulgaria)

Wear whatever you want, all at once if you should so wish. Or don’t. Minimalism is just as apropos. And if the thought of prying yourself out of your loungewear is just too much, make like Bulgaria and keep them on (!) using accessories to elevate instead of exerting effort. Truly, anything (and sometimes everything) goes! 

Happy safe and well dressed socialising! 

(Photos via: Pinterest, oxfordstudent.com, eurovoix.com, rtve.es, eurovisionworld.com, archyde.com & Eurovision.tv)

*this post is very late (the Eurovision was over a month ago) however, I’m having trouble getting thoughts out of my head in any cohesive way. Hopefully words will flow better soon! 

IS CREATING A SARTORIAL SCHEDULE THE ANSWER TO FASHION FATIGUE?

There are many things that I have fallen in and out of interest in. I played the recorder for a month (to fit in), attempted to watch the Star Wars series once (for a guy) and dyed my hair blue until it washed out (forced by a pushy hairdresser). Yet, I have never lost interest in getting dressed. That is until the pandemic hit. Suddenly my inclination/inspiration to get dressed had vanished and alas so too did my wont to write about getting dressed. Fashion fatigue in a nutshell.

A jaunt around the park brought about an inner calm, but did not stir creativity. A trip to the coffee shop brought about much flustering and the inevitable steamed up glasses, but alas, did not conjure up words. The current not hot, but not cold springtime weather, amounted to many outfit attempts, but ultimately resulted in exasperated silence. 

Of course, I don’t mean to sound self-pitying, whether or not I can muster up enough oomph to purge my brain out into the internet, is not a catastrophe, but it has been isolating. Whilst writing hasn’t always been a comfort (writers block is a stifling frustration), being at odds with my sense of fashion and my wont to get dressed, has left me feeling apart from myself in a way that is both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. 

Over the past year and a bit, I have flitted between various ill-fitting jogging bottoms and on special occasions (namely the weekly trip to the supermarket) I have worn a pair of jeans (the baggiest, and therefore most comfortable, pair I own), but that has been the extent of my *fashion* endeavours. 

What was once an impulse has been replaced by a paralysing lack of motivation to give my appearance any attention more than brushing my teeth and smoothing my flyaways. Something that working from home hasn’t exactly helped with.

WFH is a predominantly stationary way of life, which includes much sitting, periodic coffee breaks that require moving approximately 10 paces to the kettle, and infrequent visits from the postman, which mean walking 20 paces to the front door. When I’m feeling particularly energised, I use the bathroom upstairs and consider this exercise. 

All of this is accomplished with very little effort sartorially, though elasticated waistbands are preferred. And this is how outfits have been constructed. On repeat. For the past year. A uniform of boredom and practicality; devoid of personality. And whilst uniforms make life easier - and who doesn’t need easy right now - ease is often the sabotager of creativity, of excitement, of variety.

Old routines, now removed, no longer offer the same sartorial guidance. When the weather doesn’t matter, dress codes don’t apply and plans have to remain unplanned, what is there to incentivise us to wear anything other than pyjamas? The motivation has to come from within, for no particular reason other than just because. And yet, deciding how we would like to present ourselves to the world is an exciting privilege. One that is all too easy to take for granted, especially in recent months. 

Getting dressed is a means of communicating and interacting with the world. A difficulty when we’ve largely been cut off from that world. With in-person interactions replaced with video conferencing and socialising being substituted for social distancing, not to mention the pandemic necessitated need to WFH, what is considered presentable is now on a much wider and more fluid spectrum. The concept of acceptability has thus become far broader. 

And perhaps therein lies the issue. With boundaries removed, (social, practical etc) dressing is based purely on desire, meaning that the only restrictions are self-imposed. Oh what irony (!) that sartorial freedom would inspire such a sense of fashion fatigue, especially given the amount of times I’ve cursed workwear. Yet boundless options can be overwhelming and got me to thinking whether some parameters are helpful, especially when you are the architect of them. 

From the depths of my brain (which perhaps says more about the inner workings of my mind than anything else) the infamous line from ‘Mean Girls’ - “on Wednesdays we wear pink” - floated to the surface of my consciousness and I wondered if this could offer the repose from my lethargy that I so desired. 

Finally the teen movie of my youth was providing me with more than just one liners to quote at parties, it was offering the inspiration needed to lift me out of my rut. Disclaimer: I don’t plan to employ the same dogmatic approach as that of ‘Mean Girls’ and I have decided that there should be no public shaming, or lunch made to be eaten alone in a bathroom stall, should I stray from my newly instated schedule.

Will there be pink? Probably. Will it be limited to only Wednesdays? No. Will I still indulge in joggers? Definitely. I do not wish to impose unrealistic constraints, especially when much of life has been curtailed (necessarily) due to the pandemic. Rather I will attempt to reintroduce denim, a shoe choice other than UGG boots, maybe some pattern and perhaps even a dedicated day to wearing some of the new items that I’ve stockpiled. 

I intend this schedule to encourage creativity and reintroduce a consciousness back into my routines. Crafting a schedule based on self-indulgence as opposed to self-flagellation. I’ve become lazy, but so what? If ever there was a time to take a repose, I’m sure it would be during a world pandemic. 

But as the world begins to slowly open back up, it seems necessary to shirk off the sameness and embrace change. Dressing for each day, instead of just getting through the week. Making the most of being able to outfit myself based purely on my passions. Leaning in fully to lazy days, days filled with excitement, the Monday slump and the Friday high. 

Embracing the sartorial freedom that comes with seeing no one and going no where, especially as this is likely only temporary. In time we will be amongst the hustle and bustle and whilst this may be some way off and may never be as it was, we will soon be following routines and schedules that are outside of our control (meetings to suit the time of others, appointments agreed despite their inconvenience, plans made to appease others...) and our clothing choices will be based upon these outside factors.

Therefore now is the time to dress based on fancy and whim. Whether that means that my joggers accompany me to my Monday meetings and my Tuesday meetings, or whether I retire them in favour of something a little less comfortable and a lot more interesting, or (what’s more than likely) both! Using this time to swap my routine of boredom for a sartorial schedule that encourages the variety that’s been desperately lacking, is time well spent. And so far, “so fetch!” 

(All images via Pinterest)

2020: A YEAR LIKE NO OTHER

2020 - what can be said that hasn’t already? It’s the year that redefined ‘unprecedented’; when WFH wasn’t an opportunity to skive on a Friday, but a way of life; that brought people closer together (nothing like the inescapable closeness of being mandated to stay home) and also underscored the gulf of distance between others; it removed the notion of ‘popping to the shops’, purse and keys were now grabbed with mask and sanitiser; toilet paper was stockpiled and essentials were rationed; the best was seen of people, as was the worst; socialising became replaced with social-distancing and as the world went through change, great change was being fought for. 

It was a year without life’s distractions, one where priorities were reconsidered. Life was altered, unrecognisably and just as unexpectedly. We were all further apart, but the world was smaller than ever. Dealing with this new ‘normal’ individually, with a shared focus on survival. Social convention, etiquette and conformity, redundant and replaced with separation and anti-social behaviour encouraged. 

The release of social expectation could have been refreshing. The bubble of home life, especially during the heat of summer, could have been a good time in any other circumstance. Rediscovering the pleasures of domestic life. Attempting to bake, puzzle making, time spent with family as opposed to just cohabiting. It was a return to a simpler way of life, ironically at a time when life was more complicated then ever. 

It was a year when getting dressed was optional. Where pyjamas were transitional pieces to be worn day and night and dressing up involved trading plaid pjs for silk pjs. Where comfort was the prevailing motivator behind outfit choices. Where popular fashion consisted almost solely of sweatsuits. It was a year where desk dressing became a considered means of outfit formulation, (likened also to mullet dressing) with the lens of Zoom being the parameters to construct ones outfits within. 

It was a year where shoes became almost irrelevant, as slippers dominated and those few shoes that did actually make it outdoors were wholly practical, see the Birkenstock’s of summer and the UGGs of winter. Co-ordinating masks with outfits became a thing, as did clashing them, embracing them as accessory as well as all too necessary PPE. 

It was a year that’s now over, but the effects still being felt and look to be far reaching into the future. My thoughts aren’t fully formed. As I write I process further. I mourn the year that was and simultaneously wasn’t. I mourn for all those lost and for all those experiencing loss. I mourn for the businesses that were and are no longer. I mourn for the traffic jams and the discomfort of jam packed public transport. 

I mourn for careless embraces and awkward introductory handshakes. I mourn for unworn lipstick and a vocabulary void of maskne. I mourn for what has been the last year of my twenties and the fun that I had intended to have. But most of all I mourn for the time not spent with friends and family. 

But this year has also brought a lot of gratitude. I’m grateful for my family; for us getting through this together; for us taking it in turns to have bad days and sharing in the good days. I’m grateful for technology and the connections it has allowed us to maintain. I’m grateful for the kindness of strangers, for the courteous step aside, for smiles that reach the eyes and peer over masks. 

I’m grateful for my job and the ability to work remotely. I’m grateful for all of those who are unable to work remotely and have continued to put themselves at risk to save the lives of others, to those that staff essential shops, to those caregivers and teachers and transport workers. I’m grateful to those who worked tirelessly to create vaccinations. I’m grateful for nature and the walks it’s allowed us to take and fresh air it’s allowed us to breathe. I’m grateful for the humorous pauses afforded by memes and gifs and the levity of watching viral TikTok dances. I’m grateful for the escapism of Netflix’s binge-ability. 

It was a year that spoke of new beginnings, a new decade, full of promise. However, the symmetry of 2020 was at odds with the discordance that came with it. The double ‘0’ in 2020, like a pair of spectacles, magnifying life as we knew it, encouraging all to question what we thought we knew. Before the year begun, many spoke of 20/20 vision, the year that was to bring clarity. And even though it didn’t offer it in the way expected, many things have come into focus and should not be forgotten. 

It was the year that life carried on, but was refracted, splintered, resembling pieces of itself, but distorted enough to be unfamiliar. Same, similar even, but different. The masks that bedecked faces made strangers of everyone, only adding to the strangeness of times. It was the year that changed everything, because everything changed.

(Images via: Pinterest & @sarashakeel)

ARE STATEMENT TROUSERS THE ANSWER TO REAWAKENING PERSONAL STYLE?

Recently I wrote about the impact the pandemic has had on cultivating and maintaining personal style. After all, who needs style when you’re home bound? Getting dressed in anything other than pyjamas seems excessive and with only the kettle and dog for companion, redundant. 

The function of clothing beyond just that of modesty, has become insignificant. Yet despite dressing in sameness for much of last year, it has been as a consequence of the virus, as opposed to a conscious decision to affect change to my aesthetic. And so, as the new year begins, it’s got me to wondering if my hiatus of personal style can be reawakened through one choice item; the statement trousers.

Making a statement with any item of clothing has not been a priority of late. Rather the defining characteristic of this year has been comfort to compensate largely for the discomfort of circumstance. However, this has quickly become misappropriated as sartorial boredom. Whilst being comfortable is undeniably important, need that mean a desertion of style? 

Remaining predominantly indoors has meant that jeans are now considered ‘dressing up’, with most opting for stretchy items for day-to-day wear to allow for the stasis of lockdown life. Whilst these types of trousers are not in themselves boring, 10 months later the subsequent same outfits have become boring, and not even accessories can revive them.

Who has the inclination to finesse an outfit of fleece and spandex with accoutrements of any kind, anyway? Shoes are made redundant in favour of socks, the practical need of a handbag is removed completely and jewellery rotation is a rarity as favourites remain as if etched on to skin.

My reluctance to shed loungewear is further impeded by the predominant means of communication being over video conference. Thus outfits have been curated to fit within the parameters of a zoom call, which do not include ones bottom half. Waist up dressing has essentially made the aesthetics of trousers defunct. Rather they are purely practical, allowing for much sitting down and the occasional walk to the fridge. 

Whilst a simple change of top would bring about the variety that this year’s outfits have thus far lacked, my personal style is irrevocably tempered when coupled with my choice array of elasticated trousers. A crisp white shirt paired with pyjama bottoms, a ruffled blouse and sweatpants; professional up top, slob down below, all unbeknownst to anyone but the postman. 

Even if an ounce of personal style did manage to seep through, the necessity of a coat consequently envelops outfits whole, thus muffling any burgeoning style statement that may or may not have been made. However, the under appreciated canvases that are left exposed, are the legs, and thus, whatever the wearer decides to clad them in.

I therefore decided to substitute sartorial boredom in favour of statement trousers. So I began - tentatively at first - with the purchase (secondhand on eBay) of a pair of two tone Levis jeans; one leg white, one leg pale blue. Next, I rediscovered a long forgotten pair of white trousers replete with pastel hued stripes, and lastly, as the wont to embrace some kind of festive cheer became like an unshakable need to say eff you to 2020, I bought a pair of red, sequinned trousers (again from eBay). 

It soon became clear that the finding of a statement trouser was not the difficulty, rather it was how to adopt the statement to fit with ones personal style. All were ‘not your average’ trousers and thusly, all made a statement, but what made them wearable was their relaxed silhouettes. 

The Levi’s jeans were a classic straight leg cut that balanced the quirkiness of the two tone colourway; the cropped, oversized fit of the striped trousers, meant that they had a casualness befitting indoor living; and the loose-fit tailoring of the sequin trousers made them just as apropos for lazy days as it does for when socialising broadens to that of outside the home. 

Ultimately the statement trousers are a reminder that comfort dressing needn’t mean sartorial stagnation and dressing up doesn’t have to denote discomfort. As staying in becomes the new going out, the biggest sartorial statement of all is to counter the bleakest of times with the vibrancy of personal style. And I suggest starting with the trousers.

Photos via: whowhatwear.co.uk, teenvogue.com, @meganellaby, @mariannetheordorsen, styledumonde.com & glamour.es

DID THE PANDEMIC END PERSONAL STYLE?

Lockdown has left me in a sartorial stasis. Every morning the same garments are reached for - typically some old jogging bottoms and oversized turtleneck jumper. Having refused to invest in comfy clothes despite being predominantly marooned at home, and yet not having the gusto to muster getting in any way dressed up, has resulted in a drought of inspiration, and newfound feelings of guilt, for even lamenting my loss of personal style.

Dressing has always been intrinsically emotional for me. I have rationalised that this is why I am rubbish at packing for trips away, or why deciding upon outfits the night before has never proven successful for me. The resultant outfits feel wrong, never befitting my emotional/mental/hormonal state (or weather) of that day. Some days warrant clothing as armour, some days clothing is decoration, some days clothing is merely a requirement. But everyday is different. Or at least was different. Life at home eradicates many of the variables that previously formed my day, as merely inconsequential.

Recently this ‘going through the motions’ means of dressing has become the norm. Consistently getting up and seeing no one, has had somewhat of a devastating affect on my personal style. Something that until recently I had never doubted and had relied upon to buoy me through many a bout of self-doubt. As a young child, I was as inspired by my favourite pop stars’ outfits as I was by their lyrics.

Posh Spice’s LBD was one of the first looks I coveted, though appropriating said black dress was tricky being a child of six years old... As I grew up, I became obsessed with the uniformed colour ways of ‘Steps’ and terrorised my siblings and cousins with my insistence on monotone dressing whilst we performed their greatest hits. Luckily drawing inspiration from pop stars stopped before the age of Xtina’s chaps.

Though my tyrannical insistence on redressing family members petered out as I grew older, my way of dressing being informed by my interests and surroundings has long since continued. Until 2020 hit and life became a series of surviving various lockdowns and socialising from a distanced stance, all whilst navigating the ongoing threat of the virus. Regular inspiration had thus been removed, not dressing in relation or retaliation to anything other than what’s clean, seemed a pointless exertion of energy and set in the current circumstances, a little gauche. 

As much as I am still compelled by the same incentives (sequins, textures, jewellery etc), these seem incongruous with the current climate. The icy weather of past Decembers, would have previously been met with my leopard faux fur coat. However, the dust jacket has remained firmly placed, as the flamboyancy seems absurd when daily activities have a 6pm curfew and amount to little more than a trip to the supermarket, and on special occasions, a cafe. When life is so serious, it seems insensitive for fashion to be fun, rather a focus on practicality in all aspects of life seems appropriate.

Previously, external factors were internalised to create outfits that were visual interpretations of how I saw the world. Now, with the stimuli being only that of my imagination (which is informed daily by news inciting further fear and uncertainty), the outfits are purely perfunctory. Though fashion had always been a companion of comfort and at times a coping mechanism, it had now become estranged, losing it’s significance as anything other than a means of keeping warm.

Yet a story shared via Instagram asserted the idea of getting dressed for fun in any circumstance. It was an interview with Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, who was as brilliantly flamboyant and eccentric as I remembered him. He spoke of dressing up more in lockdown than he did before it, likening his and his family’s looks to those of RuPaul’s Drag Race. Most pertinently, he questioned the motives for getting dressed: to “hide your genitalia” or “to indulge yet another facet of your fascinating multi-hued personality?” 

I began thinking about my motives for dressing previous to the pandemic and whilst some were founded on practical considerations, predominantly it was what I fancied on any particular day. And though this has been tempered somewhat, the essence of what spurred my inspiration remains the same. I just needed to devise a means of reconciling my love of fashion with the current situation, in the hopes of resurrecting my flailing personal style. 

I continued to waver, until one day, I saw a girl wearing a cow print jacket whilst walking her dog. It was a perfectly mundane task, performed probably routinely, yet her outfit didn’t reflect the sameness of this action. Instead it was at total odds in its flamboyancy. And perhaps most surprisingly of all, my reaction to this outfit was not contempt that she dared wear something so contradictory to the setting we all find ourselves in. My reaction was one of joy - she brought a smile to my face.

This brazen statement of personal style awoke what had been laying dormant for the past 10 months; a wont to get dressed and not just for modesty’s sake, but because in spite of the pandemic raging on, life still needs to be lived. Things look gloomy enough, without the addition of morose fashions that do little but to remind of this era of covid. 

This cow print jacket reminded me that the smallest thing can bring about a reaction that offers a respite from the overwhelming uncertainty of now. Whether it induce a smile or a double take, or just the satisfaction of rekindling ones own personal style. And although an outfit won’t change the world - the news will still report on the devastation of this year whether I remain in my pyjamas or not - it may change your day, or even some else’s. 

(Photos via: Pinterest, @lucywilliams & @tamumcpherson)