Braving the fitting room line is an event in the life of a woman. Whether once a month or twice a year, the brief wait between shelf and body is a time of optimism. Test-driving a state of being wearing the creation of a designer, our over-the-shoulder glances and spins in front of the mirror are taken slowly. The wardrobe: admired, bought, tailored, taken back or worn to bits is an expression of everything inside the wearer. It reflects attitude, personality, and outlook. New pieces draped over parts of old statements paired with soft leather totes and J. Campbell-esque shoes loved for their similarity at a lower cost (because at this point, most of us aren’t able to indulge in the way we would like), and through the wrapping and placing of these pieces, we create ourselves.
Fashion is not so much followed as it is expressed. We tailgate our favourite designers and dog-ear the inspirational lines and cuts of anything structured, or patterned or daring. Through this mental logging of all things appealing, the wearer learns of their problematic inclination toward sequins (think: head to toe), or their inherent ability to pair metallics with broken-in Earth tones. Closing the door, lights from above, we put on the uniform of someone else for a few moments and turn slowly. Watch the colours clash or compliment. See the cloth hug or repel. A stern hand at hip and tilt of the head and for a little while, in that change room, we grant ourselves the time to contemplate exactly who we want to be.
Erin
No comments:
Post a Comment