Tag Archives: Licentiate Columns

Licentiate Column 22/03/12: What to expect when (you don’t want to look like) you’re expecting

22 Thursday Mar 2012

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I know this woman who is pregnant.  She could be a friend or a family member – she could even be a friend or family member of a friend or family member.  Let’s just keep the water as muddy as possible.  In fact, if her condition didn’t betray her gender, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned that she was a woman at all.
For undisclosed reasons, Miss X wants to conceal said pregnancy, which is proving difficult as she has pesky things such as a job and family members to see on a regular basis.  She also has a steadily growing baby bump that she can only pass off as a curry overdose for so long.
Sometimes you just have to hide a bump.  Whether it’s a conspiracy involving fudged paternity suits, evil twins and the deed to a Texan oil baron’s land or just a need to cultivate JD Salinger-style privacy, or something ultimately more personal and complicated, it’s got to be done.  Here are a few tips.
1:  Never underestimate the self-absorption of others.  I lived with a girl in college halls for a year.  We saw each other every day.  One spring evening, I came in after an exam to find out that she had gone into labour.  I had just not noticed her size, as she had often concealed herself with huge varsity hoodies.  Later, when I saw a picture of her at eight months, it was undeniable that she was so far up the duff that getting back down would require several Sherpas.  She looked like she was smuggling a space hopper under layers of UCC rugby paraphernalia.  I (and all the other flatmates) had NEVER LOOKED PROPERLY.
2:  Invest in a selection of hoodies.  See point above.  Not only to they conceal things to the point of invisibility, you could team it with a scraped back hairdo and no-make up to just not get noticed at all.  You will look so deeply desexualised that no-one, woman or man, will scrutinise your body or indeed even look at you.  It’s the silver lining to rampant, subconscious sexism.
3.  Flow is not your friend.  You may think that drapey tunics and tops that skim your bump would be ideal, but they are your worst enemy.  Tops that glide off what now goes out instead of in are incredibly flattering, but only to out and proud expectant mothers – and do you really want to be one of those schlubs?
4.  Cultivate an incredible shoe and hat collection.  The point is to distract from your middle, so draw attention to your top and bottom.  This is only an option if invisibility isn’t your thing (or you fancy starting a trend for hoodies with Nicky Minaj wigs and bejewelled Nicholas Kirkwood heels – sooo 2014, people!).  Statement necklaces, bright lipstick and colourful shoes can be a big help.
5.  Balance is key.  Make your top and bottom correspond with your middle.  Exaggerated shoulders, flared jeans and big, patterned scarves help to make a body look the same width up and down.  Dress dark around the torso, light around the top and bottom.
And remember, you may have to eventually tell people – just don’t wait until you’re in labour.

Licentiate Column 01/12/11: Ow, My Knees

01 Thursday Dec 2011

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The general consensus is that fashion should be for everyone, ‘Should’ being the operative word.
Short of full-fat Communism, we’re all unable to get the full benefits of the fashion industry without being very rich, very thin, very good-looking, famous, stylish, well-situated, cultured, worldly… the list goes on, and on, and on.
But what if you’re a relatively normal, healthy individual just making the best of what you have? Heels from the high-street, and the odd vintage shops, bolstered with special occasion gifts from loved ones with more money than sense.
And then, what happens when you encounter a small slip-up? Something that makes you re-evaluate what you’re always taken for granted. Just a small, tiny thing. An inconvenience really.
A few weeks ago I suffered such a small setback (which seems big to me, but is barely atom sized when you consider what other people have to deal with). It doesn’t have to be a big deal, but it affects my mobility, my ability to work (writing this column is just one job I have), my pocket and my lifestyle in general.
I have to get physio, I have to lose weight – as someone who isn’t particularly plump, this is a major bugbear – and, grab the Kleenex, I can’t wear heels. For the forseeable future.
It’s such a tiny thing, it really is. But sometimes, it seems like the only thing. I can deal with amendments to my life, with restrictions. But I’m not good with being forbidden from doing something, especially something I tie in so much to my own particular method of self-expression.
It has made me realise how powerful personal style can be and, perhaps, for a second, how foolish I’ve been to tie myself to it tighter than the Gordian Knot.
Everyone has their thing. For my boyfriend, it’s football. While he loves it, I think there will always be a tiny twinge of regret that he wasn’t the next Maradona. How many PRs want to be novelists? How many frustrated musicians are there out there anyway?
That’s not to say I want to be a professional heels-wearer, but as someone working in the healthy, but by no means lucrative Irish fashion industry, every little setback gets magnified. It’s a real strength-sapper. It makes you doubt your own ability to succeed – I think this probably applies to anyone starting their career in such a depressed economy.
I don’t become a better writer by wearing Kirkwoods 24/7. My knowledge doesn’t diminish in flats. Being shorter than everyone else doesn’t make me love fashion even the tiniest bit less. It just makes me feel a little bit left out.
It really should be an even playing field. Fashion should be for everyone. It’s not enough that we don’t have the money, the skin, the height, the power, the kudos; now our bodies conspire even more against us.
So, what do you do? You just keep on going. Keep on going forward. Draw inspiration from what you love. The boyfriend always watches Match of the Day. Unfulfilled writers keep reading books. The amount of illegal songs downloaded is directly proportional to the amount of guitar-strummers – maybe.
And so help me, if I have to be carried into the pub as well as out of it, I WILL wear heels and never regret it.

Licentiate Column 24/11/11: The New Prep

24 Thursday Nov 2011

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Some men are just unfathomable. Not the James Dean types, because you know their brooding facial expressions are a result of a) careful practise in the mirror or b) a long rumination on what to have for tea (bacon sandwich) and whether those underpants will stand another day (Mam can always wash them over the weekend anyway).

Scratch that, you don’t have to be Jacques Cousteau to fathom Irish men – no more than any other nationality. But, in our typically Irish way, the logic with which some Irish men buy clothes is like a mirror maze, filled with wrong turns, false exits and amazing feats of self-reflexive hypocrisy.

On a night out, I spotted the highly known New Prep Male. Brendan (I think), medical student, navy Ralph Lauren tee, faded blue jeans, 80’s trainers.

You know the guy. He or one of his many replicants are everywhere. Preppy guys wear Hollister and Abercrombie hoodies that they bought on their ‘massive’ J1 in Huntington Beach or Wildwood, New Jersey. They have short hair (the longest they’ll go is a Donncha O’Callaghan-style flop), they drink Jagerbombs and pints of Bav. Their dads are members of the yacht club. Their mothers have sidelines selling handmade jewellery or organic soaps. They’re the Celtic Hangover. You know, the kind of people who think that Ross O’Carroll-Kelly books are a searing, incisive set of documentary-style modern memoirs.

This is our future. Yes it is.

The American brands that they love so much are famous for their discriminatory employment and advertising policies. In a way, what they wear denotes an almost Aryan sense of self-entitlement that has yet to be diluted by the economy. Even if none of the New Preps really feel that way, their uniform does all the talking for them.

‘AHA’, I thought on seeing this perfect specimen of prep (I think in caps lock, doesn’t everyone?), ‘NOW THIS SHOULD MAKE A GOOD COLUMN’.

Five minutes later and I am small talking like Warwick Davies at a speed dating event. I segue from chatter about Blackburn Rovers (and mentally thanking God for that copy of Four Four Two in the doctor’s office) into ‘So, where did you get that top?’ Smooth, Sarah. Real smooth.

It was his brother’s top. He often borrowed clothes from his brother. When going shopping, he just liked things that were comfortable. ‘What about colours?’ I said. Would you buy a neon yellow t-shirt with a picture of a flamingo on it’?

The response was classic. He said, ‘Well, I don’t like to judge a book by it’s cover’. I was slightly confused. Aren’t you supposed to judge the clothes you buy by their appearance?

It’s just to easy to be a New Prep. If a man doesn’t want to think too much about clothes, then there’s a uniform waiting for him. But, what if the uniform just tells other people that you’re vapid, self-absorbed and thoroughly disinterested in anyone even slightly different to you?

One preppy man I know has a huge tattoo of a space age pin up girl on his upper thigh (don’t ask me how I know). Another spends most of his time caring for his severely disabled girlfriend. Another is an accomplished musician.

But if clothes make the man, then why don’t they want to wear something else?

See what I mean? Unfathomable.

Licentiate Column 13/10/11: Gucci Gucci

13 Thursday Oct 2011

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Last week I talked about the Mod look and how much we love looks from the past. But what happens when we love a look from the past that is already recreating a look from the past? It gets complicated. More complicated than we need shopping for clothes to be.

This is the kind of generation-jumping, time-leaping fashion situation where Sam Beckett from Quantum Leap would really come in handy. Let me explain.

Last February, at Milan Fashion week, Frida Gianinni debuted an Autumn/Winter Gucci collection that would cause photographers and editors to go into raptures of unmitigated worship. It was beautiful, all of it.

The collection was basically an amped-up harkening back to the days of Studio 54. Each model looked as if she had been styled by Angelica Huston on her way to a hot date with Jack Nicholson, seen through the lens of Helmut Newton.

The women looked statuesque, powerful, immovable. The clothes were typical 70’s – wide-legged trousers, knee length boots meeting skirt hems, huge sunglasses. Leather, fur and chiffon were everywhere.

The collection had been given a modern twist. The furs were dyed from their natural state to bright, just on the right side of jarring colours; lavender, aquamarine, violet, Pernod green and a particular shade of yellow that can only be described as a tad Big Bird-y. The python was dyed similar colours. Because of the nature of fur and snakeskin (real or artificial) those colours took on the kind of multi-hued texture and dimension that is easily compared to precious jewels.

The original sombre colour palettes broken up with one or two bright colours to an outfit were not represented. Instead, an effusion of bright contrasting colours. A purple fur collar and muff was matched with a baby blue wool jacket, blue and purple sweater vest, red bow blouse, red trousers and accessorised with a black belt, midnight blue shoes and a burgundy velvet fedora trimmed with violet satin ribbon. Wear that in 1979 and people would assume you were colourblind. Today, it’s high fashion. It wobbled towards bad taste, but in a very good way.

What we conveniently forget is, at the time, the Studio 54 look was a twist on a previous decade – the 1930’s. The fur, the fedoras, the burgundy lips, the lowered hemlines, the sweeping gowns and the pussy bow blouses were all leftovers from another fashion decade.

Perhaps the trend was the echo of excess in a decade that was an economic disaster. Protected inside their bubble, the revellers in Studio 54 were temporarily exempt from the chaos going on outside. In the 1930s the rich left unscathed by the Great Depression continued to live excessively, oblivious to the mass migration and joblessness that stretched around the world. And this decade, with NAMA, bankrupt countries and an ever-shrinking population of young, skilled people… You can see a pattern forming, surely. It’s fashionomics.

Licentiate Column 06/10/11: We Are The Mods

06 Thursday Oct 2011

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It’s all about the sixties this season. Sharp lines, unisex tailoring, retro-futuristic metallics and insouciant glares. Summer of love this isn’t. A discordant chant of ‘We are the Mods’ subliminally floats over the rails of every high-street shop, which is manifested in the slim suit trousers, car coats, peter pan collars and penny loafers within.

Fashion hasn’t always been so self-referential. We look to the past for inspiration, reworking old looks for new. Nostalgia has become a byword in fashion that has only really come to the fore in the past decade. Miu Miu goes forties, Gucci is seventies and Christopher Kane has revamped nineties clubwear tack. When did it all get so bloody postmodern?

Old Mod (via Modculture)

It’s something we can trace back to the original Mod movement which, in 2011, must be going through it’s fourth fashion revival. The slim fitting suits worn by the token rebellious youth were reminiscent of the original trouser-toting style setter: Beau Brummell.

Beau Brummell, the original dandy, set the Regency fashion world on fire by wearing tight-fitting trousers which were considered an indecent departure from the knee breeches that were the norm in the time of George IV. Soon though, everyone was wearing trousers.

Eventually, Brummel’s uniform mutated into what we now know as the suit. Brummel, however, had run up massive bills on pants (amongst other things) and died penniless in 1840 after a severe mental breakdown, probably unaware of just how big an impact he had on the fashion world.

The Mods harken back to that – well-groomed at all costs, tight tailoring to make grannies faint in the street, flying in the face on convention only to be absorbed into the mainstream.

It’s not just the rebellion we co-opt when we draw inspiration from the Mods, it’s also how damn cool they looked.

That’s why the Mod look has been recycled for this autumn/winter, but with an invincibly modern twist. The suits are still slim, but this time the girls that are wearing them too. French brand The Kooples, which recently found an Irish home in Brown Thomas, has enlisted Saville Row tailors to give their clothes a look of Quadrophenia on the Canal Saint-Martin – slim, leather accented and very cool.

New Mod (via Topshop)

Chelsea boots, brogues and loafers, designer and high street, have been updated with high-tech materials and loud finishes; platform soles, neon trim, leopard print, metallic leather.

Topshop have debuted their New Mod look – an orgiastic mish-mash of sixties Mod with a measure of fifties Teddy Boy and seventies punk – think Mod tailoring and foundation with animal prints, cat’s eye glasses, Elvis coifs, grandad knits, black lipstick, Dalmatian print and brothel creepers. It’s a trend that, admittedly, looks much better in real life than it does on paper. It’s also great fun to wear.

All decades have their own individual, recognisable stamp. When we look back on 2011-2020, what will be its symbol? It’s looking ever more likely that this is the revival generation, who reworks history for our own sartorial satisfaction. It sounds slightly sinister, but it’s clothing, not revisionism.

So, don those skinny grey flannel trousers happily. Oh, and hold on to them. I predict another revival in about ten years.

Licentiate Column 08/09/11: Autumn Colours

08 Thursday Sep 2011

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It’s Autumn.  We finally made it.  We can officially start updating our wardrobes.  It was a long road, but we got there.  Give yourself a pat on the back, if you can feel it through the woolly mittens and thick coat that you’re wearing (and if by some miracle it’s sunny and warm at time of publication and we have an Indian Summer without actually indulging in the preliminary Summer, feel free to write me an angry letter).

As it gets even cloudier and duller, the colours we wear can often reflect that.  The day is darker and so are we.  Is that true this year?  Well, yes and no.

The vast majority of people tend not to be into zingy, bright colours.  It offends our sensibilities, which have been fine-tuned by a comfort blanket of low-lying cloud and a particularly Irish notion that anyone who stands out is a noxious breed of showoff.  ‘Getting above yourself’ is the worst insult to be heaped on an Irish person, unless you’re a banker or a priest.

But this season we’ll be pairing our brights with autumnal hues.  The bubblegum pink belt can go with the essential burgundy dress, toning it down – hiding your brights under a bushel.

A possible exception to the bright rule is orange. Maybe it’s the patriotic element, maybe it’s just because it’s autumnal and shops tend to get lazy like that, but it’s everywhere.  Do not be enthralled by it.  Sure, it looks nice on the tanned model.

Everything looks nice on the tanned model.  In reality, orange is a horrifying minefield, so tread carefully.  It’s not for nothing that it’s the official colour of Hallowe’en.

Come September, berry colours are ubiquitous.  Grape, burgundy (which is made from grapes, so is a berry colour by technical default) and navy blue(berry) will all have their moments, and deservedly so.  These colours are almost universally flattering and almost reassuring in their ability to resurface every autumn without fail, so investing in a berry shade is unusually sound.

These colours are given a new depth and multi-hued dimension when worn as part of rich, textured fabrics like velvet and satin and even (gulp) fur.  It might sound a bit like a Dynasty Christmas Special, but look to the Gucci catwalk for inspiration – it’s more more Studio 54-era Anjelica Huston than Alexis Carrington.

Neutrals are just as big as they’re ever been, black and grey remaining staid as camel slips a nanometre by the wayside and navy blue slips into a surprising lead.  If you bought a camel coat last year, keep it.  It still looks good, just be a bit more creative with how you accessorise it – attach a new collar or cuffs or be creative with your scarves.

The likelihood is that most of us will be gravitating towards darker colours this winter, as we do every winter.  It’s not necessarily a symptom of an underlying international malaise.  The vast majority of people wear these shades because they are easy to keep clean.  That’s the anticlimactic, boring truth.  Still, we’ll always have nail varnish.  Bubblegum pink, anyone?

Licentiate column 28/07/11: To Die For

28 Thursday Jul 2011

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There’s an immense pressure on anyone with a discretionary income to be aware of the repercussions of their shopping habits.  Buying high street?  That cotton tee may be killing the environment.  Brand name sneakers?  Quite possibly stitched together by a prepubescent child for pennies a day.  Surely that high-end piece is manufactured ethically?  Beware; the ‘Made In Italy’ tag may be the only Italian aspect to those new shoes.

A new book, ‘To Die For’, by environmental journalist Lucy Siegle examines the ever-growing shopping habits of women from developed or rapidly-developing countries.  The picture she paints is both compelling and terrifying.

Over the course of the past two or three generations, while the Western world expanded economically, we were quietly nurturing new hobbies.  Among the foremost of these new interests, which include eating out and seeing how big a television we can fit into our sitting rooms, shopping has become of of the most contentious.

Buying clothing has evolved from a necessity to a fine art.  We scour online for our personal poison, whether it be the best in bargains, luxury accessories, esoteric labels, handcrafted garments from stay-at-home unsung heroes or exclusive, small-run produced goods.

The instant gratification one feels when making a purchase takes on a new significance when the amount of lives that are denigrated, humiliated and corroded are uncovered are factored into the equation.

One by one, a slow drip-drip-drip of faces pass you by.  Here, the children forced out of school into the cotton fields to reach shipping quotas.  There, a town forced to relocate because the local tannery is dumping chemical-laden waste water at an alarming rate into the nearest river.

It’s not just the human cost that adds up.  The environment hasn’t exactly been helped along by the shady, sometime illegal methods of processing fabrics.  As a card-carrying carnivore and (second-hand) fur wearer, even I was disgusted to read about the methods employed in processing python skin for handbags (‘forcing hosepipes into their mouth, blowing them up with water to loosen the skin and then impaling them through the head before the skin was ripped off’).  Oh, did you know that the python is an endangered species?  I didn’t.  Not until now anyway.

It’s a devastating read both in terms of content and impact.  The blinkers aren’t so much removed from our eyes as they are ripped off, then fashioned into an especially stinging whip.  A necessary tactic, this book forces the reader to evaluate their shopping habits, often with incredibly depressing results.

Before opening it I had a more than a pinch of personal smugness for buying second-hand and managing to avoid Penneys.  That feeling had evaporated completely by page two.

If you’re concerned about ethical fashion, it is all to easy to be dismissed as a hair-shirt wearing polemicists getting her soapbox, goddam hippy kicks.  In reality, this is an issue that affects everyone.  With a positive review from no less a source than Vogue it seems that the ethical fashion tackled in ‘To Die For’ is, ironically, the newest trend.  And not a hair shirt in sight.

Licentiate Column 21/07/11: Shopping is an endurance test.

21 Thursday Jul 2011

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The human body is capable of remarkable feats.  Every organ is a cog in a finely tuned machine that is designed to be in not-quite-perpetual motion.  Skin is conveniently waterproof. The liver kindly takes on the task of filtering out all the nasty things that we foolishly ingest, accidentally or on purpose.  The cranium can take more than it’s fair share of hard knocks.
Besides being remarkable in it’s ordinariness, the human body can push itself further when under great stress.  World record holders can pull trucks with their hair, adrenal mothers can lift car wrecks with small children trapped inside and the human body can continue to exist on a drastically reduced, simplified diet – especially if shopping is involved.
You see something in a magazine.  You love it.  You want it.  You need it.  Of course, no one really needs a pair of Louboutins or an Alexander McQueen clutch bag.  We just convince ourselves that we do.  That studded snakeskin, box shaped, miniscule container that fits only keys, money and a lipstick will transform your life dramatically.  You will instantly become more confident, assertive and poised.  Your hidden potential will be realised and you will be recognised for the fabulous person that you are.  That must be why it’s so expensive.
I had a similar moment a few weeks ago.  It was a pair of Nicholas Kirkwood for Erdem catwalk shoes.  They had five inch heels.  They were festooned with hightly impractial, ropelike silk floral ribbons that could be twined around the ankles like pointe ballet slippers.  They were also 50% off – and still very, very expensive.
It’s vulgar to talk about money, I know, but I like to think it’s slightly less so when you have none. I’m poor as all hell and not ashamed of it.
A diet of beans tastes slightly sweeter when you know that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlights of a FedEx van containing a little something special just for you.  The feeling of accomplishment is deceptively real.  You, who are the kind of person who never buys designer, you who has no money, has achieved the superhuman feat of buying something expensive without incurring the wrath of the credit card debt deities.
In this way, the struggle to buy what you love has a greater significance than if you had the money already folded snugly in your pocket.  It’s two fingers up to the fashion establishment, who keep prices high so that only the rich can be seen with their goods.
It’s a slightly counter-productive up yours, because in buying their goods, you’re still pumping cash into the veins of the company. You’re defying the company, but still buying into it.
Then again, this might be the delirious raving of a person who has eaten more kidney beans in three weeks than most people would care to eat in three years.
I say, if you want something, work for it. Earn it so you can buy it.  Even if you end up smelling of beans, your feet will be coming up roses.

Licentiate Column 14/07/11: But is is art?

14 Thursday Jul 2011

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Couture week has come and gone for the second time this year.  Held in the run up to Fashion Weeks, the couture shows are not just populated with editors and stylists, but loyal, extra-special customers.  These customers are special because they are rich.  Not just entry-level rich, but Daddy Warbucks rich.
Couture is what wealthy people aspire to buy.  While we lovingly paw the virtual rails of Net A Porter, wondering if next week’s paycheck will cover both the rent and the on-sale Proenza Schouler tee, the wealthy person is wondering how much equity they can release on the holiday home to cover the six figures it will take to snaffle a pure white Givenchy couture gown.
These gowns are special – there’s no debating that.  Some are totally unique, all take hundreds to thousands of hours of specialist construction, employing artisan seamstresses, beadmakers, plumassiers and fabric makers.  This fashion army is only employed after the silhouette is painstakingly drawn out by the designer, who is him or herself siphoning off a personal list of carefully chosen influences and distilling itself into a singular, original vision.  Juicy Couture it is not.
With that in mind, I posed a personal question on my facebook and twitter and facebook account.  What is couture?  Is it art? Is it craft?  Is it commerce or is it total, wasteful irrelevance?  I was both heartened and disappointed to see that everyone without exception thought that couture was a legitimate artform, with several declaring it both art and craft.
Heartened because everyone without exception believed in the importance and vital, transformative power of clothing.  Disappointed, because the was no wiggle room for debate.
The Wikipedia definition of art (it IS a legitimate research resource, okay?) is ‘the process of deliberately arranging items in a way that influences and affects one or more of the senses, emotions and intellect’. If that is true, then haute couture clothing is definitely art.
Then again, under that criteria, a well-timed squeaky fart in a room full of prepubescent boys is also art, as it stimulates both the senses (smell being but one) and emotions (either annoyance, shame or deep amusement), if not the intellect.
Art is not so easy to define.  A fart is not art.
I studied Art History in college, and one of my old buddies believes that couture is definitely art.  It’s takes specialist skill to complete, it’s aspirational, i’s open only to the very wealthiest people, it’s the product of a person’s creative vision.
But, she argued, high street clothing could also evolve into art, because if Andy Warhol could do it with his mass produced screen prints, then why can’t Topshop. Create a covetable design, release a large (yet limited) release, then watch the crowds scramble over themselves to get a copy.  This brings to mind the recent Lanvin/H&M collaboration, where people queued for hours to get their hands on a small slice of relative exclusivity.
Jo Dingemans, a lecturer at the London College of Fashion, believes that fashion cannot be art but ‘high craft’, because it is impossible to wear a concept.  On the hanger, maybe it’s a work of art.  But on you, the meaning of the garment is changed; something that never happens with painting, sculpture, music, literature or film.
The true meaning of art is tricky and elusive; it can be subjective because it is incredibly personal.  Until an ironclad definition is found, then couture can be both art and craft, commerce or spiritual communing.  You’re wrong and you’re right.  Sometimes the middle is the best place to be.

Licentiate column: REDUX

02 Saturday Jul 2011

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It seems that this week’s column did not go up on the Cork Independent website, so I’m going to republish it here until the glitches are ironed out.  For those who have only read the preview on Thursday, failed to find the rest of the article and ended up thinking ‘Hmm, this is a little bit short, it tails off a bit too’… well, here it is.

One of my friends really wants a pair of Jeffrey Campbell ‘Lita’ shoes. If you haven’t seen them before, imagine a Dutch clog mixed in with a 70’s porn aesthetic, worn by a horse with a gangrenous hoof. They are not very nice. But they are definitely in fashion.
Along with leggings, empire-line sundresses, purple lips and light bondage gear, these shoes fit the mould of ugly fashion. It ain’t pretty, it’s definitely not flattering, but it’s in – so we wear it.
An item can be fashionable, but it can never be stylish. Style is in how a person wears that item; the intent behind the purchase and what that item tells the outside world about you. In the case of these shoes, my friend’s only intent is to have what is fashionable and tell the outside world exactly that. Me = Fashionable. It’s not the most stylish proclamation ever made, but it’ll do.
Fashion is easy to interpret; it’s what is in the shops right now and what the magazines are foghorning at us to buy. Style is a different beast. If is not so easily designed or pigeonholed. If it was, then the pursuit of it wouldn’t have the same siren-like quality.
In the reckless chasing of style, many soundbites have been recorded to define it’s essentially undefinable nature. Style is ‘primarily a matter of instinct’ (Bill Blass), ‘eternal’ (Coco Chanel), ‘a simple way of saying complicated things’ (Jean Cocteau), ‘whatever happens to be in style’ (Tolstoy) or ‘knowing who you are, what you want to say and not giving a damn’ (a surprisingly incisive Gore Vidal).
In reality, everyone knows what style is. We just can’t articulate it. A stylish person has no agenda or foolproof formula. A stylish person just is.
We know what a stylish person is not. She is not a slave to fashion. She does not strive to be known as stylish. Desperation is a dark, forboding beast that absorbs any panache or grace. A sartorial version of Harry Potter’s dementors, they exist only to suck any happiness out of getting dressed.
A stylish person is not a clothes horse. One of the most stylish women I have ever seen was a traffic cop on duty in New York. Her clothes were pressed immaculately, buttons and badges gleaming. She was wearing her hair in a low chignon and had obviously had her regulation-issue uniform tailored to fit her small frame. Her hat was dead centre on her head, at a precise angle. She looked great.
That woman obviously knew what suited her, in the Trinny and Susannah meets Gok Wan sense. The pride she took in her appearance and her job, the care she took to look polished and her carefully fitted clothes all add up to one very stylish individual. Knowing what looks good on you is an important factor in manufacturing style, but it’s not what exemplifies it.
So, if you’re a women with legs up to your armpits who wishes to look like a equine porn star clog-dancer as part of your personal statement, then those Litas will make you look stylish. And if, like my friend, you don’t give a Gore Vidal damn about what people think (especially those pesky fashion columnists), those Litas will definitely make you look stylish – and effortlessly so.

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