the genetics of style

Tangerine nails. Something new I'm trying. When asked to join a group of people at the local Russian baths I decided I needed shocking nails, something to take the attention off of my ill-fitting bathing suit (fyi: you can lose all the baby weight, but you can't put things back where they used to be). And some way of accessorizing when jewelry will get hot enough to burn you and makeup will melt off your face. Did I mention that the Russian Baths are basically a bar that everyone goes to in their bathing suits? Normally, I'm not one to care about these things, (when I say "makeup" I mean lip tint and mascara) but even I, a secure and fit (enough) person has her limits. Anyway, I've never really liked painting my nails, in fact it was always just another thing to pick or peel. But lately I've been wanting to look more pulled together, or if not that, than at least like I tried in some capacity. So nails. That is what I can muster. I can't wear my schoolmarm witch shoes by Chie Mihara, bad weather and bad feet. I have no occasion to wear my Vena Cava dress or my Lauren Moffatt jacket. And if I did, I barely have the energy for that kind of dressing. My energy level is at nails, and occasionally hats.

Hats are particularly nice because they distract from, or add to, an otherwise lackluster outfit. I like how my very inspiring friend Miss E described fashion, adornment as creative expression. Some might say that fashion is frivolous, and it is. But one: I'm really talking about style and art in the form of design, you can debate if that is what you call "fashion." And two: couldn't we all use a little frivolity in our lives, some light-hearted fun?

My grandmother was a woman with great style, she wore long brocade sheaths with matching coats, she wore gloves and carried tiny bejeweled purses (when appropriate, of course). She was a statuesque woman, striking, and I imagine, fearless. She wore Pucci. Her hats were from Bonwitt Teller. She had dresses handmade during her travels, in India, Jamaica, Hong Kong. And they always had lace over the hemstitching and stays for bra straps. Her clothes reflected her attention to detail, her demand for good quality, her exhaustingly high standards, and her love of beautiful things. While I was seventeen when she died, her brain, her self, died when I was nine years old. I was never able to know her, to ask her if keeping up that level of appearances was worth it. Was it ever fun, did she ever feel it was a choice? I feel lucky that I don't have to jump through all of those cultural, societal, and wearable hoops. I don't have to wear stockings, ever. I don't have to wear heels, or hats or gloves, and so choosing to wear them is an act of creative expression. It is a tribute I pay to my grandmother, and one I pay to a by-gone time when quality and beauty were synonymous. My grandmother would be scandalized to see what I wear outside of my house (though I am my mother's daughter and spend most of my time in jeans in wool sweaters, so maybe it wouldn't surprise her that much). She would be dismayed by my habit of applying liptint while riding the subway. But, I like to think that she would be happy that as a tired and spread-thin artist I still don some lovely bit of tulle and wire, before I head into Manhattan, where she study art herself in the twenties. Maybe she wore the same hat and walked down the same street. I wish I could ask her. But I know she would hate the tangerine nails. Here is a sampling of my own hat collection, the first two and the black belonged to my grandmother.

for fancy dress events

Mary Poppin's easter hat

the old stand-by

found in Savannah in 1999, there was a veil, but it didn't survive

This one is waiting patiently for spring