Casual Day
When I heard a new restaurant was opening nearby I was ready to snatch the opportunity. No, not for a date with Bret Michaels (though I do wish that was on the agenda). It was the chance to finally wear the Nanette Lepore dress and matching coat I’d hoarded in my closet since the New Year’s blowout sale at Lord & Taylor. With high school and college behind me, I can forget about any more proms and formals as excuses to play grown-up dress-up. But this was just the place: candlelight, marble floors, baroque wall moldings outside and in. I pushed the doors open with one hand, perfectly Chanel Vamp- lacquered fingers and all—and stood cemented there. I was stranded in a blizzard of loungewear.
It seems that, in the last half-century, dress standards have done a complete 180. The slobification of America probably stemmed from several different factors. Maybe it’s all about the “cool” quotient. History tells us the younger crowd has always rebelled against the “stuffed shirts”, but it’s clear by now that even the stuffed shirts themselves have thrown in their (monogrammed) towels. More culprits for our increasingly disheveled appearance could be laziness or the sheer practicality of not having to unzip one’s fly in public after a five-course meal at some Zagat-rated haunt on the Upper East Side. Whatever the case, it seems that the concept of formality is rapidly headed the way of T.Rex. Dresses feel overdressed. Ties are disappearing faster than last season’s tan. Saunter into a restaurant dressed up and patrons in leisure suits flash you stares that sneer you’re out of place. But I have a (sort of rhetorical) question. What really is more out of place in a restaurant where you can barely pronounce half the items on the menu—my Nanette Lepore dress or holey paint-splattered sweats emblazoned with Class of ’85?
I wouldn’t say I have as much contempt toward casual attire itself as I do towards disheveled dressing. A century ago it was not uncommon for women to shed outfits three or four times a day, with men not far behind. Even though we’re not living in the Victorian age anymore, common sense says it would still be a bit more visually appealing for people to set the bar a little higher. I’m not saying that a trip to the local supermarket calls for suicide heels. But for once I’d like to not feel over-the-top at what is supposed to be a formal or quasi-formal setting to begin with. At places as supposedly formal as the Metropolitan Opera I’ve seen ripped jeans, tracksuits, UGGs, Crocs, flip-flops, sneakers of every variety (and degree of whiteness), cutoffs, tanks, and visible underpants. Not to mention baseball caps turned at every conceivable angle. It looked more like a roadside burger joint than an opera house.
Informal dressing has not always been over-the-top (or is that under-the-bottom?) deconstructed. Casual Fridays began in the 50’s as a morale booster for the new white-collar office. The Beaver Cleaver era was rather slow to digest them, but with the onset of the 70’s, a wave of foreign mass-market clothing gushing into the U.S. made Casual Fridays increasingly popular. The number of companies relaxing their dress codes boomed. Ironically enough, today it seems that the workplace is one of those rare remaining territories where dressing up isn’t ogled with contempt. In the short stint I had as an intern some years ago, I felt more in my element. There were skirts! Heels! Ties! Not a battered sneaker in sight! For once I didn’t feel like every pair of eyes in the room was scrutinizing me for not wearing something ripped, stained, or 8 sizes too big with a gargantuan logo. For once I wasn’t being sneered at as being overly tricked out. To give an idea of how far we’ve fallen, the Halloween of my junior year of college, I wore a skirt to class and people were constantly stopping to ask me what my costume was.
It was there in that office that I realized the advent of Casual Fridays must have spurred a reverse trend. Other environments that once called for extra polish have stretched “casual” guidelines to the point where, far from filtering out what was included, count almost nothing as excluded. If that’s true then there might as well be no distinction between dress pants and cutoff Wranglers. Once I decided to burn time in during a college lecture by tallying the other girls’ shoes. The UGG count was 9. The total number of girls in the room was 12. And that doesn’t count the guys, who were either swimming in x-x-x-large sweats or jeans wide enough to rival M.C. Hammer's and belted strategically halfway down their buttocks. And I thought, aren’t you all gearing up to be young professionals here? Because if they were, Mr. Trump was hopefully donning his blinders.
Alright, so I do admit that maybe I’m a tad too enamored with dressing up. After all, I was the kid waddling around in my mother’s old heels and Aunt Fifi’s vintage costume jewelry. But when you see sweats and sneaks at the opera or some Le Chateau Bleu of a restaurant, it should be cause for alarm. So is the lady in a nylon leisure suit who throws on a couple of baubles to “formalize” it. Not only is our population forgetting where to dress appropriately, they’re forgetting how. Which is why I feel my crusade to de-slobify the people of America is far from over. Until then, expect me to wear that exact same dress to that exact same restaurant again. Just to piss off the peanut gallery.
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Dusty Rose by any Other Name...
Two summers ago, I’d been eyeing one particular eyeshadow duo by NARS. As August gradually melted away I was trying to decide what to add to my fall palette; this eggplant and iridescent periwinkle seemed to promise a sultry smoky eye. The fall runways are usually teeming with purple lids, but I was torn between at least fifteen shades. I must have tried on every plum on in Sephora when I finally came full circle. I’d known it all along; I had to have that shade. After all, it was called Demon Lover.
Ecstasy. Sexual Healing. Bad Education. Night Rider. Only some of the imaginative titles the contents of my makeup drawer can boast of. Of course I’ve bought colors with names barely half as appealing (pink #234535 anyone?) because the color itself was downright hot. But there’s something to be said for a great shade with an equally genius name. Not only does putting it on transform my face, but in a way it’s the equivalent of all those third-grade dress-up sessions in that it seems to transform a part of me into the character spelled out on the label. Which is precisely why, in my quest for purples, I knew I'd found the perfect one even before I proceeded with smearing enough different shades on the backs of both hands to make onlookers suspicious I'd contracted the Plague. Medieval diseases aside, Demon Lover was not just a number or an “eggplant” or a “dusky purple”. It had a persona of its own. It was a vampiress prowling in the alley, lying in wait for the next mortal specimen to sink her fangs into. Each swipe seemed to morph me further into a queen of the Nosferatu a la Anne Rice. I ended up spending over an hour snapping fierce digicam shots of myself at every possible angle, striving desperately to capture the essence of this thing. Along with a blush called Sin and a lipstick called Catfight.
It’s a given that some part of human nature pushes us to gravitate toward a brand name. Usually the key culprits are trust, nostalgia, or plain familiarity, as the eternal Coke vs. Pepsi feud can attest to. At the supermarket we’re surrounded by names hailing from mid-sitcom commercials: Lay’s potato chips, Tide detergent, Tropicana orange juice. Designer labels are a whole other phenomenon in themselves. But makeup names? Unlike a pair of Chanel sunglasses flashing those interlocking C’s on the arms, no one can tell that the Chanel lipstick you’re wearing is called “Libertine” as opposed to “Coral Pink” (yes, I do own both the shade and the Johnny Depp movie). The minerals used in modern cosmetics may reflect light to the point of blinding a couple hapless passersby, but shades haven’t yet been engineered to the point of displaying a marquee their titles across your mouth. To everyone else the stuff you slick on your lips and lids might as well be glitter glue. Which is why the concept of color names confuses some people—what does it matter if my lipstick was christened Libertine or the comparatively vanilla Coral Pink? Because Libertine isn’t just any coral-pink. It’s 18th-century Paris in a tub, a world of decadence and frivolity to be had consequence-free. It's towers of madeleines and macarons and a court full of courtesans waving silk fans. It’s a walk in Marie Antoinette's bejeweled shoes. With a couple swipes I’m one of those fan-fluttering courtesans, sans syphilis. Needless to say I’m still on the lookout for when Chanel releases a tube of Courtesane.
Now that I've confessed the lure of a name, which monikers exactly qualify? Some tags have been recycled several times over--sometimes within the same brand--to the point of going stale. I believe a name should evoke not just the appearance of a color—e.g. “Vibrant Pink”—but its character. Another color cliché is sounding straight out of the crayon box. I can’t tell you how many “Dusty Rose” or “Burnt Sienna” lipsticks and blushes I’ve come across years after passing the first grade. Fruit and flower species also top the list; it makes little difference to me if some other word is tacked onto them, such as “Splashy Strawberry” or “Mango Madness”. Fine for a cocktail, trite for a lipstick. Unless the spring collection’s theme is fruit cocktails, which is another story in itself entirely. Otherwise, the names of lip, eye and cheek shades need as much personality as the faces they animate daily.
Even the unnamed and not-aptly-named shades among us ought to be given a story. Some seem to just implore us for one. Back in junior high I barely knew designer makeup existed, let alone had the pocket change for it. I was lucky if I could get my hands on some random discontinued shade at the local Harmon. One of these was a metallic aubergine called “Iced Plum,” a name with all the inventiveness of a sheet of cardboard. A step forward from the typical I usually excavated from the sale bins, but still not enough to suit its sinister depths. So I took one of the many fine-point pens my mother regularly filched from her office, crossed out Iced Plum from the sticker and wrote “Misdeed”. Right then I started to feel the color like I hadn’t fishing it out of the 99 cent bin. It had identity. It had panache. It had character. Painting it on, I was a 20’s bobbed bombshell with a gun akin to the Merry Murdresses of Chicago. In actuality I must be the most law-abiding person in the world. I adhere to speed limits religiously and never default on any payments. But I’ve always fantasized about playing the Colt-wielding, ball-busting Velma Kelly, even if it was just to slip into her persona (and black bustier) for 24 hours one Halloween. And then I realized displaying a badass streak wasn't necessarily reserved for the last day of October. I could be Velma sans the arrest warrant any time of year, even when the neighbors were once again wrestling with a plastic Santa on thier roof or the Easter bunny was supposedly hopping around. All courtesy of a 99-cent bottle of purple polish.
Unfortunately, a gorgeous color and a name just as fetching don’t always collide. The color might just not do justice to the name, or vice versa, especially if it doesn’t compliment your complexion. Last year I tried on a certain nude lipstick called Promiscuous a handful of times before I finally (and reluctantly) concluded that it appeared muddy against my pale skin. Ironically, it might Pink #234535 the next counter over that snags the day's trophy. For some hues whose beauty lies in everything but the title, we need to dream up our own. But whether that tube of lipstick comes with a story already attached or you fashion your own fantasy, the color spectrum is endless. The only part left is choosing your own adventure.
Ecstasy. Sexual Healing. Bad Education. Night Rider. Only some of the imaginative titles the contents of my makeup drawer can boast of. Of course I’ve bought colors with names barely half as appealing (pink #234535 anyone?) because the color itself was downright hot. But there’s something to be said for a great shade with an equally genius name. Not only does putting it on transform my face, but in a way it’s the equivalent of all those third-grade dress-up sessions in that it seems to transform a part of me into the character spelled out on the label. Which is precisely why, in my quest for purples, I knew I'd found the perfect one even before I proceeded with smearing enough different shades on the backs of both hands to make onlookers suspicious I'd contracted the Plague. Medieval diseases aside, Demon Lover was not just a number or an “eggplant” or a “dusky purple”. It had a persona of its own. It was a vampiress prowling in the alley, lying in wait for the next mortal specimen to sink her fangs into. Each swipe seemed to morph me further into a queen of the Nosferatu a la Anne Rice. I ended up spending over an hour snapping fierce digicam shots of myself at every possible angle, striving desperately to capture the essence of this thing. Along with a blush called Sin and a lipstick called Catfight.
It’s a given that some part of human nature pushes us to gravitate toward a brand name. Usually the key culprits are trust, nostalgia, or plain familiarity, as the eternal Coke vs. Pepsi feud can attest to. At the supermarket we’re surrounded by names hailing from mid-sitcom commercials: Lay’s potato chips, Tide detergent, Tropicana orange juice. Designer labels are a whole other phenomenon in themselves. But makeup names? Unlike a pair of Chanel sunglasses flashing those interlocking C’s on the arms, no one can tell that the Chanel lipstick you’re wearing is called “Libertine” as opposed to “Coral Pink” (yes, I do own both the shade and the Johnny Depp movie). The minerals used in modern cosmetics may reflect light to the point of blinding a couple hapless passersby, but shades haven’t yet been engineered to the point of displaying a marquee their titles across your mouth. To everyone else the stuff you slick on your lips and lids might as well be glitter glue. Which is why the concept of color names confuses some people—what does it matter if my lipstick was christened Libertine or the comparatively vanilla Coral Pink? Because Libertine isn’t just any coral-pink. It’s 18th-century Paris in a tub, a world of decadence and frivolity to be had consequence-free. It's towers of madeleines and macarons and a court full of courtesans waving silk fans. It’s a walk in Marie Antoinette's bejeweled shoes. With a couple swipes I’m one of those fan-fluttering courtesans, sans syphilis. Needless to say I’m still on the lookout for when Chanel releases a tube of Courtesane.
Now that I've confessed the lure of a name, which monikers exactly qualify? Some tags have been recycled several times over--sometimes within the same brand--to the point of going stale. I believe a name should evoke not just the appearance of a color—e.g. “Vibrant Pink”—but its character. Another color cliché is sounding straight out of the crayon box. I can’t tell you how many “Dusty Rose” or “Burnt Sienna” lipsticks and blushes I’ve come across years after passing the first grade. Fruit and flower species also top the list; it makes little difference to me if some other word is tacked onto them, such as “Splashy Strawberry” or “Mango Madness”. Fine for a cocktail, trite for a lipstick. Unless the spring collection’s theme is fruit cocktails, which is another story in itself entirely. Otherwise, the names of lip, eye and cheek shades need as much personality as the faces they animate daily.
Even the unnamed and not-aptly-named shades among us ought to be given a story. Some seem to just implore us for one. Back in junior high I barely knew designer makeup existed, let alone had the pocket change for it. I was lucky if I could get my hands on some random discontinued shade at the local Harmon. One of these was a metallic aubergine called “Iced Plum,” a name with all the inventiveness of a sheet of cardboard. A step forward from the typical I usually excavated from the sale bins, but still not enough to suit its sinister depths. So I took one of the many fine-point pens my mother regularly filched from her office, crossed out Iced Plum from the sticker and wrote “Misdeed”. Right then I started to feel the color like I hadn’t fishing it out of the 99 cent bin. It had identity. It had panache. It had character. Painting it on, I was a 20’s bobbed bombshell with a gun akin to the Merry Murdresses of Chicago. In actuality I must be the most law-abiding person in the world. I adhere to speed limits religiously and never default on any payments. But I’ve always fantasized about playing the Colt-wielding, ball-busting Velma Kelly, even if it was just to slip into her persona (and black bustier) for 24 hours one Halloween. And then I realized displaying a badass streak wasn't necessarily reserved for the last day of October. I could be Velma sans the arrest warrant any time of year, even when the neighbors were once again wrestling with a plastic Santa on thier roof or the Easter bunny was supposedly hopping around. All courtesy of a 99-cent bottle of purple polish.
Unfortunately, a gorgeous color and a name just as fetching don’t always collide. The color might just not do justice to the name, or vice versa, especially if it doesn’t compliment your complexion. Last year I tried on a certain nude lipstick called Promiscuous a handful of times before I finally (and reluctantly) concluded that it appeared muddy against my pale skin. Ironically, it might Pink #234535 the next counter over that snags the day's trophy. For some hues whose beauty lies in everything but the title, we need to dream up our own. But whether that tube of lipstick comes with a story already attached or you fashion your own fantasy, the color spectrum is endless. The only part left is choosing your own adventure.
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