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Or was it a calculated take on Luca Guadagnino’s non-costume approach to costume design? When Luca Guadagnino invited then first-time costume designer Giulia Piersanti to join his 2016 film A Bigger Splash, he had a philosophy in mind. “With Giulia, we already thought about reality, truthfulness [and a] silhouette that could be absolutely organic to the essence of the characters through the act of clothing them,” the Italian-born director told Grazia in 2016. Piersanti was a seasoned knitwear designer but never made clothes for the big screen. She was also going to be joining Raf Simons — who was collaborating with Guadagnino for a second time — a combination that made the whole thing feel more like celebrity styling than costume designing. For Guadagnino, that’s sort of what he wanted. “Working with designers can lead you to do something absolutely organic and truthful. So naturally, I prefer to work this way,” Guadagnino added. So with his team of designers including Piersanti, Simons, and Pieter Mulier of Alaïa, he forged an “organic, unimposing wardrobe” for Tilda Swinton’s Marianne Lane. For his 2018 film Call Me By Your Name, Guadagnino tapped Piersanti again to convey a similar sense of costume-lessness. Inspired by photographs, films, and magazines from 1980s Italy, she set out to create looks that reinforced Timothée Chalamet’s Elio and Armie Hammer’s Oliver authentic summer-in-Crema looks. The result was short shorts and loose-collared shirts – a kind of wardrobe that didn’t distract from the painful love story unfolding on the screen. “I wanted to avoid the characters looking too ‘costumey,’ like one of those bad Italian TV movies,” Piersanti told the New York Times in 2018. That same year, Piersanti also costumed Guadagnino’s Suspiria remake, where she utilized vast amounts of red; locks of real human hair; knotted rope; and prints filled with physiological images. In part, it was costumey, dramatic, and shocking, but felt fitting for an homage to Dario Argento’s slightly campy and fantastical 1977 original. Then, in Guadagnino’s 2022 cannibal romance film Bones and All, Piersanti opted for a slouchy, slightly pre-grunge ‘80s wardrobe with a color palette that was specifically “muted to blend in with the landscape.” The clothes looked like borrowed, used afterthoughts, lending to the transient and messy journey of Taylor Russell and Chalamet’s characters. When the time came to costume Zendaya, Josh O’Connor, and Mike Faist in his high-stakes, high-heat tennis drama Challengers, Guadagnino didn’t turn to Piersanti. Instead, he turned to Jonathan Anderson. “I saw the first JW Anderson collection, and I was like, What the fuck? It was a revelation. Bertolucci said that when Stravinsky played The Rite of Spring, things changed forever, ” Guadagnino said of his love for Anderson in W Magazine this April. Guadagnino praised Anderson, but never made clear why he didn’t return to Piersanti. It would have marked the pair’s fifth film in a row together as costume designer and director, and, at a glance, Challengers does deliver the same organic style of the duo's previous collaborations. So how (and where) did Anderson fit in? In Challengers’ outfitting, Anderson hones in on branding and simple design. One could call it quiet luxury. But here, camel sweaters and leather Loewe Flamenco bags are more than just covert displays of wealth — they’re covert displays of calculation. This is something lead tennis prodigy Tashi Duncan (Zendaya) is no stranger to. Be it posing for photo opps, getting plastered onto billboards and posters, or playing in front of screaming crowds, Tashi’s life revolves around developing a brand and image around her success on the court. Take the early scene where she revises the billboard of her and Art, adding an “s” to the word “challenger.” It’s just one example of Tashi rescripting the narrative of their relationship and her own legacy through the smallest of changes. So even as tennis stars like Serena Williams have been pushing the boundaries of simple tennis whites for over two decades (see: U.S. Open 2004), Tashi serves away in plain-Jane looks, solid colors, and a Stanford sweatshirt. The looks are simple and classic, yes, because so is Tashi in the public eye. Off the court, the story remains the same. Some have even gone on to box the looks in Challengers into the “normcore” category. Tashi’s look is clean and sharp and always made complete with dainty gold jewelry. Throughout the film, her looks remain simple, from the strapless blue mini dress look to the later black sheer turtleneck, slacks, and Chanel slip-ons. Tashi’s style reflects earlier JW Anderson looks that heralded a sort of refined style, evident in elongated, rectangular silhouettes and heavy use of corporate blues and neutrals. Looking closely at the aforementioned black turtleneck, the back of the shirt is striped with a single thick black line, reminiscent of a regularly used Anderson motif. One reason Guadagnino felt Anderson was a surefire fit as a costume designer was because he’s “savvy about the history of the silhouette.” The aesthetic pillars of quiet luxury or old money relate to traditional displays of white Anglo-American wealth. In these groups, style was — and still is — reinforced dress codes, particularly in country clubs or corporate settings. In Anderson’s work, particularly at JW Anderson, there is a noted regard for those ideals. Often, he perverts fitted tailoring and normcore fashion, almost poking fun at its simplicity (see: his 2024 spring claymation collection or his 2015 ready-to-wear big button, big tie, big hat collection). Sometimes, he revels in it (see: his tightly-tailored debut 2011 fall collection, which was fitted on a boy.) With Tashi, he leans into it. “As she climbs the ladder, she wants to own everything she’s got, so the goal is power. And power means how you control your life, how you control other people’s lives, how you control your look, and how you make your look be the definitive answer to the world,” Anderson told W, further explaining that Tashi “...is proof that there is something about success that ultimately makes people go toward conformity.” He added, “As you become more successful, you get to this point where everyone else who is successful has the same luggage, or the same jewelry. They all aspire to this same thing, which becomes slightly generic.” Tashi isn’t the kind to risk tarnishing the empire she’s built by stepping out of the box. Instead, she plays it safe, opting for identifiable markers of clean-cut success. The same goes for her little white boys. Whether Art (Faist) and Patrick (O’Connor) like it or not, their triangular friendship-slash-romance-slash-feud always seems to play out in Tashi’s favor. When Tashi realizes Patrick won’t let her marionette his tennis career, she moves on to Art. When she starts losing a grip on Art’s career, Patrick shoulders it back to her. And when she wants to see them both makeout with each other, well, she makes that happen too. Not to mention, that all happens in the shadows: of an Applebee’s parking lot, the backseat of a car, a hotel room, a secluded beach alcove. The repeated branding in Art’s later looks lends to Tashi pulling strings in their relationship. As the one who says she’s leaving Art if he doesn’t win the match, Art is just “a vessel for whatever you want him to be,” Anderson said to W. “So if he’s going to be Adidas, he is Adidas; if he’s Uniqlo, he is Uniqlo. There is no aesthetic — it is just whatever is there.” On the other hand, Patrick’s JFK Jr.-esque style represents calculated messiness. In one scene later in the timeline, Tashi scolds Patrick for pretending to be a starving athlete when he could run his parents for money at any time. He could dress like Art if he wanted to, but his stubbornness leaves him in poorly matched plaid shorts and a 2000s-era-looking tank top. “There is a cockiness to him,” Anderson said to W. “This way of putting clothing together that becomes quite seductive, because he’s so used to taste that even if it’s put together badly, it somehow looks good.” While the costume design in this grand slam spectacular might look simple, it can be argued that Tashi, Art, and Patrick’s clothes are choicely crafted to reflect the dynamics of the trio without impeding too much on the characters and plot. Aesthetically, Challengers follows suit with Guadagnino’s fashion designer approach to organic wardrobes. Still, the question that remains is: why was Piersanti, current head of knitwear at Celine, not tapped to pull this off? Was Anderson’s take on non-costume costuming a true unique derivative of his philosophy surrounding tradition and refinery? Was it a lackluster drop shot to get Angerson over the net and into the film world as he joins Guadagnino for the director’s upcoming film Queer? Could it just have been a way to Trojan Horse brands, including his own, into the film? Or did Guadagnino just decide early on that costumes were partly cannon fodder in a film where clothing is half optional? 🌀 Sophia Scorziello is a freelance writer from Connecticut who misses living in Los Angeles. Follow her on Twitter for unsolicited takes and Spotify links.

What do we even want from the Met Gala? In recent years, the annual Met Gala has evolved from a semi-private, “cocktail gowns and dinner jackets” type of fundraising event into the full-throttle, hedonistic parade of Bread and Circuses that it is today. The bar for what qualifies as a “good look” climbs higher and higher each year, with internet critics lambasting gowns that would’ve otherwise made Red Carpet Best Dressed lists if it weren’t for that pesky “theme.” This year repeated that same pattern, with one big curveball — a double theme. Now, the overwhelming majority of guests adhered to the “Garden of Time” dress code ( I mean… a beautiful floral gown? What’s easier than that?). This produced a mixed bag of some incredibly compelling and boring looks. Elle Fanning’s crystalline dove Balmain gown, Taylor Russel’s wooden Loewe corset, and Tyla’s “Sands of Time'' ensemble (also by Balmain) are among the most compelling. Whereas Emrata’s silver Donatella VERSACE💜 “naked dress”, La La Anthony’s rosie mermaid McQueen number, and (although it pains me to say this) Ayo Edebiri’s Loewe floral halter neck gown are among the most boring. The looks that really shined were the ones that referenced the actual Met Exhibit’s theme, “Sleeping Beauties: Reawakening Fashion.” Obviously, Zendaya’s double punch of a custom Margiela fantasy (that referenced Dior SS99), Philip Treacy for McQueen SS07 hat, and Galliano for Givenchy SS96 encore look stole the show, but Nicole Kidman’s recreation of a 1951 Cristobal Balenciaga gown and Isabelle Huppert’s 1930 Callot Soeurs Mermaid Bride replica captured the true spirit of the exhibit: reviving long-forgotten gems of fashion history. Since 2019, Anna Wintour has campaigned for increasing sustainability in the fashion world. In an interview with Reuters, Wintour said there needs to be “...more attention on craft, on creativity, and less on the idea of clothes that are instantly disposable.” Now, she and Andrew Bolton have organized an exhibit that calls for the reawakening of vintage clothing. This solicits an interesting debate, originally discussed heavily during the 2022 Met Gala: should celebrities be re-wearing archival garments? Now, if you’re Kim K trying to wear a Marilyn Monroe nude illusion dress, the Internet will unanimously scream “No!” However, I would argue that modified archival pulls should be the industry standard for red carpet dressing. Because, truthfully, these looks only exist to us as photographs. The actual garments lay dormant in cold, windowless archives — most likely never to be worn (or even seen) again. It’s a great tragedy that most couture pieces get one glittering moment of life on the runway, then sit in climate-controlled storage until the fabrics have rotted and degraded beyond all wearability. In an ideal world, the gowns would be worn and re-worn in their original states, with no tailoring. However, as we all very well know, for the majority of fashion history, runway samples were made impossibly small. So, that brings us to our next question: should only the Kendall Jenner’s of the world be able to wear archival Givenchy by McQueen? Of course not. This is not to say that couture is an inalienable right — I can already hear the fashion historians rattling my cage over this — I just believe it is better to have a storied garment that’s existed in many forms over the years than a massive heap of “iconic treasures” that eventually fade into the ether. And while it’s great to see new recreations of looks from runways past (I know I was giggling and kicking my feet watching Emma Chamberlain walk the red carpet in Jean Paul Gaultier’s redesign of his Fall 2003 Couture lace bodysuit!), it would be more impressive to see the actual corseted bodysuit utilized within the design — reused, recycled, reimagined. However, I’m not convinced we’ll see this development anytime soon. Archival pulls are seen as a major status symbol — the referenced runway is often judged in tandem with the star power of the celebrity wearing the look and the environment it’s placed in. Mere access to the archives is seen as an incredible power that is subsequently wasted by being boring. Now, I’m not here to argue that that perspective is wrong. Fashion is art, after all — and art is intrinsically linked to the circumstances of the world around it. But we have to live in reality a little bit, too. We can’t keep churning out these behemoth gowns with thousands of yards of fabric just to say we did it. We have to start thinking about sustainability as a creative practice — not just a marketing buzzword — before it’s too late. 🌀 Kaitlin Owens is a vintage fashion writer, movie buff, lover of good eats, and a women’s size 7.5 (if any shoe brands are reading). She is the Editor-in-Chief of Dilettante Magazine. You can find her on socials @magdilettante.

We spoke with vintage reseller Megan Miller of Little Sister NYC about her sartorial influences, curatorial process, and love for archival runway. When she’s not collecting seashells or capturing pictures of sunrises in South Florida, 24-year-old Megan Miller is sifting through racks of vintage clothes for her New York City-based womenswear resale page, Little Sister NYC. Miller’s presence on Instagram has transcended the platform, with her tousled brown hair, berry-hued lips, and Y2K outfits reposted on Pinterest for thousands of girls to use as a vision of aspirational self-expression and fashion inspiration. Now, Miller is reimagining Instagram’s role in her life — using the app to sell her carefully curated collection of playful ‘90s deadstock. With an emphasis on preserving the past and an appreciation for the possibilities of whimsical fashion trends to come, Little Sister delicately reconfigures what it means to have personal style in the digital age. ED: Your personal Instagram page, @girlbimbo, has garnered a large following — I imagine this has a lot to do with your style. How do you feel today about your public identity being attached to your fashion taste? Has this changed over the years? MM: As Instagram has changed through the years, I find myself caring a lot less about documenting anything... even my favorite outfits. I definitely try to keep a healthy relationship with social media by being on more of a what feels good in the moment basis. In turn, it has been incredible to have Little Sister as an outlet of personal style without directly having my face and body involved. ED: You’ve always had such a unique eye for pieces and patterns that go together when it comes to your personal closet. What made you decide to take it a step further and start reselling vintage designer in 2022? MM: Thank you! I started collecting and sourcing as a teenager, which never really actualized [into] anything until I very suddenly had an Oh! moment. Like, selling and curating is a thing I can actually do because I'm already doing it. When I started working on the first drop, the branding and styling came together so organically through the collection I already had on hand and [I] was so inspired by [it]. ED: I know that you’re originally from South Florida. How has living in NYC changed your current style? What elements of your style are nods to Florida? MM: I find myself in the most random outfits when I’m in Florida. Mostly because it is always 95 degrees outside and a typical day for me is spent driving to the beach, waiting at the taco truck, and then sitting in the sun with my dogs. Think: my favorite pair of blue plaid Italian men’s beach shorts with a big vintage tee that probably says something stupid on it; an antique 1900s cotton dress with a hat I stole from my dad’s closet; lots of ballet flats and high socks at the beach (NOTE: I hate sandals). Everything is paired with a bikini and sunglasses. I love sunglasses... I just got a pair of big Chanel logo sunglasses that I think are silly. I think I have garnered confidence and a carefree attitude in my style [while] living in NYC. It is the same style in both places, but you can wear something ridiculous and no one looks twice. I prioritize comfort, yet still find myself pulling down my skirt on a Citi Bike or [getting] blisters walking the Williamsburg Bridge in boots. ED: Who is your ultimate fashion inspo? MM: This photo of Sofia Coppola in a Hysteric tee and denim skirt on the set of Marie Antoinette is a pretty good summary… Uptown Girls starring Brittany Murphy was super formative for me, also Parker Posey in style and attitude. I recently cut my hair super short so I’ve been looking towards ‘90s Winona Ryder, Milla Jovovich, and Shannyn Sossamon. I was fully inspired by my friend Sav’s IG account to find this pair of y-3 polka dot ballet trainers that I’ve been wearing every day. ED: Now, let's get into some more technical details. What do you look for when you’re collecting pieces to resell? Are you searching for specific brands, clothing construction, pieces that evoke a certain feeling? MM: I honestly look for anything my friends or I would want to wear. It has been a great practice in letting go of incredible pieces! I also get super inspired by the sweetest girls who model for Little Sister. They are always so excited to see what we are shooting which gets me inspired to source for the next drop ASAP. From a brand perspective, I find I am mostly called to Miu Miu, Hysteric Glamour, Prada, Blumarine, and Anna Molinari. Some other personal favorites are Comme Des Garçons and Sonia Rykiel. Little Sister has been growing [along] with my own personal style and it is pretty evident looking through the archive. It is youthful but maturing with a love of color and patterns that I hope remains cheeky but timeless in style. I’ve really enjoyed sourcing more archival and runway pieces. I’ve been obsessed with and searching for anything from Philosophy di Lorenzo Serafini SS 2000 — I finally found an amazing dress coming in a drop this month. ED: I’ve noticed a major ‘90s and early aughts influence throughout your drops. Do you have a thematic through-line when you upload new pieces to sell? MM: No consistent concrete themes or plans... I try not to plan anything out and it is just what I am loving in the moment. I am currently working on a beach/bikini drop which probably is what kept me going through NY winter. ED: When you're sorting through vintage clothes at a thrift shop, is there a common item you're seeing? Why do you think these pieces are being resold? MM: Lately I find there to be an emphasis on durability and quality as opposed to an obvious vintage aesthetic in style — which is incredible, but can be difficult to achieve when there is so much SHEIN already on the racks at Goodwill. ‘90s mall brands like J. Crew and Banana Republic are great and durable in fabrication for life-long closet staples. One of my favorite sweaters is [a] second-hand J. Crew that I got for $4. ED: What is a current trend that you’re noticing that you hate? MM: I can't really think of one? This is a really basic answer, but anything inauthentic to the person who is wearing it. ED: What’s a new brand that you're into right now? What about it do you like? MM: Moment For Life — it’s my lovely friend Sophie who is curating the most thoughtful archive. I might have to get the Hysteric 4-piece glass set. Ninabow is the sweetest girl making really fun pieces! I love polka dots and sequins. I’m excited to get one of the crowns she is coming out with soon. Brooke Callahan has perfect colors! I just got the purple pants and they will be a spring and summer staple. ED: Are there any pieces you own that you will never get rid of? MM: My mother’s Bitch necklace charm I never take off. She got it while working at a kiosk in the mall in FL when she was in high school. Obsessed... This Miu Miu FW 2003 top was a 21st birthday gift from my friend Ella — it has been so precious to see in my closet over the past few years. I had a difficult time letting go of this Marni FW 2001 silk dress, too. ED: Is there anything we haven’t touched on that you’d like to mention? Any new projects? MM: I have a pop-up at Vaux Shop the last weekend of April! I’m currently plotting to share a pop-up showroom space this summer with Sophie of Moment For Life. I’m also thinking of extending Little Sister NY to menswear… Little Brother? Little Mister? 🌀 Erica DeMatos is a writer, editor, and student based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Find her on social media at @erica_dematos.

How Catholicism became fashion’s hottest throughline. Think holy body entwined with carnal energy, angelic lineage mixed with mortal sin: these culturally shattering themes formed the core of the 2018 Met Gala. Themed “Heavenly Bodies,” the annual event reinvigorated the historical overlap of fashion and God — and sartorial impulses versus spiritual ones. Years later, Catholicism-as-trend has ascended in popularity and not, as the atheism of the day would suggest, dwindled. Brands like Mirror Palais and Praying reaffirm that God (or, at the very least, religious paraphernalia) is trending once again. In recent years, there has been a swell in the aestheticization, and, to some extent, the fetishization of Abrahamic religion, with spiritually significant icons worn as fashion statements. Religious-iconography-as-fashion-statement isn’t particularly new (see: Madonna, Anna Wintour’s first Vogue cover), but after 20 years of cultural agnosticism, these images are less about stoking controversy and more about their sheer aesthetic qualities. Specifically, #catholicaesthetic — or even #catholiccore —  has grown tremendously in popularity. Long white dresses, rosary beads, gold crosses, and red accents form the crux of the style. Daniela Garza’s public posting ethos encapsulates this Latina Catholic Girl aesthetic perfectly; images of Penelope Cruz from the ‘90s, Frida Kahlo’s handwritten letters from the ‘40s, and Virgin Mary figurines entwined with rosaries populate Garza’s digital space. In 2022, Garza found herself in the spotlight as the face and muse of Mirror Palais’ Collection III campaign, a brand that has gained social media virality for its sensual, soft, and distinctly feminine pieces. Video collateral for Collection III filmed Garza gallivanting through historic, cobblestoned Mexican cities like San Miguel de Allende. The imposing gong of church bells is heard tolling in the back and Garza appears like a ghost, dressed in clothing that, while highly reminiscent of this Old World, would be seen as insulting — and downright blasphemous — in the age of Hernán Cortés, Haciendas, and the Empire. But isn’t there something anachronistically transcendent about seeing a modern woman recreate historical dress? Perhaps here lies the intrigue of such a campaign: there is a delicious transgressiveness to imagining oneself as a scantily-clad 16th-century maiden, roaming around a world that looks straight out of a García Márquez novel. Coquette is another buzzword often used in conjunction with Catholic Core — and can’t be mentioned without the specter of Lana Del Rey. Del Rey’s embrace of traditionally Catholic textures through her lyricism and stylistic choices has garnered both applause and criticism. Her music videos permeate spiritual insinuations: lace veils, cross jewelry, teary-eyed girls kneeling and praying in dreamy landscapes. Del Rey’s self-written 2013 short film Tropico, where she and male model Shaun Ross impersonate Adam and Eve (and their subsequent fall from grace) is the most blatant example of religion being employed as an aesthetic. While the Creation story is not axiomatically Catholic — nor Christian — the film’s aesthetics borrow from Catholic catechesis, down to the technicolor palette, reminiscent of stained glass. 12 years later, the film has amassed more than 10 million views. More recently, Del Rey’s album Did You Know That There's a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd has accumulated millions of streams — and also includes religion as a key interlocutor. “Judah Smith Interlude” is a soul-hitting sermon extract taken from Del Rey’s non-denominational megachurch, though reads like a homily, complete with an exegesis that warns of “a life founded in lust”; “Jon Batiste Interlude” is a trance-like, dramatic proclamation of spiritual ecstasy; and “Let The Light In” (featuring Father John Misty, ironically enough) tells the story of a clandestine love affair, where the ambiguous “light” that the narrator seeks could be read as the light of God. In her essay “Coquette Inclination,” Eliza McLamb comments on the intersection between this newfound fascination with Catholicism and fashion. The forces that have made this aesthetic moment so influential are, while rather varied and complex in the abstract, actually quite simple. McLamb writes: “...while I don’t think that young people need to ‘find God’ necessarily, I think it’s time we admit that we’re all looking for it.” Since time immemorial, fashion has provided an accessible outlet for moral stances, personal beliefs, and idiosyncratic tastes. In a culture of anything goes, the disintegration of concrete moralities once found inside religious doctrine feels pernicious, and young people feel more lost and aimless than ever. Many are seeking answers — and trying to find meaning in a world that feels increasingly meaningless. Of course, we are not the first generation to experience this existential dread, and we certainly won’t be the last. Virginia Woolf famously commented on the baffling nature of living back in her 1927 novel To the Lighthouse: “To stand on this little ledge facing the dark of human ignorance, how we know nothing and the sea eats away the ground we stand on.” More recently, in the infamous 2006 memoir Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert notes similar anxieties: “This panic I was feeling at the age of 10 was nothing less than a spontaneous and full out realization of mortality’s inevitable march, and I had no spiritual vocabulary with which to help myself manage it.” Religion provides indisputable solace. For believers, it provides answers to the irrefutable fact of our inevitable demise and perpetually oscillating emotions. The idea of having a connection with something divine, and therefore feeling protected by that divinity, should not be overlooked. Fashion’s creative directors — or consulting firms, depending on your philosophical outlook — have been paying attention to this major moral shift, incorporating religious answers as fashion statements to reflect society’s collective unconsciousness. High-fashion Catholic touches, from Gaultier to Willy Chavarria, have trickled down to the wider market, translated into modern clothing’s palpable expanse. On the flip side of any trend, deeper meaning abounds. The obsession with Catholic-Core is nostalgic and submissive. It allows the wearer to feel close to the docile innocence of adolescence’s gilded cages while still feeling empowered in adulthood — a grown individual exercising the freedom to curate their own image exactly as they want it. The aesthetic also resonates with the duality of the female experience. One can be gentle, feminine, submissive, sultry, dignified, and cool. The popularity of Mirror Palais’s Collection III is due to similar forces. Marcelo Gaia’s designs engage virginal undertones while still maintaining unmistakable allusions to sexuality, with their low necklines, exposed midriffs, and sheer, gauzy materials. Fashion operates as a looking glass into the self. Often, without even realizing it, every day we communicate our interior emotions to the external world. En masse, young people yearn for a connection to something bigger than themselves and their fleeting experiences. This fixation with Catholicism is no accident; it is a targeted reaction to the lack of ritual, meaning, and devotion endemic to the Western world. Ostensibly, Religion-as-Aesthetic is just another trend, one that will inevitably pass. But I think it is, in fact, one of the few trends that will only increase in relevancy as the polarization of society pulls some in the other direction, towards hyper-modernism and the avant-garde. Ornamentation using religious symbology will always have a space in the fashion scene as long as humans feel a connection to a higher power. In other words: the oratories within our hearts — those places of quiet worship where the thousands of silent thank you’s or pleas to God reside — will never cease to exist until human emotion itself subsides. 🌀 Jade Serna is a writer and aspiring journalist from London, England. She can be found on Instagram @jadesernaa.

Data confirms that Miuccia Prada is the queen of the industry (you heard it here first). While it may feel natural to suggest that the fashion industry is simply a vanity project designed to stroke egos and furnish the feet of the overtly self-indulgent label-obsessive — and to a degree that assertion would not be wholly erroneous — the business of style is, at its core, a business. As with all major trades, there are the big players, the underdogs, the investments and billion-dollar deals, and those who rise to the top quarter on quarter. With April drawing to a close and the haze of summer lingering around the corner, the Lyst Index has released the latest installment of its much-anticipated report divulging the data on the hottest brands and products from the first three months of 2024. A fashion technology company and premium shopping app, Lyst analyses the habits of over 200 million consumers taking into account shopper’s behaviour, searches on and off the platform, and online brand traction. In a year where discussions around the inclusion and hiring (or lack thereof) of female creative directors at major fashion houses have abounded, one woman is leading the industry — and breaking records as she goes. The 74-year-old Miuccia Prada is by no means a new name, and to insinuate that her success is a recent discovery would be to discredit decades of innovative service to her craft. However, it is fair to suggest that Miu Miu and Prada have never been as marketable and in demand as in 2024, and the data now backs this up. Reclaiming the coveted title as the hottest brand in the world from sister brand Prada, Miu Miu has achieved a monumental first for any Lyst Index company by having three items included in the top 10 hottest items roll — numbers 1, 3, and 7 respectively. The Miu Miu x New Balance sneakers collaboration is officially the most desired item of the quarter, having sold out within hours of release. Coincidently, this is also the first occasion that New Balance has entered the index, taking the 15th spot. Searches for the footwear brand are up 17%, most likely thanks to partnerships with Aimé Leon Dore, Saleh Bembury, Junya Watanabe Man, and, as aforementioned, Miu Miu. Also making their debut is Alaïa, with the house’s jewelled ballet flats (or Mary Jane’s — semantics!) declared the 4th hottest product of the year thus far as searches rise by 43%. It is perhaps worthy to reminisce on the enchanting Alaïa FW24 ready-to-wear collection presented in Paris back in January, hailed by online luxury fashion circles to be one of Pieter Mulier’s finest moments. This collection may have had very little influence on the brand’s consumer popularity growth (after all, they have a viral shoe, don’t you know), however, it certainly cannot have hurt. Many factors can enact harm on a global luxury fashion brand, and announcing the departure of a beloved creative director is certainly high on this particularly exhaustive catalogue. Nevertheless, the opposite has taken place for both Valentino and Dries Van Noten, with the former announcing the withdrawal of Pierpaolo Piccioli and the latter the retirement of the eponymous designer. Searches for Valentino spiked 84% week-on-week following the news that former Gucci creative director Alessandro Michele, whose work has had a Marmite-effect, would be replacing Piccioli, assisting the brand up to 9th position on the hottest brands index. Equally, searches for Dries Van Noten surged 31%, although the house does not feature on either brand or product lists. Elsewhere, Saint Laurent has hoisted itself up to the top five for the first time, as online hunts for Saint Laurent items following its Paris Fashion Week show went up 10%. Balenciaga’s redemption arc (whether rightly or wrongly) is succeeding, too, as the brand re-enters the top 10 for the first time following Q3 of 2022. Celebrity endorsements from the likes of Kim Kardashian, Paloma Elsesser, and Nicola Peltz Beckham have certainly aided. Moreover, Dolce & Gabbana — a brand that has been blacklisted by celebrities and fashion acolytes alike — has debuted in the 18th position. 🌀 Molly Elizabeth is a freelance fashion writer and commentator based in London.

Some reflections from the inside of a red plastic cup. Streets are saying that Los Angeles feels exactly like the early 2010s — and we all know they’ve been coming back for a while now. It’s not always easy to know when nostalgia is playing tricks on us, but it’s even harder to know when it comes to fashion. As Indie Sleaze morphs into its summer counterpart and Isabel Marant’s wedge sneakers take hold of the Internet’s smaller corners, those of us who are particularly vulnerable to the thrill of a sunny day and a warm night begin having L.A. hallucinations. There has always been something transcendentally Party Girl about Los Angeles. Beachy waves, salty blonde hair, hot pink, heavy kohl eye makeup… whether you love it or you hate it, messiness has slowly taken over the polished way girls have been presenting themselves these last couple of summers. While messiness — waking up in your bathtub, racking up $46,305.04 in Chateau Marmont debt, et cetera — seems like an easier gig, surprisingly enough, it is, in fact, harder to be a Ke$ha girl in a Hailey Bieber world. Is cool messiness harder to achieve in a world hostile to problematic women? Or is the clean girl aesthetic so ingrained in our brains that we find it almost impossible to let go? And, more importantly, what does Los Angeles have to do with it? It’s not easy to find a Los Angeles blog from someone who actually lives there; visitors are the ones providing city tours on YouTube. Look no further than the recent wave of nostalgia TikToks providing quick glimpses of what one could see were they to visit the (in)famous city at the height of its power. However, these blogs, TikToks, and even movies set in L.A. have one thing in common: they portray the city as a breezy landscape where all of its landmarks are adjacent, easy to access, and full of magic. Why face the reality of an unwalkable city when one can dream about a forever-sunny land where reality is suspended under the shadow of a thousand palm trees? Its unseriousness as a city is equally well-known. Forever acting as New York’s antithesis, it has become the embodiment of athleisure, leisure itself, and influencer culture against New York’s gritty, frantic, razor-edged tempo. To whatever extent this may or may not be true, it seems that Los Angeles has now decided to embrace its own stereotypes — a land of promises with a dark underbelly, of which a thousand poorly-written novels and films have been written — and is luring us back. YouTubers are back from the dead, Minnesota teenagers are making Erewhon shopping lists, and we all want to go to Coachella once again. Everything in the City of Angels feels very specific and tied to its infernal core. Stacey Battat, who works regularly with director Sofia Coppola and was responsible for the costume design of her 2013 film The Bling Ring, mentioned that one of her main inspirations at the time was the mere act of being in Los Angeles — and that it was essential for them to use Juicy Couture sweatsuits and Uggs, which she thought was “a very L.A. thing at that time.” An arsenal of flashy tracksuits, fur pieces, chunky jewelry, and glittery jeans made up the cast’s wardrobe and represented not only what celebrities were wearing back then but the Los Angeleno ideal at large — all without appearing too costumey or artificial. Some of these trends may be nothing new to avid internet users; everyone’s already witnessed the Y2K revival and is familiar with names like Von Dutch, Playboy, or Ed Hardy. Still, celebrity culture is a huge part of L.A., and the style of professional Party Girls such as Paris Hilton, Ke$ha, and Lindsay Lohan influenced the Los Angeles landscape as much as they were influenced by it. This type of messy Chateau type of L.A. girl is intimately related to McBling — and touches on a very specific obsession with hedonism, trash, and celebrity culture of the early 2000s. Twenty years ago, people wanted to see celebrities being celebrities; fed by reality TV, the masses craved a glimpse inside the life of those inoculated by messiness and excess. Reality shows such as Jessica Simpson’s Newlyweds or The Simple Life forever changed the celebrity game, establishing Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie as the standard Beverly Hills girls and bringing socialites back into mainstream media. It was also during this time that celebrities started calling the shots in the fashion department, with brands relying on them to dictate trends and boost sales. Celebrity casual style, which combined regular garments with logo-slathered luxury items, kicked off a fever of imitations and dupes that sidelined exclusivity in favor of consumerism and mass production. Opulence and manufactured beauty, already a central piece in Los Angeleno identity, became the cornerstone of the L.A. girl. It is quite easy to get tired of excess and obnoxiousness, though — and the messy party girl slowly faded away: too rowdy, too tarnished, too “much.” She would soon be replaced with sun-kissed, natural, and discreetly fun-loving Malibu girls. With the Hadids as the archetype, the group eventually included now well-known Kendall Jenner, Camila Morrone, and even Internet celebrities like Madison Beer. Excess was still there, but it took a different shape: Starbucks drinks instead of wine bottles. Victoria’s Secret workout sets instead of Juicy Couture tracksuits. Philosophy body washes instead of stolen hotel room soap. Açaí bowls instead of coke for dinner. The L.A. Girl identity was still there — just cleaner. To a certain extent, that change encapsulates our contemporary tension between excess and minimalism. Here is the cool, calm, and collected put-together girl, commonly associated with control, discipline, and slightly crunchy sophistication; here is another girl who actually gets to have fun. However, whereas the clean girl uniform is easy enough to recreate, there is a secret ingredient to the L.A. Party Girl formula. Few modern attempts at “messy girl style” — of which TikTok rakes in thousands of videos — get it right. Even those who nail the mismatched glittery outfits or slept-in-eyeliner lack the nonchalance of a rich girl gone wild. In the 2020s, algorithmic life compels us to stay polished and controlled, and even when we attempt to be messy, we still, inevitably, come off as polished and controlled. Now that the tables are turning and the masses are yearning for silliness and fun, it seems that we still cannot stray too far away from the disciplined, comforting beauty of our already familiar ways. Perhaps some things are meant to remain elusive. As Susan Sontag writes in Against Interpretation: “To speak of style is one way of speaking about the totality of a work of art. Like all discourse about totalities, talk of style must rely on metaphors. And metaphors mislead.” Identity plays a bigger role in fashion than what one may assume at face value, and fashion would not be as alluring as it is if it lacked the element of mystery. After all, it can be hard to draw the line between style and costume or to pinpoint what makes a city the symbol of something bigger than itself. Alas, taking off the clean girl slick bun or unplugging the Dyson hair wrap might not be the key to the L.A. Party Girl look, but it might mark the beginning of a new era, with Los Angeles as a backdrop instead of a final destination. 🌀 Paula Luengo is a freelance writer based in Madrid. Her interests draw from music to fashion and media analysis, with special emphasis on all that’s old and battered. You can find her on Instagram at @0030300.

And a Goyardine Saint Louis PM bag. Tomorrow, the streetwear brand releases its Spring/Summer 2024 collection — including work jackets, barrage knives, and appearances by Goyard and Rolex (no joke). Titled “I Never Thought It Would Be Like This,” candy-colored statement pieces pair with luxury accouterments — including a $2,100 Goyardine Saint Louis PM bag to a $2,000 Maison Raksha engraved pair of Apple AirPods Max, all emblazoned with the brand’s iconic logotype. Other custom luxury pieces include a Portefeuille Matignon GM wallet; a Rimowa Classic Cabin carry-on; and a customized Rolex Submariner ($29,000). While these luxury products take center stage for SS24, they’re not part and parcel with ASSC, with the brand underlining: “While the products are authentic and customized by ASSC, they are not official collaborations with the mentioned brands.” ASSC’s devoted fan base — of streetwear acolytes and sneakerheads — frequently sell out the brand’s drops. SS24 is a change of pace; while streetwear brands leaning into luxury is nothing new, there is something notable in the fact that ASSC in particular is growing alongside their tight-knit community, not against them. Let’s see what comes next. 🌀

Predicting the archival looks that will grace the red (or beige?) carpet this May. First it was “Sleeping Beauties,” now it’s “The Garden of Time” — I can’t keep it straight. Trusted advisors of mine (the group chat) say that there’s always been a difference between the exhibit theme and the dress code, and to that, I say: Heavenly Bodies? Camp: Notes on Fashion? Manus x Machina: Fashion in the Age of Technology? We’ll even do a deep cut — Charles James: Beyond Fashion? Sounds like revisionist history to me. Whatever the theme may be, the “low-hanging fruit” here (pardon the pun) is going to be floral gowns. Floral patterns, floral appliques, and light, gauzy fabrics that give the illusion of flowers around the neckline or hemline or whatever-the-hell-line. It’s safe to assume we’re going to be seeing lots of celebrities in florals for spring. But onto the pressing question — what would I wear if I were invited to the biggest night in fashion? Answer: Just about any look from Givenchy FW96 Couture. This Regency-style sheer nightgown with the delicate floral embroidery on the bust would be a showstopper — and, of course, I would style it faithfully to the runway look. I’d never leave behind a lacey panty, dripping crystal headpiece, or white fur stole! It’s against my nature! This puff-sleeve white gown on Kate Moss sets my bridal heart ablaze. But, of course, you’d have to do it with the hair, or else it doesn’t work. This red lace number with the giant rose epaulets? A clear winner. But yes, again, you would need to wear the giant feather bang. I don’t make the rules — I just follow them. I also love this red 1940s-style dress with the full bouquet bust and little heart hat. Mostly because it reminds me of the costume Dita Von Teese wore for her “Lazy” number at the Crazy Horse in Paris. So maybe my bias is showing a little bit. While we’re on the DVT subject, this Jean Paul Gaultier butterfly corset look from his Spring 2014 Couture collection would be perfect. Honestly, the entire collection is ripe for the picking. It’s chock-full of garden-inspired headwear. I especially love this black and white ostrich feather plume paired with that silky polka dot gown and little crochet bolero. Also, if someone wore this bridal butterfly showgirl look, I’d lose my mind. I could see a more daring man in this black suit pants + nude mesh butterfly shirt combo. Conan Gray? I’m talking to you. This look from Prada Spring 1997 RTW is the perfect balance between the two themes — very egalitarian. It’s covered in floral beading (check) and the cut of the gown combined with its sheerness is so deliciously reminiscent of a classic nightgown (double check). Lest we forget about Viktor and Rolf Spring 2003? It truly is a treasure trove for garden looks. This is a fun suiting look that I hope makes an appearance — and for once I will say, I hope they don’t do the hair from the runway. It would look so much better with big, bouncy, curly Keri Russell hair. Emrata or Zoe Kravitz could make this Viktor and Rolf Spring 2003 printed silk skirt set look very hot. It’s very flirty — Mediterranean Siren, Mirror Palais vibes. I can also imagine Riley Keough in this '70s-inspired, high-neck sheer dress — but maybe that’s just because the model kind of looks like her. I’m so excited to see what the stylists and design houses put together this year for the gala. It seems every year there’s a major curveball we don’t expect. Whether it be Rihanna’s showstopping Yellow Guo Pei Gown or Karlie Kloss’ infamous “looking Camp right in the eye” — we’re sure to be shocked and delighted. The only thing I ask is: please no more Marchesa. We’ve seen enough Marchesa. 🌀 Kaitlin Owens is a vintage fashion writer, movie buff, lover of good eats, and a women’s size 7.5 (if any shoe brands are reading). She is the Editor-in-Chief of Dilettante Magazine. You can find her on socials @magdilettante.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show star owns over 500 pieces of vintage Mugler alone. Laverne Cox doesn’t just have a wardrobe — she has an archive, dahliiing. With notable highlights of her closet including THE wing-tipped Mugler Bustier (yes, that wing-tipped bustier from the famous Iceberg shoot in Greenland!) and an Alexander McQueen matador coat, few fashion lovers have amassed a collection of designer relics as large as Miss Cox. In 2023, Cox shared a tour of her staggering 500-piece Mugler collection on her YouTube channel. The collection focuses heavily on Thierry Mugler’s early work — specifically his ’80s wasp-waist blazers. The Orange is the New Black actress owns one in just about every color. Although her focus isn’t limited to only the early days of Mugler, Cox is a major supporter of Casey Cadwallader and has been photographed in the Creative Director’s looks many times. Cox had only begun collecting Mugler garments three years prior to the video – but has been obsessed with the designer for over 30 years. It is surprising how quickly she’s been able to hunt down each piece, but no more surprising than the fact that her archive has grown so large that she has begun renting out the apartment across the hall from her in New York to store it. Imagine that… an entire NYC apartment as a closet... Carrie Bradshaw, who? Laverne Cox isn’t the first fashion obsessive with extreme brand loyalty. Vogue’s DEVOTED series on YouTube profiles collectors who have become singularly focused on acquiring the works of a specific designer. On the show, they have featured Fiona Luo and Michael Smith, a couple who have dedicated themselves to collecting the works of Rick Owens; Joey Arias,who has been collecting Jeremy Scott for over a decade; and Michelle Elie, who owns over 70 pieces of Comme des Garçons. In his Vogue profile, Arias tearfully explains: “When I came upon Jeremy Scott’s work… it awoke something in me. I think that little kid inside of me really fell in love with what was in front of him and saw himself playing with these life-size Barbies on the runway.” It’s a specific kind of person who becomes a collector — especially a collector of über-expensive, high-end goods like couture. You buy the clothes because you feel intrinsically connected to the designer. You believe in what they stand for, you feel drawn in by their expression — their fantasy. It’s an extension of the same kind of parasocial relationship we talk about when discussing stan culture. There has to be some degree of projection — of constructing a facsimile of the designer to relate yourself to, to aspire to, in order to spend thousands of dollars and hundreds of man-hours acquiring their works. In an article for GQ — “Why The Ultimate Luxury in Fashion is Human Connection” — Noah Johnson writes that “I’ve always thought that the ultimate aspiration […] is to wear only clothes made by people you know. [...] Then there would always be a reason to get dressed, some kind of higher purpose to the act of putting on clothes—less a declaration of brand affinity than a signal of support, or a pledge of allegiance. Like going to a restaurant where you know the chef, or being backstage at a concert, you would somehow become complicit in the clothes that you wear.” We all just want to feel connected to the things that we love and to be seen by others for who we really are. If you’re a lover of art and fashion, this feeling is amplified beyond the level of an everyday person. There’s a strong desire to mold your physical form as close as possible to the vision of yourself in your heart. In an interview with British Vogue, Cox explains that her fascination with Mugler (and specifically his tailored pieces) comes from “...being a trans woman and not being very shapely.” She says, “...the construction, the architecture of it all, is really what excites me.” At the end of the day, sometimes the Tumblr-famous quotes just hit the nail right on the head: “Art and love are the same thing. It's the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.” – Chuck Klosterman Couldn’t have said it better myself. 🌀 Kaitlin Owens is a vintage fashion writer, movie buff, lover of good eats, and a women’s size 7.5 (if any shoe brands are reading). She is the Editor-in-Chief of Dilettante Magazine. You can find her on socials @magdilettante.

The answer is complicated. It was in 1991 that Elizabeth Taylor, the famed British-American actress of the Golden Era of Hollywood, launched White Diamonds. A floral fragrance with notes of lily, bergamot, jasmine, and a healthy dose of neroli oil made the perfume one of the most commercially successful fragrances of all time, generating $1.5 billion in sales alone since 1991. According to Revlon, there's one bottle sold every 15 seconds. While it wasn’t the first fragrance launched by a celebrity, it laid the foundation for the celebrity-branded fragrance frenzy of the 2000s. It was J.Lo’s Glow, Britney Spears’ Curious, Mariah Carey’s M, Xtina’s Xpose, Justin Bieber’s Someday, and countless other celebrities that released fragrances within that decade. Jessica Simpson, along with her fragrances, even released a crazy popular line of beauty products, Dessert, that included deliciously-scented (and edible!) lip gloss, body creams, and shampoos. In 2024, celebrity fragrances continue to be launched, but there's a new market to cash in on: cosmetics. Like fragrances, celebrity makeup brands have long existed, but the mid-2010s and 2020s have made celebrity-branded cosmetic brands a dominant, serious force in the industry. Since the Y2K celebrity fragrance era, the demand for makeup and cosmetics has drastically risen since the 2000s. In 2000, sales from the top 100 beauty companies totaled $93 billion. In 2020, that same figure rose to $212.59 billion. With the help of social media and influencer marketing, it’s easier than ever to buy and sell makeup products. It makes sense for popstars to release fragrances because you want to bottle their intangible sparkle — but it makes less sense when non-pop celebrities try their hand at brand-building. The beauty industry is so popular and profitable right now that even celebrities who have no prior experience, connections, or even clout in the industry are taking up market share. What do Scarlett Johansson, Pharrell, Brad Pitt, and Addison Rae all have in common? They’ve all launched beauty brands in the past five years. Beauty consumers are flooded with constant new product releases from celebrities. Some of these brands have flopped and struggled to cement a name in the space (Rae’s Item Beauty has quietly been removed from Sephora’s shelves), while others like Selena Gomez’ Rare Beauty and Halsey’s about-face are flourishing. The reason why? People can see through the BS. Unlike fragrance, makeup has to serve a hand of efficiency and functionality. A lipstick must have color payoff; a mascara must thicken or lengthen; a foundation must not oxidize. Whether a fragrance is inherently good or bad is up for debate; if a makeup product doesn’t deliver on its basic purpose, it means that it just sucks. “The products need to work," Allison Hahn, Senior Vice President for makeup and fragrance at Sephora, tells Allure about celebrity beauty brands. "They still need to do everything any product we sell does." As such, people also need to believe in a brand’s authenticity — that there's a real connection between the product, face, and message. It’s why Fenty Beauty, the beloved makeup brand that launched in 2017, succeeds. Not only does Rihanna constantly use and promote her products, but the brand also stands for diversity and inclusion of all ethnicities and skin types by releasing 50 different shades of foundation and concealer, ranging from the palest of fair skin to the deepest of deep. It’s also why Kylie Cosmetics’ sales declined hard after it was revealed that her voluptuous lips were the work of fillers. The skepticism towards celebrity beauty is warranted, as it seems that business and profitability come first, with beauty and creativity second. According to WWD Beauty, while these stars may be the face of a brand, many of these companies are actually backed by large investor groups. Big incubators like Coty Inc., Bain Capital, and Forma Group own stake and manage formulations and operations for the business. It’s easier than ever for a star to launch a company they have no affiliation with beyond face value. That’s not to say that Xtina was in the lab trying to perfect Xpose’s candy-gummy gourmand back in 2004; rather, that celebrity beauty brands are merely a continuation of what consumer goods corporations perfected 20 years ago. When it comes to cosmetics, there’s no amount of star power, marketing, or money that can replicate a tried-and-true product. With so many options right now, those celebrity-backed brands that have found a niche within the community rise above the others (see: Rare Beauty’s Soft Pinch Blush!) and have not only fan loyalty but also longevity in the industry. That’s what really matters when it comes to cementing reputation, legacy, and profitability. ) 🌀 Niya Doyle is a forever East Coast-based writer, beauty buff, and cat lover. She is a freelance journalist for HALOSCOPE covering beauty. You can follow her makeup and skincare journey on TikTok.

Put on your velvet choker, Lip Kit, and handle it. Spring has finally sprung. For outerwear enthusiasts, it’s a great time of year to break out those jackets that don’t really do much besides looking good. One might think of jean jackets or cropped woolen bombers. What comes to mind for me, though, is their distant cousin: the green military jacket, which has ostensibly receded from view. If memory serves, green jackets were thrust into the mainstream around 2016 and retained their chokehold on the average consumer through the early 2020s. Less than a decade later, people cannot expel them from their closets quickly enough. Consignment giants like ThredUp and Poshmark are teeming with what might as well be a relic from the days of yore. Green jackets, it must be said, were never a fashion statement. Their quiet simplicity was overshadowed by more salient trends; they lacked the audacity of neon clubbing attire, the grandeur of royalcore, and the grittiness of festival garb. These jackets instead morphed into a civilian analogue of the military uniform, which can be conceptualized as a malleable blueprint for outfit building. In the 2010s and early 2020s, uniform dressing was typified by jeans, T-shirts, and white sneakers. Green jackets, subsequently, were layered over striped tees; tied around skinnies or mom jeans; and thrown over casual dresses to curate uniforms of their own. Part of the mass appeal of these jackets came from being designed with wearability in mind. They were sold in a subtle yet wide variety of silhouettes, fabrics, and tones. Many were hewn from cotton or lyocell, others from nylon or Gore-Tex; they came lined or unlined, drop-tailed or straight-hemmed. They were perfect for transitional seasons, with plenty of room for sweaters or fleeces underneath. For a type of jacket that doesn’t do much, the green jacket really did a lot. The popularity of green jackets was even more remarkable in historical context. The year 2016 will be remembered as a corrosive one, to say the least. The events that unfolded over those 365 days brought to a head many of the tensions that had long been simmering beneath the ragged terrains of our sociopolitical landscape. Amongst a bitter race for the White House, the deadliest mass shooting in United States history, the Flint water crisis, and the rise of the #MeToo movement, the very infrastructure of this country and its institutions seemed poised for imminent collapse. Green jackets were a sartorial constant during an era rife with civil unrest and uncertainty about the future. Politically indiscriminate and universally flattering, they represented a rare beacon of solidarity among women from all walks of life during a period when the United States appeared to be more polarized than ever. I recall a time in college when I spotted a classmate in an outfit that could have been whisked out of my own closet: green anorak, navy striped shirt, skinny jeans, and a pair of Vans. The moment would have been inconsequential if not for the peer in question, who was an opinion columnist at our campus newspaper and, at that time, one of two staunchly conservative crusaders on staff. Her flaming red hair was rivaled only by the incendiary ideas that poured from her mind, penning column after column against reproductive rights, funding for transgender troops in the military, and other progressive issues. Seeing her cross the grounds in an ensemble that I would have worn left me dismayed — in much the same way one might feel when someone they dislike says something irrefutably funny. On reflection, the idea that I actually had something in common with someone whose entire worldview stood at odds with my own reinforces one of fashion’s blithe powers: setting a standard that transcends individual differences in philosophy or personal ethos. As Troy Patterson wrote in The New York Times Magazine, “...the army green jacket could variously represent the shell of a loner (Robert De Niro in “Taxi Driver”) and the skin of a neurotic (Woody Allen in “Annie Hall”), the badge of the last honest man (Al Pacino in “Serpico”) and the sign of a rebel’s toughness (the guys smoking cigarettes in your high-school parking lots).” Anyone can slip into a green military jacket; all it signifies is that they like it and have good taste. The many parallels to be drawn between the sociopolitical climate then and now are only too obvious. If 2016 was a turbulent year, it barely hinted at the severity of the turmoil that was to come in the new decade. The 2020 election yielded a narrow victory for the Left and the new administration fought to restore a long-lost dignity to the Oval Office — a feat doubly impressive given that it was accomplished on the heels of an insurrection. However, any sense of cautious optimism quickly dissipated as COVID-19 began its rampage and the country found itself plunged into a state of even deeper crisis. I would trace the green jacket’s decline back to this point in the early 2020s. Global lockdown orders and the transition to remote work left many of us unmoored. As life grew less structured, many wardrobes followed suit, ushering in a new era of athleisure and oversized everything. The green jackets understandably lost their status; we weren’t going outside, let alone into battle. With the tentative return to normalcy — current political climate notwithstanding — I had hoped they would make a comeback. I still have mine, a mossy-hued number to which I have sworn fealty. Even today, I find myself reaching for it over its denim and leather friends. Uniform dressing certainly seems to be regaining traction, with the capsule wardrobe concept once again circulating online, so maybe there’s hope. Trends have always moved with the times and are, more often than not, cyclical. After all, green jackets as civilian garb stretch back to the Vietnam War era; their immense popularity has been remarkable because of their ordinariness, not in spite of it. Wherever we come from, wherever we go, certain pieces will always have a place in our closets. 🌀 Neha Ogale is a twenty-something freelance writer, recovering coat hoarder, and indie film enthusiast based in NYC. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @urbangremlin.

Some thoughts on shopping, meaning, and Jane Birkin’s wicker basket. DOES ANYONE HAVE A FAMOUS BLUE RAINCOAT ANYMORE? While listening to Leonard Cohen’s 1971 song of the same name, I recently found myself dwelling on the innocuous symbol. A piece of clothing that is so often worn that it becomes recognizably yours. In Cohen’s song, the raincoat is paralleled with a lock of hair. These are the only descriptions we receive of the subject of the song; a literal part of their body and a piece of clothing. How integral. Now, we might be known for our style or overarching fashion sense, but are we ever really known for our garments? The difference between Cohen’s 1971 and our 2024 is the result of the over-buying, under-wearing, and unrelenting trend cycle. According to the Ellen MacArthur Foundation, a garment is worn only 7-10 times before being discarded. Everyone knows this is incredibly bad for the environment, but I’d argue it’s also bad for your soul. To not feel a connection to the garments you place on your body devalues your bodily awareness. I believe disconnecting from our clothing, through garment waste, could be considered a moral experience — that is actively devaluing the lives we are living. Recently, I have been especially ill at ease with the struggle between my love for fashion and my hatred for over-consumption. Will these two priorities of mine ever be friends? Can they, even? Being anti-overconsumption and fashion-interested is oxymoronic. Mindful and ethical consumption is fundamentally opposed to the proclivities of the fashion industry. The quite obvious truth is that the most sustainable clothing choice is to not buy and instead wear what you already own. According to The Hot or Cool Institute, we should be adding only five new pieces to our wardrobes per annum to comply with the UN’s global warming limit. (Though I do question this way of phrasing the issue — there could be good, clothes to buy if fashion companies didn’t churn flimsy garbage out at hyper-speed?) Rhi Harper expressed my dilemma perfectly in a tweet from last December: “I think I love style and hate fashion.” But what can this look like in praxis? How do we accomplish style without the intervention of fashion? The answer is obvious but cannot be overstated: by actually wearing our clothes. In recent attempts to curb this overconsumption and inspire sartorial creativity, there have been a plethora of trends; styling challenges; No-Buy initiatives; and minimalist approaches, like the capsule wardrobe. I’m going to offer a different but kindred approach – to simply connect with your clothes and to invest in clothing that connects with you. Maybe I’m unnecessarily sentimental — I know I am — but I like things to matter. And I think by building lives with beautiful things, we build valuable, truthful lives. We should fill our closets and homes with carefully selected, meaningful objects to enrich our lives for the better instead of objects that bog us down — or, worse, have no meaning at all. I must also pause to suggest that this overconsumption is linked with the newer idea that a sense of identity lies in a set of commodities. People think of style as who they are, and to deprive someone of the right to express themselves is seen as oppressive. Across the wide scope of human history, identity used to determine what you wore; now, clothing functions to determine identity. I hate having clothes without meaning. There is something soulless in the modern style procession: 1) seeing a jacket in an Instagram post 2) following a link to an online shop 3) ordering the jacket for yourself and 4) having it delivered within a week. Where’s the story? Where’s the passion? Can that really even be considered having an interest in style — or has the work been done for you? Once upon a time, style signaled something. Garments could say something about you, your politics, and your people. An accessory could arise for practical reasons, like punks using safety pins to make garments, since that was an available, concert-ready resource, which eventually became a signifier of the subculture itself. We are eons away from this material integrity of alternate style. Can it really be considered “style” to see someone wearing a specific pair of tights online, going on Amazon, and buying the same pair of tights? So that way one can fulfill the idea of oneself as a person who dresses a certain way. That’s not identity. That’s not style. That’s certainly not community. Nothing about these garments says anything about who you are, where you come from, or what you do — aside from who you want to project and be perceived as. Where’s the story? Where’s the development? It feels vacuous and simply unintelligible. At the same time, I do believe self-expression is a right, and that one of the pleasures of life is being able to shape oneself. To create an ideal image and realising it is a powerful tool. In matters of sexuality and gender, it can be revolutionary. The emotional power of clothing is truly magical. But it is not a right to accomplish this — especially in an unsustainable, ridiculously sped-up window of time. I just think it should happen very, very slowly, over a lifetime. We see these bids for connection with our clothing appear in aesthetic culture. Currently, it’s being channeled through the resurgence of Indie Sleaze, 2014 Tumblr, and Twee. The reappearance of these 2010s fashion eras is an attempt at experiencing — or for some, re-experiencing — the emotional implication of times past by wearing the clothes, or at least signaling to by posting  online, the blithe joy of “the good old days.” Eventually, these renaissances fizzle out and we latch on to something new because the same issue reoccurs; it doesn't bring fulfilment. Is it not that deep? Maybe. But do we not want to be surrounded by beautiful things? Things we have spent years dreaming of, saving up for, waiting for? To live beautiful lives? To feel fulfilled in our wardrobes? I want to have stories with my clothes. I want them to be lovers and friends. I want to treat them like treasures. It should be harder to create the wardrobes we want, and we should embrace difficulty and particularity in curation. I will finish with some show-and-tell, from a treasure chest of clothes that do more than just clothe a body, but are memory-laden and sacred — maybe even in their mundanity. Jane Birkin’s Wicker Basket What: A woven fisherman’s basket. Worn: With everything. Where: From the Cannes Film Festival to Pro-Choice rallies, and everywhere in between. Before she was the namesake of the Hermès Birkin bag, Jane famously carried a wicker basket, sometimes referred to as “the other Birkin bag.” When she met Jean Louis Dumas on a flight in 1984, the meeting canonised itself into fashion mythology — the wicker basket spilled its contents, starting their conversation. Birkin bought the fishermen’s basket in Portugal, and even after the creation of the Hermès Birkin, she continued to favor it (though the lid looks to have disappeared at some point). Sturdy, roomy, light, and lidded, Jane Birkin carried the basket through seasons and years. Half of Birkin’s most iconic, Pinterest-ed-to-death images feature the woven bag in hand with floor-skimming, heavy black coats; summery miniskirts; silky party dresses; heels; and her daughter on her hip. From a Pro-Choice rally in 1972 to the Cannes Film Festival in 1974, the loyal companionship of the wicker basket is emblematic of the salt-of-the-earth quality that has made Birkin’s image and style so enduring and apt for endless reference. Eddie Vedder’s Corduroy Jacket What: A cropped brown corduroy shirt. Worn: Unbuttoned over t-shirts or long sleeves, with cargo shorts or trousers. Where: Gigs, informal photoshoots, and festivals. “Does it get more ‘90s grunge than Eddie Vedder and a corduroy jacket?” begs the caption under the picture of Eddie Vedder I return to. Vedder bought the shirt from a thrift store, and it became a core part of Pearl Jam’s visual identity. Hemost famously wore it in the band’s 1992 MTV Unplugged recording. It’s also a really nice jacket. The slight crop at the waist and slimmer fit streamline the baggier components of Vedder’s outfits. In 1994, after seeing a similar shirt being sold for a much higher sum, he went home and wrote the song “Corduroy” where he wails (as Eddie Vedder only ever wails), “They can buy / but can’t put on my clothes.”In a 2002 interview with The A.V. Club, Vedder said “[the] song was based on a remake of the brown corduroy jacket that I wore. I think I got mine for 12 bucks, and it was being sold for like $650.” Hoping to procure one yourself? One Pearl Jam subredditor suggests “[getting] a time machine back to 1981.” Stevie Nicks' Top Hat What: A 1920s black top hat. Worn: With Stevie’s classic witchy-bohemian garb. Where: Concerts, photoshoots, and the “Go Your Own Way” Music Video. There are two T’s that have accompanied Stevie Nicks through Fleetwood Mac’s journey: a tambourine and, over her thick bangs; a top hat. Nicks has donned an array of top hats, with increasing amounts of flair: feathers, satin ribbons, rosettes, trailing veils, and silver talismans. She still owns her original 1920s top hat, which she bought in Buffalo, New York. Talking with V Magazine in 2009 about some of her most memorable looks, she explained, “We were on tour and on one of our days off Christine and I went antique shopping. I found that hat in some random little shop. I still have it. It’s at home in a box. I keep everything. There were a few classic pieces that got lost or stolen along the way, but everything else I saved.” It’s truly admirable to have the guts to wear any hat, especially a top hat. And Nicks pulls it off, taking her visual identity to the heights of iconic silhouette. During the 2014 Fleetwood Mac Reunion Tour, the hat would be brought out for the encore, like a celebrity guest. “[The] hat has its own roadie, its own box and its own cage. It’s always protected,” she shared with Rolling Stone in 2014. “Once again, it’s me and a top hat… the little top hat that could.” Truly. Elvira’s Dagger Belt What: A waist-hugging leather belt held together with a bejeweled dagger. Worn: Always. Where: Everywhere. Speaking of iconic silhouettes, has anyone ever perfected and realised their look as well as Elvira? The Mistress of Darkness’ look is both maximalist and simple. A towering bouffant of jet-black hair; the plunging neckline of a figure-hugging bat-winged dress with a daring slit; sheer black stockings; and black pumps. (To specify “black” is redundant, here.) In the middle of this iconic uniform sits a leather belt held together by a bejeweled dagger. Elvira’s look is a perfect lesson in accessory. The belt, amplified cleavage, dramatic makeup, and stiletto nails add the perfect campy details to an otherwise quite minimalist look. Cassandra Peterson, the woman behind Elvira, revealed in a 2020 interview with Vogue that the original belt was from Macy’s and sheathed with a leather pin. Robert Redding, who helped design Elvira’s look, eventually “designed a drawing of a dagger and then went out and had it cast in metal and added jewels to it.” The belt is made of A-1 pleating and remains a component of the performer’s costume, which she has been wearing since the 1980s. Bonus Item: Joan Didion’s Packing List What: A packing list. Worn: While traveling. A slight diversion away from sole garments, Joan Didion’s packing list exists for a practical reason, but also illustrates the idea of stripping one’s wardrobes down to the necessities. My own, most recent, packing list — for Easter weekend — features broad phrases like “Monday outfit” and “Outfit for going home in,” but Didion’s list features specific amounts of specific items — an early rendition of the capsule wardrobe. In The White Album, Didion notes the anonymity afforded by the outfits: “Notice the deliberative anonymity of costume: in a skirt, a leotard, and stockings. I could pass on either side of the culture.” It offers a different consideration of clothing, not as identity but as camouflage. Similar to Elvira, this “uniform” allowed Didion to do a job — and to do so efficiently. Didion further suggests, “The list enabled me to pack, without thinking, for any piece I was likely to do.” It makes me wonder what a wardrobe enabling one to dress without thinking — not for lack of creativity but due to careful consideration in its curation — would look like. May we all take notes on how to dress from Joan. 🌀 Olivia Linnea Rogers is a Norwegian-British writer, fringe enthusiast, film watcher, and poet, if you're lucky. Based in London. She can obviously be found online on Instagram (@olivialinnearogers) and Twitter (@olivialinrogers).