Wardrobe Classic: Between Cliche and Propriety

In my twenties my sense of what to buy and try were all over the place. I suppose I am not the only one here, but when I read that your 20s is when you figure yourself out, and how even if made from cheap material, with youth you can pull off even the most badly made of the looks, so experiment! that made hell of a lot of sense. Not necessarily to endorse the patronage of environmentally disastrous companies like Forever 21 and H&M, but for someone without a clear sense of what works, experimenting with less investment made a lot more sense.

I was not necessarily into fast fashion all that much, ever since I witnessed how my roommate was hand washing a pink tutu from Forever 21 and hanging them in massive row in the bathroom every single goddamn day, only because if you dare put them in the dryer it shrinks into 1/3 of its original form, I knew I had no patience to hand wash something you buy for dirt cheap. She also sent out massive numbers of gallon sized garbage bags to the trash bin every end of the year, also adding the irony given how much time she spent on maintaining these and then how long she nonetheless kept them.

Sample sales and second hand market were my go-to. I eagerly awaited the James Perse and Steven Alan sales, and when in New York, I hunted down the Theory sales and enjoyed the thrill of scoring a tailored dress for $85 when retail would have costed well over $300. I also made my healthy share of mistakes, which I hope my friends forgot, but I am well sure they did, since everyone could really care less about what you are wearing than how you are self-conscious of it all.

Many relocations later, it was almost like a shedding experience. You can't take everything, and every time you prepare for another move you discover things you had entirely forgotten about from every corner of your room. Since it wasn't worn, you keep it in the hope that you will wear it, making the initial investment worth it in the end, but if you had forgotten about it and rarely reached out for it that was enough of a verdict that was unconsciously given to the item. Wardrobe editors has a point when she or he says that if you hadn't worn it in six month, let it go.

Yet to that we usually persist and claim well, it's special occasion item, or that it's for the special day when that could come into use, or in my case---it was tied to the job I wanted to eventually achieve, which was to teach in a university.

It is well known that academia has a split personality when it comes to giving a shit about how one carries themselves. You're supposed to be too busy thinking that you should barely get your acts together in the morning, spilling toothpaste over your tshirt as you have an eureka moment about an equation that has long puzzled peer scientists.

For some it was a statement against patriarchy not to conform the gender stereotypes. Others revolted and said one ought to be able to wear whatever the hell one wants, if you want a pink tutu, that's fine, too, it's not fine when you're not wearing what you want because you're busy letting the fight against patriarchy also dictate your preference. So it goes.

For others being female added extra pressure. somehow we're considered lesser of the two when it comes to intellectual performance, when a guy walks in with his flip flops and punk rock tee with rugged shorts, that's entirely fine, but otherwise, there's the whisper of "what happened?" Care too much and you're considered to be in vain and buying into the whole capitalist machine. The amount of skin that is permissible is also different. Short skirt and spaghetti straps are to be blamed if you are harassed, not the harasser.

To be safe you google what's appropriate and what's not, only to find out other fellow academics are equally clueless. Instead too many columns in the Chronicles of Higher Education turn it into a show off battle of how many smart shit one can say about society and gender. (which, to be sure this column is not that different from).

Well, with all that issue, I also realized my age was becoming less and less appropriate for a torn and tattered denim jacket and second hand military coat. I had them well over six or eight years, and for the denim jacket, well, over fourteen years. I only had two suit jacket to throw on during what used to be a once a year event called conferences, and realized that my closet was also all over the place.

So I finally went to google the category of a classic, instead of avant-garde, to bid a tentative farewell to finding second hand Margiela and Comme des Garcons. Margaret Howell and APC seemed to tow the chic and classic line well, and it slowly dawned on me that I probably need to learn how to iron a shirt instead of throwing on my trusty Steven Alan reverse seam shirt.

I still have a weakness for architecturally intriguing pieces. I'm also a sucker for beautiful textiles, so my hunt for second hand Dries Van Noten will probably continue for another while. I began pairing edgier pieces with more structured items from British or derivative (well, Australia) brands and now it was time to figure a more proper outwear wear other than a denim jacket in tatters.

So I found a second hand trench coat in beige made by a company that closed many years ago, but was the cult favorite back when I was an undergraduate, when I knew of the company but was far from being able to afford it. The women who were able to buy $800 coats back then have now become mothers, and with the Kon Mari effect many were letting go of their prized possessions on online markets, which I nailed happily for $58.

What a difference. It pulls together everything. It works with flats and heels, I look professional and sharp, ready to tackle the day. I thought trench coat is a little too cliche, and I always thought of detective Colombo or those walking about Washington DC in very ill-fitting suits and trenches that are at least two sizes too big for them, but with the right size and cut, and the just right shoulder width, it's perfect.

I have yet to figure what to do with the denim jacket. Part of me wants to keep it, the other part of me reminds me how I felt quite awful in a cafe when I discovered that the stain around the neck was quite visible, and the threads along the sleeves are well beyond fixable, and it also doesn't look like the trendy intentionally destroyed look, either.

I will probably sit on it for another few days before I trim my possessions once again before yet another move. It's a small change, but also a big one.

The Image.

The reason why I am partial to the term 'handsome' in part has to do with my gut-rejection of all things saccharine cute. I suspect it has a lot to do with not only the early exposure to Barbie with that hot pink color, but to that day when my parents decided it's a good idea to take me to Sanrio Land--yes, the Hello Kitty version of Disney. Imagine. 

As a reaction I have always avoided pink like the plague and opted for blue--I did not like Hello Kitty, I chose the blue owl called Pata Pata Peppy. 

I believe it was around sixth grade or so, I came across a comic book for girls with the title, "the handsome girl." It had less of that wait for the prince on a white horse to take you to the land of happily ever after vibe, it didn't have the deadening passivity of plucking the flower petal to figure if he will call or not call, for which I utterly had no patience. I was always the one who spoke too quickly, the one who wanted to figure things out instead of patiently waiting. I wanted to cut to the chase, not ponder and yearn and interpret deep meaning into a guy's action which I swear on most occasion had no meaning whatsoever to it (why did he sit next to me at that moment? he probably couldn't care less). 

I forgot most of the story plot, but the main character was distinct from pretty or cute. The etymology of the term handsome comes from being agreeable to the eye, fit, appropriate, and of course the question of "to whom" is one agreeable is always an issue, but at least when I was immersed in the story, there seemed to be less yearning for approval by others of one's value, and more of an elegance that can be achieved when one is trotting about in a crisp but considered attire. 

In contemporary term the image was more akin to a woman who would be wearing Phoebe Philo's Celine. Effortless, but also considered. 

To be sure I am in no position to afford Celine (and she just left Celine, so it will be no more), but as an inspiration it will always have a special place. 

So that is "the image" when it comes to the term handsomeness and handsome things. 

I'm departing from the previous focus I had and am experimenting with a new mode of tracking my reflection on the daily finds. But as a new beginning I figured it would be only appropriate to first start with the photo I used to pin on the wall in my previous, previous, previous apartment, before so many relocation and dislocation. The picture must be stored somewhere if not lost, I no longer have it with me, but here it is. My image of handsomeness.