I am an avid shopper. Ravenous fashion fiend. That has not, nor will ever, truly change. And I get easily inspired...the spring and fall couture collections are literally my porn. I love in-depth discussions on colors, profiles on designer inspirations, arguments on which trend will dominate our lives for the next year. You have your sport scores...I have Marc Jacobs and Uncle Karl.
Like any fashionista worth her salt I have my icons. The girls that have, and always will, inspire countless generations to aspire to the level of chic-ness once attained by these ethereal beauties. The danger lies in letting aspiration become imitation. In an effort to change...to evolve...I have sought out bohemian dresses...punk rings...hipster tops...and, God help me, COLOR.
I defied my body shape, my measurements...even my inherent darkness, to create a "festival-living, trust-fund girl on a year sabbatical, living on music and cigarettes" wardrobe...that hangs lifelessly in my closet. Stylish pieces undoubtedly...but not ME. I honestly do not know why this happened. In part, probably because i truly LOVE (nay, live for) fashion and "experimenting" is the name of the game. Partly, I must admit, because at some point the all-black, sleek silhouettes with low cut backs and high slits, leather and cashmere...tattoos and cat eyeliner...get old. Become an imitation of what you thought you were. Become boring...and invite rebellion.
And this constant search for the new...ME? ...became exhausting too. And it made me forget a part of me that I really liked. Does that even make sense??
I went out with some friends the other night... I came running from work, frustrated at not knowing what to wear...confused about the appropriate amount of what to reveal (more on that to come)...I reached for my favorite black skinnies. A black sleeveless cashmere turtleneck. Tousled hair, black eyeliner, a couple rings. Simple, comfortable...like a second skin. As I walked through the square on my way to the restaurant I heard whistles from ages 18-45 and saw jealous glances from my gender. My gait was strong, my eyes lit up, I ...I felt like myself. (Not that this is the one true measure of an outfit but stated only to give the complete picture. Even if the aforementioned did not happen I would've still felt the same. Moving on. )And I realized that at this stage of the game my style is set. I do not know why I fought my nature when it was never wrong. My fashion sense has never been critiqued...it has always been admired and desired by others. Yet I fought against it because I thought it too basic to suit what I saw my life being.
But when I reached out for it, it was there, like always. My second skin.
Style is not something one should actively think about. It MUST be organic to work. Anything less will look too poised and will never belong to you. It is perfectly and expectedly natural to look at trends and appropriate the major themes. But it is futile to try to emulate every look of one's icon to the tee -- all it will become is a fun-house mirror image of the truth. No one grows up wanting to be a mime, right?
So there it is. I am back to black. Back to reaching out for things that slither...hug every curve...and envelop in luxury. Back to the deviant and slightly obscene. Back to utterly chic and unmistakably dark. That is who I am....and I shall no longer fight it. My style will evolve -- but on its own. There will be more couture, more sophistication...but there will always, ALWAYS, a tiny streak of the dark, for one cannot deny one's nature.