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Founded by Montreal-based textile artist Hayley Mortin, Dazy Chains seeks to untangle and explore the lineages of textile production and computational technology. If you’ve ever tried crochet, one of the first foundational stitches you learn is the “chain.” The simple act of looping yarn, when multiplied, creates a soft textile network, capable of forming images, textures, and shapes –– or (if you’re not careful) “‘glitches” through dropped stitches that leave unraveled gaps in the weaving. “Daisy-chaining” further describes a process of interconnection, whereby electronic devices are wired together to create a woven system capable of transmitting signals from one node to the next.  Hayley Mortin is a Montreal-based textile artist and the creative force behind Dazy Chains , a knitting project that seeks to untangle and explore these lineages of textile production and computational technology . Amidst the cozy fuzz of brushed-out mohair and the vibrant hues of dyed yarns, Mortin’s knitwear designs capture ephemeral moments of digital activity (think: CAPTCHA , dialogue from mobile game ads , or images from AI learning how to see ) and incorporates them into IRL wearables and tapestries. Mortin also recently created and published Needlebound , a collection of essays, interviews, and project photography by textile artists shared through the common thread of a passion for making.  Hayley and I hopped on Zoom to talk about rendering the virtual through knitting, developing her first book project, and how she’s found online communities of fellow fiber artists in the age of social media. Eleonor Botoman: How did you come into knitting as a creative practice?  Hayley Mortin:  I started knitting over the lockdown. I taught myself through YouTube tutorials. When I was really young, my grandma tried to teach me how to knit but I never had the patience for it. But I think when there was so little else to do, it forced me to get into the headspace to actually get the hang of it. So I started with crochet and then I realized that knitting is a better approach for colorwork and doing things that are a little bit more figurative for the stuff that I wanted to make. Yeah, and a lot of YouTube tutorials. A lot of Eastern European women that are over the age of 70 had really good knitting tutorials that you have to put auto-translate on for [laughs]  so I feel like those are the OGs. That’s when I started, so probably like 2-3 years ago now. EB: I know that your practice at the moment is a mix of hand knitting and then you also have a knitting machine. How did you end up doing machine knitting?  HM:  I started using a Silver Reed LK150 probably a year after I was doing handknitting. It’s a really basic machine. It has the same visual aesthetic as an Easy-Bake Oven. Like, it’s really plastic-y and pink and it’s kind of dinky, but it’s a really good beginner knitting machine.  What I really like about it is if I’m making a sweater and I don’t want to spend a whole lot of time making, like, the back panel — which, with handknitting, could take me a whole week — with a knitting machine that could take me a day. I feel like it helps me get through the more monotonous parts of the knitting. But because it’s also this kind of dinky machine, [there are] no colorwork attachments. Like, I know there’s all these misconceptions. You hear “knitting machine”’ and you’re like Oh, it’s this thing that’s electronic and it plugs into your laptop and whatever , but I do all of the colorwork by hand. Every stitch is hand-manipulated on the machine. It almost feels a little bit more like weaving. It’s still faster than handknitting but it’s still way slower than if I had a machine with a lot more bells and whistles. I always find it really hard to describe the amount of work and time that goes into each piece because, yes, it’s faster than handknitting but it’s also super manual. EB: How did you end up getting the knitting machine? How did you find it?  HM: I found a lot of other Instagram knitting folks. They’re very generous with sharing tips and tricks, and the machine knitting community is also super tiny. Other folks on Instagram that were using knitting machines were really generous in answering my questions about it and then there’s a really good machine knitting Reddit  and a ton of Facebook groups. [There are] so many different people from no specific geographic region and they all just convene and they’re all super friendly and easy to talk to because there’s not a lot of resources on it. So that was really helpful in getting started.  EB: Yeah, it’s like the digital knitting circle. Something that I find compelling in your practice is this entanglement of technology and textile-making. Could you talk about some media histories or iconographies of digital culture that are sparking your curiosity at the moment? HM: When I first got interested in those entangled histories, it was right after I had read Zeroes + Ones  by Sadie Plant. I think I had read that before I even started knitting. She uses weaving as a metaphor  in a lot of her work to describe the relationship between people and technology and I thought that was really interesting. Plant also talks a lot about Ada Lovelace and how she was also a really big contributor to early computation. Her work in the field of computer science and its influence on some of the earliest knitting machines — which could also effectively be considered some of the first computers — blew my mind. All of these things were so entangled and kind of impossible to parse apart. Like, they were all coming to fruition at the same time, which I thought was really cool. Tons of rabbit holes expanded from just that alone.  EB: One of the first pieces that I ever engaged with from your work was the  leg warmers  from your CAPTCHA  series. You’ve also made sweaters  and bags  over the years. Do you see knitting as an act of translation?  HM: I think it’s a way of engaging or reclaiming this relationship with something that feels really fleeting and intangible. A lot of artists that I really love like to play with the idea of the tangibility of the Internet or the infrastructure of the Internet as being something very real. But we use metaphors like the cloud and digital space, which makes it seem like it’s like vapor.  I’ve always been obsessed with materializing things that are tactile and how to engage with things that are usually hidden. So something as fleeting as CAPTCHA — which you engage with for like 0.5 seconds — you’re not there to really engage with it. You’re there to log into some site or whatever and it's a weird pause. To freeze it into something like knitting which is so, so, so  slow and tangible, it’s such a contrast to the actual act of what it means to do a CAPTCHA so I feel like that’s something that I think about when I’m doing that.  EB: I’m also thinking about other pieces you’ve made recently that focus on AI or on computer vision. I feel like there’s also something there about glitching or (re)generation and how that pertains to the process of knitting.  HM:  For a while, I’ve been collecting images from computer vision and machine learning research papers  because I think that some of the things you get in those papers are so poignant and weird. People don’t look at a machine learning paper for the imagery. They want the data and the results and they want to use it for their own research. And these things are so invisible. They get hidden in these computer science archives and websites and whatever, but they’re really important in constructing how computers see. People forget that’s a process that’s still mediated by humans. So I’m taking that and then deeply physicalizing it in knit as something tangible to me.  EB: Another motif that also comes up in your work is butterflies. I’d be curious where that fascination came from.  HM: I think in the beginning it was just really easy to knit. Then I used that as a way to narrow down other source material. So I’ve been using computer vision papers that have butterflies in [them] and there was a piece that I did on the flight paths of butterflies  where I transcribed these scientific diagrams of how a butterfly travels in space. Because the body of work in these scientific spaces is so vast, I’m trying to narrow it down with one attribute. I also like that it’s a “feminine” motif and contrasting that with the cold, traditionally masculine science and then reintegrating that into something like knitting, which is also usually coded as feminine. There’s definitely a gender thing going on there, too. It originally was a really easy thing for me to learn how to knit when I was learning colorwork, and then eventually I’m like, O h, I like the butterfly, let me push it further . So yeah, that’s where that comes from.  EB: How has your approach to sourcing materials shifted? HM:  At the beginning, my mom just sent me a bunch of yarn that was in the house because she also crochets and knits. So did my grandma. We had the material and I used what was available to me. As you just get more used to it, you develop your preferences. It evolved from this package of random yarns that I didn’t even know what material it was to then ordering things off Amazon and being like Okay, I’m just going to try this and make a slightly bigger project . That was when I didn’t really know if I was going to stay with knitting, too, because I love to hop between hobbies all the time so I wasn’t going to invest a lot of time and money upfront. But as soon as I realized this was something like Oh, I really love this , that’s when I started to spend more time understanding materials, understanding the sustainability aspect of it. Like what are these life cycles like? What is the dyeing process? What is the spinning process? [There are]  also a lot of great yarn stores in Montreal, too. I luckily live around the corner from one  which is a double-edged sword because I spend a lot of my time and money there. I think just being a little bit more picky over the years and, moreso, working with a couple of trusted brands and farms.  EB: Maybe we’ll segue into talking about Needlebound . What inspired you to make a printed book that was dedicated to the fiber arts? HM:  I love printed matter. I love books. I love a collected little compendium of stories. I didn’t feel like I was seeing [the textile arts community] represented anywhere beyond being completely online, which is cool because that’s where it originates and that’s where it lives.  But for a community that’s so focused on liking tangible things, I feel like it should also have a tangible form of documentation in the form of a book. I think there was a collective groan of like Ugh, the algorithm . Everyone’s only seeing whoever they follow. Or even with people that you follow, you don’t even see them on your feed sometimes, you just get ads or suggested posts. So using that as a way to break through and then collect these voices in a unified place where people aren’t getting bombarded with whatever Mark Zuckerberg’s pushing at the moment, was really the motivation.  And I love a new challenge. I knew I had enough vague project management experience skills from my day job that I could apply to this. I’ve never made a book before but I feel like I could do it. In addition to that, working on the actual development and production with my partner  who I also live with made it a lot easier to collaborate and work on it together. That definitely expedited the process rather than having to hire someone outright who has that skill set. My partner is also interested in doing larger-scale book projects so I think we were both just really aligned on this as a fun thing to do.  EB: I love that it’s also this collection of not only beautiful images, but also this compendium of essays, brief artist statements, and so many different kinds of contributions. Did you always envision Needlebound as an opportunity to put out a call for submissions and invite fiber artists to write about their own practices or to be in conversation with each other?  HM: Yeah, it initially came from a couple of budding friendships that I had on Instagram. I’m like You guys are so cool, I wish there was something that showcased that because I don’t see these stories being told. A lot of the work that I’ve seen with fiber arts books or printed matter is either really cut and dry, like a pattern book or super deep academic texts of already very established artists, and not a lot of these DIY folks that just post on Instagram. These stories are just as worthy of being in print if not, in my opinion, moreso. So I was really eager to have a platform and pull them together [and] to also show the diversity in this community — because I get to see a lot of it on my knitting Instagram from who I follow. I don’t know how many other people are exposed to this. I think it’s fascinating.  EB: Some of these stories and essays were so poignant and intimate. There was almost a vulnerability with people talking about failures in their practice or their attempts or experiments. That is the process of making craft, not just the finished product but also how you get there.  HM: Yeah, that was really important for me to have those stages documented. It came after the fact. I was getting these submissions in real-time and being like Well, I don’t want to only have a focus on the final product . I want to also have a little bit of that process — like what are your thoughts that are going into it along the way, what are those stories about sourcing, and the raw materials aspect of it, too. EB: In the editor’s letter, you say that “...the act of knitting evolves into a communal activity that weaves together social bonds.” And I’ve been thinking about that statement, especially in the context of this moment when we can feel so disconnected from each other and the world around us.  HM:  Yeah, I was having a good time writing that letter — because, [with] all these thoughts that I had been simmering with, I finally was able to put [them] into this cohesive thing. I was thinking about how it’s a really solitary act but also has, historically, a connotation of being really social. Like, knitting circles where people would congregate and put these things together or when knitting was a form of necessity — like we have to knit to make clothes for our family. That was always more of a social activity. After the Industrial Revolution, it became a lot more solitary. Now we’re in this world where you’re knitting in your bedroom but you are also posting it on TikTok or Instagram where potentially hundreds and thousands of people could see. It’s simultaneously solitary and social again in the same way that social media is very much sitting at that crossroads. I think there’s something really special about the fiber arts community, especially because of the lack of resources and documentation. You have to rely on those digital communities to get started with knitting if you don’t know someone [who can] teach you how to do it.  EB: How has your relationship with social media changed as you’ve established Dazy Chains?  HM:  When I first started posting on Instagram, it was initially just on my personal account. It was at a period [when] I was really disillusioned with and so sick of social media. Like, You know what? I’m only going to post the things that I make.  So it was a way of me distancing myself or taking the pressure off myself to perform my life online.  At first, it was really helpful, but then I also realized that narrowing it down to only being about that was an easy way to find like-minded people. So it made me rethink what social media could be if you use it in this more targeted, conscientious way. Like I’m just here to post about knitting. [laughs] This is the knitting app now. So that was actually positive, I would say. [There are] a million and one gripes that you can have and I feel like I might have a different perspective too if I was trying to operationalize. I’ve seen people that have full-blown businesses and it gets tough if the algorithm isn’t behaving the way you want it to and you’re using it to make ends meet. But when you’re using this as just a thing to find like-minded people, it’s been overall really positive. EB: That’s so refreshing to hear. There’s definitely that pressure of feeling compelled to constantly post content or wrestling with the fickleness of the algorithmic changes. That can feel disempowering, but I love your perspective on it, too, as this opportunity [allows you] to also find your niche of people, to find that community.  HM:  Yeah, it definitely takes work. Like it’s not just there for the taking. You have to cultivate it like with any community. It takes time, for sure.  EB: Can you talk about how you’ve navigated trying to find that balance in your own practice between creating wearables or things that you’re selling, while also trying to make time and space for your more experimental projects or exploring new techniques?  HM: At the very beginning, I really just got a kick out of the idea that anyone would [want to] wear anything that I made, so there was something really fun about making hats or smaller pieces that I could do [a] higher volume of in a shorter period of time and actually try to sell them consistently. But I’m also not doing this as a full-time job. I work 40, sometimes 50 hours a week doing my UX stuff, so that doesn’t give me a lot of time to knit. I feel like I have to be really strategic about how I use that time. I actually feel like it is kind of a positive thing to have such a limited amount of time because it forces you to use it to its max. So I’m cognizant of how precious that time is and then I use it in a way that when I’m like, Yeah, this isn’t fueling me anymore , I’m going to switch it up. EB: With a lot of your work too, there’s that research aspect to it. And that’s also time, looking through these archives or looking through these materials.  HM: There’s a benefit, too, to when I’m working because sometimes I come across papers just in my line of work. I do UX research for artificial intelligence products that are normally used in an enterprise-level space. It’s a lot of designing stuff for customer service agents to use, but there’s still a lot of this academic, applied research. A lot of my job is learning about the limitations and how this technology works and then how we communicate that to end users. Then, in consuming all that scientific information, sometimes I’ll come across something that’s interesting or that paper was kind of weird, or this data scientist said something to me that stood out in a way that I’m going to research more about it. That definitely feeds into how I find a lot of the stuff that I end up making.  EB: How do you see collaboration  fitting into your bigger practice?  HM:  It’s super fun. Because [knitting] is a very isolated practice and I also work remotely most of the time, I can feel really atomized in my life. Doing stuff with other people helps me get out of my head or reminds me of new techniques that can be explored or new motifs or ideas that might push what I’m doing a little bit more.  I think that’s really important, especially since I didn’t go to art school. There’s a part of me that wanted that experience of being in a heavily collaborative environment. Well, there's nothing stopping me from going out and asking people. The worst they can say is no. And I know a lot of people probably feel the same way, so I’m always down if someone has an idea or is like  Have you thought about doing this ? I’m like, No, but let’s try and work on it. That sounds fun.  EB: What’s in the future for Dazy Chains as a textile project or even just yourself as a maker?  HM:  I think just a lot more exploration. I’ve been enjoying this machine learning, computer vision stuff right now. I’ve just been trying to push that and see where it goes. A couple of artists that really resonate with me are Trevor Paglen  and Anna Ridler . I’m trying to do a bit more of a deep dive into their practice to gather some nuggets of wisdom from how they approach their work and figure out how I can evolve what I’m doing a little bit more.  I would love to do more wall hanging pieces [and] explore more ways of stretching knit on a canvas — or unconventional stretching material would be fun. I haven’t really thought that much about how knit can exist in space. That’s totally unexplored terrain for me. I’ve focused on it on the body for however long, but I’m like, What is it like to install it somewhere?  But I also still love doing wearables because it’s very fun to do. I also have some friends who are photographers . If you have a vision for a shoot, they can make that come to life really easily. I’ve been collecting these images of really corporate office aesthetics from the early ‘80s and ‘90s. I’m thinking about how these computer vision scientific explorations usually happen in these dull environments and I want to push that and use that to frame the work that I’m doing. So we’re going to explore that in a shoot in a couple of weeks and I’m super excited about it.  And then I still want to do Needlebound Volume 2. It’s a huge endeavor. I bit off more than I could chew at first, so I think it’s a once-a-year situation. I think I’ll try to get funding for it because it was out of pocket and I’m still paying it off. I bet someone could pay to help this happen, but I just don’t know who or what yet. So just trying to navigate the world of grants in the next couple of months.  [laughs]  Yeah, those are the big plans. 🌀 Eleonor Botoman i s a museum worker, environmental art historian, and culture writer based in Brooklyn. They are currently a New City Critics Fellow at the Architectural League of New York and the Urban Design Forum and have a speculative research practice that explores decay, climate resiliency, multisensory and multispecies design collaboration. When they’re not experimenting with perfumery, you can find them curating multimedia wonders for their Substack newsletter, Screenshot Reliquary.

"I think as I’ve delved more into experimental fashion work and ethereal themes in my films, my personal style has transformed to reflect that." Every Stitch is a new interview series asking fashion’s new creative class how they manage their closets, lives, and careers. Sayna Fardaraghi is a filmmaker based in London. Her work, which covers the breadth of short films, fashion films, and music videos, has been seen in Vogue, SHOWstudio, NOWNESS, and more. Her most recent narrative short, Waiting, won the Intel/Movidiam Award for Best Director and was named the Best Experimental Student Film at TIFF. Sayna and I have known each other since the OG iteration of HALOSCOPE, and it's been unbelievably beautiful watching her career skyrocket over the year — especially in light of her debut narrative short, Glint. Here’s how Sayna picks up every stitch. The self-appointed work uniform: I feel like it's always this very specific look I'm wearing to the Burberry office and to my freelance meetings, which is a striped pink blouse, loosely buttoned; an asymmetrical striped brown Morgan skirt; and my trusty Paloma wool Judo boots I'm always wearing. Other times, it's an off-the-shoulder tank sitch with a skirt. I’m not too fussed on the occasion's dress code. I’ll just wear what I feel confident in and feel like the person I want to be for the day! It weirdly impacts my mood even if a tiny detail feels off. I find the way I dress is really an outlet to externally portray my inner self — my personality, my aesthetic, and my mood. When it comes to being on set, I'm normally dressed a little more comfy and practical, like some black yoga pants with a shapely tank top paired with my Z-Coil trainers. You’ll be surprised how hot it can get on set, as well as how many random stains and dust you collect — so black is an easy one to not worry about so much! The journey to becoming a filmmaker: It sort of came out of nowhere, really, I just fell into it! I initially wanted to be a fine artist / graphic designer, but with my intrigue to work with new mediums, I ended up finding and falling in love with film. Specifically fashion films and experimental work through NOWNESS .  From there, I started experimenting. I originally wanted to be more of a DP / cinematographer — but as it turns out, I'm a way better director, as that's what I was consistently praised on and asked to work as. The transition from my university life to the real world was really lucky, I worked a lot on some small fashion film setups with a close friend of mine at SHOWstudio and got paired to work with the lovely Charles Jeffrey, who gave me my first fashion film gig as a director. I went on to direct a few projects for his collections, one being featured in Vogue , at the London Fashion Film Festival, and at SHOWstudio, which was a sweet full-circle moment. From there I got scouted, and here I am about to complete my next short film Glint in a couple weeks! The on-set must-haves: My polaroid camera — I'm a very sentimental person so I need to snap a pic. I still have my polaroid of me and Charles on our first project. Another thing is my personal shot-list with lots of notes printed off to hand. I'm a bit hyper-organized and need it on me at all times.  And snacks... of course. I love Clearspring Salted Seaweed Crisps & strawberry Hello Pandas, they’re so addicting.  The people who help her get it done: My AD (Assistant Director) — any thought I have and it's done! I remember working on a music video for Sony (which was my first real music video job ever, a very high-risk training ground), which included a cast of around 20 people. It ran so smoothly and I couldn’t have done it without my AD & 2nd AD. Love you forever Niomi & Lottie. <3  The art-personal style connection: I think as I’ve delved more into experimental fashion work and ethereal themes in my films, my personal style has transformed to reflect that. I'm wearing lots of softer palettes, detailed with accessories — like silver cuffs, my RKB necklace, a belt, etc. — or pairings of different fabrics to create shape. I love an outfit that sits on me with a flattering structure but also has a flowy element. I’m always looking at and dressed in something Paloma Wool, and going back to images from Chloe SS00 ,  Prada SS99 , and Luca Luca SS03 . The problem with perfectionism: This is hard! I've grown to appreciate my perfectionism at times, as it helps me set goals and expectations for myself to do better, but it can very quickly turn toxic. I think the best way to let go is to try to keep calm, grounded, and stay realistic, knowing that you’ve done the best you can. I often find myself internally setting expectations years beyond my physical work, and to combat that I go back to Day 1, realize how much I've grown and that I'm doing just fine. Sure, I'd love to be doing grander stuff, but I have to be patient! I'm bad at waiting, which is quite literally what one of my films is called and [is] about — I need to take my own advice more often.  The way she shows up for herself on set: I definitely try to decompress the day before, take a bath, even have a therapy session to clear my mind a bit and get all my worries and frustrations out of mind. That way, when I'm on set the following day, I can be the best version of myself to serve my crew — because, at the end of the day, the director is the person setting the tone for the environment. It's crucial for me to put my best foot forward and create a great atmosphere for everyone! When I'm on set, I’m always so excited and just ecstatic to see my little ideas come to life — so I'm full of energy. I just need to remember to eat and drink more, as well as to sit down. I seem to always forget to do that, ha. The advice she'd give burgeoning creatives: Stay true to your vision, always. As you begin to grow and gain clients, there will be more people involved — with that, it can snowball quite easily, with higher-ups swaying your vision and turning it into something else, and that can turn quite soul-killing. I’ve had that happen to me before where I didn't believe in myself enough and let other people change my vision entirely. Not anymore though! Always remember that your vision, your style, and your eye is your strength, that's why you’ve been hired and that’s why you’ve been seen. Don't ever forget that and never let anyone change what makes you you. 🌀

The niche perfume house — who capture the idiosyncrasies of the animal kingdom — is moving deeper into the reptile world. When it comes to niche perfumes, there are some houses that act as gateways, leading enthusiasts down winding pathways and rabbit holes, while others provide what’s found once one has emerged underground. Zoologist Perfumes  is unique. With 33 scents to choose from, all inspired by different animals and their natural habitats, the brand’s wide breadth becomes an exploratory journey all on its own. Originally recognized for their complex and unconventional approach, the Toronto-based house teeters the line between mass-appealing musks and the absolutely mind-altering.  Zoologist has not received renown for its wearable creations. Even some of their more moderate scents, like Cow , Rabbit , or Harvest Mouse , include notes of hay, carrot, and beer extract. Victor Wong, who founded the company in 2013, wishes for the fragrances to reconnect us with what the natural world has to offer, and curates each perfume with specified inspiration. So while some profiles imbue the wearer with bucolic breaths of freshness, others are more daring in where they wish to transport us.  That’s where King Cobra  comes in. Nearing its full bottle release in the fall, Zoologist’s newest member is expected to be a polarizing addition. Designed by Thai perfumer Prin Lomros , this combination of black tea and vetiver takes the wearer into a landscape of wet soil and cold moss. Described as “driven by danger and a desire to dominate,” the overpoweringly green King Cobra might be a difficult everyday scent, but that doesn’t make it any less wearable for someone committed to its essence. Despite leaning toward the masculine, this unisex fragrance opens with strong top notes of fig leaf, petitgrain, camphor, and ganja. Any sweetness is replaced by the satisfying smell of a waxy nug of weed, underlined with spicy tartness. Once the initial sprays begin to drydown, a complex ecosystem reminiscent of a damp forest floor unravels, with heart notes of black tea, cumin, leather, and soil taking up most of the fragrance’s real estate.  Lomros, a self-taught perfumer who is also the mind behind Zoologist’s Sloth , Rhinoceros , and the 2020 reformulation of Bat , considers perfumes another form of narrative art. Holding a Master’s degree in Filmmaking, Lormos’ process begins with envisioning an active scene, where color, texture, and soundscape inform what the fragrance will eventually be composed of. This holistic approach sets up Lormos’ work in elaborate and multi-dimensional worlds, ones that shift and move in accordance with whatever (or whoever) the star of the story is. He believes that a fragrance belongs to the audience once it hits the shelves, and, much like visual artists and musicians, that a creation ceases attachment to the creative once it comes into contact with a wearer. King Cobra is a fragrance that changes form and shape depending on whose skin it sits on. It’s an experience that refuses to remain straightforward and streamlined. Refusing to follow a predictable pattern, thick temple-dwelling incense can be the winning note for some, while others could be left smelling clean and earthy like green leather. It’s a dry and sultry scent that, after a while, morphs into the embodiment of an herbal sauna. With base notes of incense, amber, moss, patchouli, and vetiver, it’s demanding to be paired with a long night out — one in which you become the sanctioned mystic of the smoking section, worn during your favorite underground band’s warehouse show. It screams urban decay, seducing the wearer into thinking leather pants and a tank top are the only viable outfit options. King Cobra convinces you that night vision is possible — and that everyone looks better with a snake tattoo coiling up their arm. Wong might have gotten his start after falling under the spell of Le Labo’s Rose 31  and Kiehl’s Original Musk , but King Cobra is right up his aesthetic alley. The hobby turned award-winning indie perfume brand has long since consumed his previous career as a video game 3D modeler, all to the market’s benefit. Originally inspired by Camille Saint-Saëns’ The Carnival of the Animals , Wong guessed correctly that more of us wanted to channel the playbook of animals within, even if we hadn’t previously been aware of it. He’s proven himself skilled at finding the perfect match of perfumer and perfume for his brand, unencumbered by the status quo. He trusts those he charges with the animals in his zoo — and believes that the more skilled a perfumer is, the more wearable the designs will be, regardless of how mold-breaking the note combinations may sound. Our tastes are constantly changing, and if there’s something Zoologist Perfumes reminds us to do, it’s to never write the daring off. 🌀 Carlota Gamboa  is a poet and art writer from Los Angeles, CA, who spends most of her time pressing buttons at a Beverly Hills talent agency. You can find her work in Bodega Magazine , Salt Hill Journal,   The Oversound , Whitehot Magazine , and Art & Object . Find her feigning apathy @its_wtvr .

A mini-history — from Charles Frederick Worth to Jean Paul Gaultier. Less than a week after the end of the highly commented Olympic Games,all eyes are still on Paris — be it with travel fanatics' desire to get a table at the infamous Café de Flore or fashion devotees' preparations for the Paris Fashion Week next month. As fashion has been a prominent feature of this year's games — from the runway in the opening ceremony to the controversy over Team USA's Ralph Lauren uniforms to the Louis Vuitton medal plaques — it's hard to have a conversation about Paris without mentioning fashion and hard to talk about fashion without mentioning Paris. But why? From Paris Fashion Week closing fashion month with a flourish to numerous high-profile designers being born in France, a few explanations might emerge to account for the city's longstanding relationship with fashion. While these circumstances have undoubtedly contributed to Paris' emergence as the fashion capital of the world, the real catalyst dates back earlier than many might assume. As far back as the reign of Louis XIV in the 1600s, fashion was part of France's cultural repertoire, from the opulent and extravagant dress code of the royal court — which were significant markers of status and privilege — to the lucrative textile industry that The Sun King boosted. It was during this period that the French sartorial appeal began, with other countries seeking to emulate what France was creating. Its influence became even stronger during the rule of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, who was dressed by Rose Bertin , a French fashion designer who has been widely acknowledged by historians as a symbol of Revolutionary clothing excess. But what cemented the city’s status as a fashion capital was the beginnings of haute couture  in the mid-19th century. When English tailor Charles Frederick Worth opened the first couture house, Maison Worth , at 7 Rue la Paix in Paris in 1858, creating custom clothes for high society, a key moment in fashion history was beginning to take shape. Not only were his designs considered visionary, but his use of tags in his creations solidified him as the first couturier who would soon transform the industry forever through branding and thereby popular recognition. By presenting his creations in runway shows with live models, rather than the traditional practice of showing the designs on mannequins to private clients, Worth revolutionized fashion and became known as the father of haute couture.  A decade after its establishment and its triumphant success, the House of Worth founded a syndicate with the main purpose of preventing couture designs from being copied — the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture, des Confectionneurs et des Tailleurs pour Dames et Fillettes, which, with a slight makeover in 1911, was renamed the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne.  It was not until 1945 that the term "haute couture" was introduced — with the name changed to Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture. The organization acts as a regulatory council that defines which labels can be considered haute couture houses and establishes rules that brands must follow, such as presenting at least two couture collections per year — each with no less than 50 designs — and employing 20 full-time staff.   But in 1945, during the Nazi occupation of Paris, more rigorous requirements were set. Since Hitler recognized Paris' cultural and economic power, the dictator wanted to move the headquarters of the Chambre Syndicale to Berlin, determined to destroy the economy of France. But Lucien Lelong, the president of the Chambre Syndicale, prevented it with another rule: a mandatory location in Le Triangle d'Or — the Golden Triangle — located in the 8th arrondissement between three of the city's most prestigious boulevards: the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the Avenue Montaigne, and the Avenue George V. By introducing a stringent regulation, Paris' position as the world's leading fashion center was secured. Despite the prevention of haute couture's relocation to Germany,  Paris' social, economic, and political situation was far from favorable.From the anti-Semitic actions of the Nazi army to hunger and intensified propaganda, the life of Parisian civilization was marked by instability and frustration. After the city's liberation by the Allies at the end of the War, habitants who had fled returned. The French capital started to recover economically, attracting clients from overseas while maintaining its status as the pinnacle of luxury in fashion.  While the regulations have gotten stricter across the past 100 years, many labels have come to define the French's capital haute couture scene, such as Schiaparelli, Patou, Lanvin, Poiret, Dior, Fortuny, Balenciaga, Pierre Balmain, and Chanel — the bulk of which still exist today. From Christian Dior to Hubert de Givenchy, various French figures became the bellwethers of couture, exemplifying to the world the finesse of French savoir-faire, be it with the legendary ''New Look'' or sophisticated ball gowns as seen on the likes of celebrities like Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn.  As the ‘60s arrived, more renowned couturiers like Yves Saint Laurent, Pierre Cardin, André Courrèges, and Emanuel Ungaro entered the scene. But as the demand for accessibility grew, ready-to-wear started to take over and the importance of haute couture began to decline. With the proliferation of prét-à-porter, global fashion weeks like those in New York, Milan, and Tokyo also began to gain influence. While Paris still had its prestigious reputation, its leading sartorial position seemed to be in jeopardy.  In the 1970s and '80s, however, designers such as Thierry Mugler, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Christian Lacroix brought a modern attitude and fresh spirit to the city's fashion that has secured Paris's fashion leadership to this day.  Haute couture may no longer be a major economic factor in fashion, as it still serves the interests of private clients, but it still has a huge impact artistically — in terms of publicity for a label's creative team and clientele. But when it comes to ready-to-wear, the Parisian allure is still vibrant. Considered by many to be the best city of the top four — whether it's for digitally watching the shows of legendary brands or seeing details of pure excellence carried over into everyday life pieces — Paris allows us to see that the tradition of craftsmanship continues to thrive in the city. With a growing number of domestic and international brands basing their ateliers in the French capital, as well as prestigious fashion schools such as Parsons Paris and Studio Bercot growing in size, the city's sartorial influence continues to bloom — as does its fashion-related income. A study carried out by Institut Français de la Mode and Quadrat Etudes  shows that French fashion represents €154 billion in direct turnover, a direct and indirect added value of 3.1% of GDP, and generates 1 million jobs in France yearly. With Fashion Month kicking off in New York on September 6, Paris will soon be on every fashionista's radar  — ending the season on a high note. 🌀 Ana Reitz  is a Brazilian fashion writer who breathes fashion. As a Latin American fashionista, she values a diverse and inclusive fashion landscape and aims to make a difference in the complex yet beautiful industry that surrounds her. She writes anything fashion-related for her own Substack For Fashion’s Sake .

The Olympics saw a resurgence of Union Jack, American flag, and football jersey fashion. But does it have staying power? July 14th, 2024. In the Caribbean coastal city of Cartagena, Colombia, a sea of yellow surrounds me. The air is thick with heat and hope and ice-cold cans of Aguila  beer are sold from portable, Styrofoam coolers. It is 7:01 PM when we arrive at Torre del Reloj  and already twilight, the sky a deep indigo, nature abiding by the tropics and their never-changing sunset timetable. My sister and I, two British Colombians, are with a group of people we’ve met at our hostel: a pair of endearing, cheeky Essex boys, an adventurous Australian solo traveller, and three lively English girls. Despite their lack of Latin heritage, our new friends have come to watch the Copa America final in their recently purchased, probably knock-off, Colombian football shirts. They are not alone: the thousands gathered on streets and in crowded bars, Colombian and gringos alike, are all sporting patriotic garments. The world is buzzing with yellow light.  I spent this July travelling around Colombia with my sister, which happened to coincide with Copa America. For the football-illiterate, a category that until recently I am sure I fell into (one I probably still fall into), this is the top men’s quadrennial tournament of national teams from South America. As we are half-Colombian, the unexpected alignment of our trip with such a huge sporting event was an added bonus. The lead-up was insane. Everyone (and I mean everyone ) was swept under the wave of patriotism that flooded the nation.  But what is patriotism? Is it a movement? An identity marker? Like many large concepts, it is rather nebulous. But patriotism as a fashion statement? This is easier to delineate. Wearing a country’s flag, or the national team’s football shirt, communicates to the external world that, at least to some degree, you are in support of said nation.  Football jerseys have recently become a staple in streetwear. If you’ve watched the blue sweater scene from The Devil Wears Prada , you’ll know that what we see in fast fashion trickles down from the high-end. If fashion was a water cycle, high-end would be a glacier: icy, sleek, uncompromising. Everything after that, all the myriad tributaries of different river systems, would be the commercialised, cheaper garments that we see on our streets every day.  Think Inamorata e Mirror Palais , where Emily Ratajkowski marketed the collection by riding around Rio in Ipanema mini shorts. Think Reiss or Burberry capitalising on Britishness. These campaigns have intensified the cultural relevance of patriotism, making wearing patriotic fits seem far less nationalist oddball and much more it-girl cool. As José Criales-Unzueta writes  for Vogue Business, “One is not buying into the country or its politics or its traditions by consuming these clothes. The product is aspirational, and what one aspires to is not the nationality but what the look represents in culture.”  In Colombia, wearing a football jersey during Copa America made one feel, if only temporarily, like a member of the country. Famously welcoming, Colombians accept foreigners with open arms; wearing their colours was the natural choice when one felt immediately at home in a country so different, and usually so geographically distant, from their own. To wear the football jersey made one a fraction more “Colombian,” and what this represents in culture is warmth, rhythm, and an infectious sort of kindness.  Natural observer that I am, I wondered what this active consumption of the state meant on a deeper level. I think it’s a comment on human nature more than anything else: that being united by a common cause feels good. Psychologically, it plays directly into our desire for group acceptance. Sartorially, it looks phenomenal when thousands of strangers are united by a nation’s colour scheme. In Colombia, this meant La Tricolor — yellow, blue, and red.   And it wasn’t just visually. Vallenato, salsa, and “ El Ritmo Que Nos Une ” (translated to “The Rhythm That Unites Us”) by Ryan Castro and SOG — undoubtedly Colombia’s summer anthem — poured out from inside taxis, electrifying street corners and booming through restaurants, corner shops, and clubs alike. Perhaps that’s why seemingly every foreign traveller we met turned spontaneously patriotic: they all fell slightly in love with Colombia.  As we find ourselves reeling after the 2024 Olympic games, supporting a nation through clothing is only becoming more à la mode. Though again, what this really concerns is supporting the fictitious “idea” of a country, and what it represents culturally, rather than actually supporting the politics of the nation. For example, the rise of Brazil-core  has nothing to do with Lula’s policies and everything to do with the mythologised image of Brazil: beautiful, tanned bodies wearing colourful Havaianas and scaling Christ the Redeemer; happy people drinking fresh coconuts on Ipanema and playing football in the favelas. I saw a TikTok captioned “Everything about it (Brazil core) just screams happiness and nature.” What people are buying into when they purchase patriotic paraphernalia is a carefully-curated abstraction, a snippet of utopia, that for most citizens is not an everyday reality.  The stories and memories we associate with our clothes are what generate their meaning. One may covet Italian style, for example, not because one necessarily champions their foreign policy, but because the look is synonymous with elegance and beauty, and perhaps even the famous Italian belief in il   dolce far niente  — the sweetness of doing nothing. Therefore, if we dress “Italian,” we too can be beautiful, chic, and able to indulge in languorous, laughter-filled, espresso-fuelled afternoons.  The cultural tales that create the image of place tie into the idea of spontaneous patriotism. In our globalised world, a young girl can identify with the idea of Brazil from what she’s seen in a 30-second video — palm trees and tropical flowers and golden sunsets — and suddenly feel inexplicably aligned with the country. The next week, to the perturbation of her cowboy boot-wearing, Americana-loving Texan mother, her 14-year-old daughter is wearing a mini-Brazil crop top and asking her, “Do you know what saudade  means?” Psychologically, one could argue that this is a form of escapism. Someone could be unsatisfied with their prosaic life, so they yearn for a distant land where everything sparkles with joy. Nevertheless, dressing patriotically seems like it’s here to stay. There is an argument for the beauty of cross-cultural links; that weaving someone else’s flag into an outfit communicates a sort of light alliance with that nation. And although it is usually spontaneous, and often aligned with sporting events or internet trends, I think it’s rather wonderful that our modern world is disintegrating the barriers between nations, connecting us through our clothing in a way that’s never been done on this scale before. 🌀 Jade Serna  is a writer and aspiring journalist from London, England. She can be found on Instagram   @jadesernaa .

Sayna Fardaraghi talks her first-ever narrative short, Glint. The fashion film is recognizable. It is a Devil Wears Prada- type glossy industry bouquet; a Robert Altman Prêt-à-Porter -type half-love letter, half-send-up ; or, if we're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, a Confessions of a Shopaholic -type ditzy romp. While these types of films are all set firmly in the fashion industry's aorta, very rarely do they have anything to do with actual clothes. Garments are afterthoughts, plot devices, a means to an end. The fashion is set dressing, indistinguishable from medicine on a hospital soap or a pair of handcuffs on a daytime procedural. That is precisely what makes British-Persian filmmaker Sayna Fardaraghi's debut narrative short, Glint, so delicious. Here is a film that is not set in the fashion industry — instead, we are trapped in the house of a depressed teenage girl — that has more to say about clothes and how they ensnare us than many fashion films. When protagonist Helena (Kate Lindsey) is invited to a high school graduation party, her sour mother's peach slip dress begins to invade her brain. Saying more, here, would dull the film's razor-sharp horror edge. "Helena is forced to face the person she could become," Fardaraghi says, continuing, "and the world outside of her childhood home." Below, read our conversation with the director on film fashion, Sofia Coppola, and the intimacy of borrowed clothing. This interview contains spoilers. It has been edited for length and clarity. Savannah Eden Bradley: As an artist who’s worked on commercial projects, how has fashion become an interlocutor for you narratively? I’d love to know if — and how — your work with brands and designers influenced this project. Sayna Fardaraghi: I think my fashion work has always been experimental in nature and has never been bound to a particular script or rules that a traditional narrative has, like sound sync and diegetic audio dialogue. So it always allowed me to break any molds or boxes that exist in that world. And when it came to doing this, especially not knowing anything due to it being my first time — I had a completely clean and fresh perspective on how to approach it, and how "filmy" I wanted it to be. In some ways it was scary, but in other ways, I think it's given me an edge. SEB: On a broader scale, what led you to Glint as your first-ever narrative short? SF: I always knew that I wanted to make a film about growing up and the many pathways one can take in a lifetime — I just never knew how to tackle it. My initial ideas were so frivolous, and thinking about it now, [they were] completely false representations of my own reality at the time. The truth was, I was in a complete state of panic, absolutely petrified, the reality of graduation and adulthood was a really scary thing for me to face. It wasn't until I was sat in a beautiful field around sunset, completely entrapped in tunnel vision, sobbing to my mum about my fears that things started to click. I still remember the walk home and the color of the sky where I had that lightbulb moment. Growing up isn't easy, it's pretty fucking terrifying — we don't discuss it enough. Why not portray it in a film the way it actually is? SEB: With that in mind, I have to ask about the dress. I thought it was so apt that you have Helena in a pajama set, and then the dress that haunts her be this pink, almost skin-colored slip. You’re seeing two discrete approaches to intimacy. What was the costume process like for this? Did you choose designer pieces or opt for vintage? SF: Oh yes! The dress is so special, isn't it? It was actually a vintage dress I found whilst Julian [Stoller] and I were writing up the script ideas. The moment I spotted it, I was mesmerized. There's something very enchanting about that one perfect slip.   Pretty much everything in this film from the props to the costumes is a vintage piece belonging to a crew member. I think that's what makes it so special and lived in — it really comes through the screen. In terms of the dress itself, and it being a slip that she goes for, we knew we didn't want it any other way. I feel like there's something really special about that first slip you buy when you're a teen. You see something in it that those older than you don't. Like, the meaning of it changes at a certain age — for the younger eye, it's kind of chic. But to older adults, it's like, Oh... what are you wearing? and Why is it out of the house? Now that I think of it, the concept reminds me of Jenna Rink in 13 Going on 30. SEB: Let’s talk about the intimacy of borrowed clothing, especially between women. There are clear generational differences between Helena and her mother, seen stylistically, but they begin to blur when she sneaks into her mother’s closet. How did you approach that? SF: I wanted it to be super, super subtle. A big theme in this film is how much in her head Helena is, and, in turn, how often she's zoning out. We don't really notice ourselves changing, nor growing... we just slowly end up there. And for that specific scene, I wanted it to feel that way. She just slowly falls into this action, an almost ritualistic act of getting dressed, exploring herself and how she sees herself. Until mama comes in and ruins it. SEB: Speaking of intimacy, those wonderful flourishes — the lived-in feeling of Helena’s teenage bedroom, the dreamy breeze through the trees — felt reminiscent of Sofia Coppola’s work. And then that Bergman-esque duplicity is there, too. What directors and films have influenced your craft and Glint in particular?  SF: So happy to hear! Persona and The Virgin Suicides were very inspirational to the film — a few other films that inspired me in the process were 3 Women , and the short films Softcore , Nimic , and Freckleface Strawberry . Another thing that is always influencing my work is music — I truly believe sound is everything in a film to really feel it. I've been curating a playlist for this film from the moment of its inception until now. SEB: While watching, I kept thinking about this infamous John Berger quote: “Men act and women appear.” Helena is constantly appearing, watching — the boundaries of her little world, her mother, her own body. In the Glint making-of book, we see someone, possibly Helena herself, sleeping beside her in the opening shot, but this is changed in the final film. How did the short change shape as you underwent production? SF: I'm so glad you noticed that! I put a lot of myself in Helena, she's certainly an observer, and in turn, a bit of an overthinker on all grounds. The film itself changed a lot. It's no lie that filmmaking can be a journey and [can] often eat you alive and chew you out. We went through a lot of financial and locational hardships, which really delayed the process — and, in turn, that changed the short itself and limited the things we aimed to explore originally. The most prominent thing was losing our location prior to our pickups, making most interior shots redundant. Soon after, we had to find a new house to re-shoot all that footage in. There's a few cuts in the film where we switch from shots of the old house we had, to the new house we got... try and spot it if you can! SEB: This is such a huge moment for you, moving into narrative shorts. How do you think your creative process has metamorphosed since the beginning of your career? What’s next on the horizon? SF: It's made me so much more of a planner in my process, and given me the necessary skills when it comes to narratives and directing in general. This was a high-risk training ground for me since I've never done anything of the sort before, [I was] just learning on the go when I began my career. I feel like I'm so much more of a resilient person, as well as a good communicator of what my vision is and how to bring it to life. For now, I want to cherish and enjoy the fruits of my labor, let the little baby Glint take its footsteps into the world and see what happens! But I do want to have more fun with the experimental side of my brain... sometimes the confines of a traditional narrative can feel a bit too binding. 🌀 You can pre-order Glint on Mubi here . Savannah Eden Bradley is a writer, fashion editor, gallerina, Gnostic scholar, reformed It Girl, and future beautiful ghost from the Carolina coast. She is the Editor-in-Chief of the fashion magazine HALOSCOPE. You can stalk her everywhere online @savbrads .

Yes, you can wear the same pants as your tall friend. It’s a tale as old as time plaguing anyone shorter or taller than the “average,” dissuading them from wearing and purchasing trousers (or, depending on your vocabulary, pants). When shall we ever find a pair of pants whose hemline actually hits at the perfect spot for each individual?  Leading the march to revolutionise the hyper-functionality of our garments are Josh and Shanelle — the ingenious minds behind Neil Vernon , an Australian brand launched last year. Named in memory of Josh’s late father, the pair took time to plan and build their brand by diligently researching the industry, honing tactile skills, and discovering the house’s message. “When we started out we didn’t quite know what we wanted the business to be, but naturally it evolved into an amalgamation of both of our personal styles,” Josh told HALOSCOPE. Eventually, the “what” revealed itself with stark clarity, presenting essential items derived from typical tailoring.  However, it is in its atypicality that Neil Vernon has formulated a unique approach to fit and form, designing pieces where wearability doesn’t come at the expense of style. “We always knew we wanted to release a capsule of essential tailoring pieces as these types of garments — pleated pants and button downs — exist heavily in our own personal wardrobes,” the pair explained, adding that their design process begins with one simple question, “What do we already wear in our wardrobes that we can improve on?” Much like all of a shorter stature, 5’2” Shanelle has grown accustomed to manually re-hemming pants. While certainly a useful skill to possess, Shanelle questioned why this was the norm. “When we started asking these questions is when we began to wonder whether a pant that is entirely adjustable is even possible.”  Enter: The Signature Adjustable Pant . Featuring hidden clasps around the ankle to adjust the height of the hem and a modifiable elastic waistband, Neil Vernon’s unique fastener technology can temporarily shorten the inseam by up to 5 inches. “We came across some old marching band uniforms which used hand-sewn-on buttons to adjust the hems,” said the duo, who took inspiration from the solutions of days gone by, replacing the hand-sewn element with machine-pressed snaps for durability. “Then we decided to go further and re-use the adjustable waistbands we all had in our pants as kids, giving us our first entirely adjustable pant.” “Given they’re intended to be your forever wardrobe items, we hope that it means you can buy it once, and buy well,” they said of their ethos, manufacturing items that grow with the wearer, “rather than exist as pieces that serve as a momentary marker of your style at one point in time.” Retailing for $190 AUD (£98 or $127 USD), the pants intentionally sit around the average cost of such products for the consumer, although, “this has definitely meant we’re taking a large cut on the cost of the pants given its complexity to produce.” The two don’t mind, though. “It’s important to us that our base products, like the Signature Pants are something everyone can access.” It has been on TikTok  where support for the young brand has swelled — one video showcasing their signature pants’ height settings has a hearty 2.8 million views . “We’ve had such a positive response online to these pants which has been incredible to see,” they said. It’s clear, therefore, that demand for such a garment exists. “As small business owners, we’re planning designs 6+ months ahead which means we truly have to back ourselves the entire way with the design,” Josh and Shanelle said, adding that, “When we see designs like the Signature Pant and Daily Shirt receive such positive sentiment online — it’s the biggest motivator to continue.” As for the future, their goal is to pursue further adjustable designs. “We’re currently playing around with some capsule denim jeans to be released next year, which we foresee to be a really strong product to shake up the denim industry!” 🌀 The Signature Pant is available here ($131). Molly Elizabeth  is a freelance fashion writer and commentator based in London.

" I used to be so driven by the idea of passion, but I think trust and respect can take you further." Every Stitch is a new interview series asking fashion’s new creative class how they manage their closets, lives, and careers. Yasmin Bahrami is the founder of Moonkissed Collective — the brand behind everyone's favorite Little Women top and these ridiculously comfortable shorts (guilty as charged). I first met Yasmin when we worked together on the launch of DRESS AN IT GIRL! , accompanied by one of my favorite HS interviews , and it's been a joy to watch her scale Moonkissed to new heights. Here’s how Yasmin picks up every stitch. The self-appointed work uniform: [None], except that I made a vow that I can no longer work in what I slept in the night before. Things have been better since. The journey to becoming a founder: I got a lot of mail sent back for filling out some forms wrong. I also thought I was going to jail about three times for, again, misreading something a form said. I had to ask my friends for favors, which I hate to do — but I also found out I have some great friends. There were lots of papers and printing labels on the floor and also an air of excitement that I was doing something that was my very own instead of doing other people’s things for all my working life. I had a really vague vision but it was bright enough for me to see it through. The morning ritual: Since I couldn’t get out of the habit of going on TikTok the first thing when I woke up, I made a collection called “Everyday,” where I save videos that say something positive or that I would like to be reminded of so I am not at the mercy of my For You Page. It still gives me that scroll that wakes me up but I don’t have to anticipate coming across something horrible that will put me under an existential spell the rest of the day. Then I get myself up to go on a walk and run an errand if there is one. I have to be real before I sit behind the computer for hours on end. The typical Moonkissed day: Unglamorous, I have to say. I use Google Calendar as my guidance and I try to avoid emails until I’ve had something to eat. Sometimes it’s only emails and phone calls and taxes — and other times it’s really nice and I’ll get to make something, like a social media post or a new design, for example. I’ll say that those stream-of-consciousness days where I’m only obliged to creativity make the 1 + 1 = 2 days seem like a fair part of the puzzle. Most days I know what my accountant ate for lunch but sometimes I get to have a good idea and share it all within the same few hours. The personal style of it all: If style is “...not about what you wear, but how you live,” like that saying goes, I’d say my inclination toward nostalgia and sentiment — and the way those feel like inherently feminine things — results in what you see from Moonkissed. I myself may come off harsh and fail to wear colors but Moonkissed, in a way, is what I’d be wearing if I were naked. The moment she knew she made it: If you know anyone who feels like they made it, please let me know. I’d like to take them out to lunch. The boundary-setting practice: I’ve gotten better at this. I think the more you know yourself, the easier it is to set boundaries. The hard part about boundaries is when you can’t tell if you’re saying “no” because you’re a horrible self-indulgent person or if something just genuinely isn’t in your capacity or value system. The more you know yourself, the easier it is to identify the latter. The advice she'd give burgeoning creatives: I’ll pass down advice I got from Diane von F ü rstenberg’s memoir, where a friend of hers told her: “Trust your own talent. Learn to respect it.” I liked this because it said nothing about passion or love. Those things dwindle and some days you can declare they died. But trust and respect are more of a stagnant line that just needs your own commitment to cater to. I used to be so driven by the idea of passion, but I think trust and respect can take you further — a love for what you do forms from that base. 🌀

A look into the everlasting obsession with the Miu Miu archetype, the impending death of girlhood-inspired fashion, and our favourite contemporary collections at the intersection of joy and nostalgia. The Miu Miu ideal is a woman beholden to becoming.  In 2022, she lived in half-states between the structured demands of the workplace (her slacks lazily dropping off the waist , simultaneously awkward and lax) and an instinct for recklessness (hems frayed like scored in a burst of passion, work socks stuffed into chic patent stilettos). Her office wear is cropped and creased; she is Innocence Shrugged. Three years on, and not much has touched our girl — this year, she’s going on holiday  — and the carefree heart of Prada’s younger sister can be heard beating through every collection.  You can easily picture her off the runway as this wide-eyed emblem of tenacity à la Cindy Sherman’s girlish, bright-eyed starlets. Her fashion reveals her first encounter with a world outside herself, constructed by people unlike herself and, ultimately, almost as naïve as she to everything she values as being her “self.” The reconciling of outer and inner, work and play, tenderness and constraint is, for me, everything that has come to spark love for Miuccia Prada’s youngest. This contrast Miuccia herself defines as sourced from the “ spontaneity”  of the creative process, and this spontaneity I define as a joy bound to, yet distinctly not restrained to, youth. Looking backward to fashion trends of the near past you will encounter women who refuse to look forward to adulthood. The infantile girl-consumer has been operated on extensively by writers far more in the know than I with  the mechanisms of the coquette capitalist fetish,  so I'll spare you the autopsy notes. Indeed, this coquette preoccupation seems to wane and wax in and out of the trend cycle — we are never quite done with her, or rather, we do not know quite where to go. Narratives of victimhood hold saccharine fashion sacrosanct, yet ultimately reveal the symptoms of a culture sick with a simulacral nostalgia.  For the twenty-something dedicant, aspiring to the high-end saints of trite femininity seems to be the cure. To carry with you girlish beginnings, every dull moment of the present is simply an opportunity for another  pink satin ribbon.   Yet, this refusal to engage with the reality of the adult world is nothing more than a denial of any beauty it may possibly serve to offer. In the trickle-down from luxury market to self-conscious urbanity, the feminine ideal becomes polluted, and the seed of subversion that keeps Miu Miu oh-so-fresh (its spontaneity and in this, joy), sprouts into something a little less pink and pleasant, something that I cannot quite wrap a bow around. Unfortunately, as much as the modern girl-woman may strive to eventually morph into the Miu Miu ideal, the operator of the sign and the sign itself appear to exist in two completely different realities.  In adorning the costuming of a homogenised girlishness, the camera-still image of our youth becomes benign, innocent, and familiar. The future is rendered malignant rather than evolving. Womanhood presents no space for the young woman to grow into but rather a resignation to which one is condemned to dwell. For me, this space is the absence of hope and perhaps it is this absence that underlies the resistance to overcoming girlhood.  In this sorry scenario, no other saviour will do but Issey Miyake’s hopeful young woman, all dressed up in Pleats Please. Fashion writer Madeleine Rothery’s interview with long-time aficionados of Miyake  basks in a rare sensitivity as they reflect on the brand’s presence throughout their early adulthood; Charlene Prempeh comments, “I wore a lot of it when I was pregnant, and I loved how it moved with my body […] I love the idea that I’ll be wearing it in my mid-twenties and my mid-eighties because, not only does it move with your body shape, it moves with your life.” Across Miyake’s lines, the colours and rhythms of life are abstracted and, in the dynamism of material, form is freed from adult constraint, rendering you vibrant and deliciously youthful.  Here, the spontaneity that colours youth for Miu Miu is sacralised in every leap, bounce, and twirl. The feminine archetype has grown out of awkwardness — she moves with the current.  Miyake’s nostalgic device is not concealed in any signs and signifiers — no bows and frills here — but in the perspective with which he asks the wearer to carry with her through early adult years into motherhood, if she so pleases. Miyake offers you movement and asks only for you to be unrestrained, to revel in experiences unique to womanhood, and to bound into the future with the unchecked earnestness of which you gaze into the past. This summer, Marc Jacobs offered a sermon on how we might use joy and nostalgia uncorrupted.   Whilst Miyake delights   in the joy of the present, Jacobs’ allows for a moment of silence and stillness; cartoonish dresses in doll-like proportions drift down the runway, halted in time. Models, as if asleep, wear kitsch eye coverings to the effect of sleepy lids, and, in their hazy daydreams, we encounter our childhood selves.   The new Jacobs ideal is a girl beholden to becoming.  A child steps into her mother’s shoes, still much too big, and plays pretend; Jacobs’ girl adorns the garments of her icons, Marilyn and Minnie alike, and in this, nothing is held back in honouring the simple splendour of potential.   Jacobs affirms at once it is not enough to merely have access to these memories nor is it ideal to live in them permanently, but we must use the past as a spring for inspiration, with childlike joy as a well of creativity. Where the consumer-dictated   ideal fails in its over-generalisations (the embrace of generic “girlhood” much too easy to digest), Jacobs asks us to lean into the specifics of our unfiltered daydreams prior to the hunger for bowage. These are not dreams to live in but to make  real. Here, the gift of womanhood becomes the gift of creation out of nostalgic temporalities into a new self, into new presents.  All ideals present the same conclusion: There is no one, definitive way to be a woman. But you must be. You must enjoy the awkwardness of the present with unabashed spontaneity; you must luxuriate in the movements of life and family in all its sweet nostalgia; and, you must remember your own  ideals of woman, personal and hopeful. But you must be a woman. 🌀 Leola B  is a writer and budding art historian based in London. You can find her toeing the line between scholar and starlet across all socials as @babeofprey .

Indulge your inner Carrie Bradshaw without the questionable life choices. Fashion has always played a vital role in Sex and the City, spurring the plot of the show and reflecting the distinctive personalities of the four thirty-something best friends as they rove through New York City, have sex with men for pleasure, and break hearts — or get their own hearts broken. As early as the first season, Carrie Bradshaw ditched Mr. Big after a divorced friend of his crashes their sort-of date. “I decided to walk to clear my head,” Carrie reflected as she walked out of the restaurant, clad in a heavy fur coat over a clinging navy blue dress. “So I walked. I walked 48 blocks in $400 shoes.” After hooking up with a guy she meets in the infrared haze of a nightclub, Carrie decides to replace her addiction to men with an even bigger addiction to shoes, which later drives her into $40,000 of debt and puts her on the verge of losing her apartment. And yet, it makes sense: “When I first moved to New York, and I was totally broke, sometimes I would buy Vogue  instead of dinner,” Carrie says. “I felt it fed me more.” As such, fashion recurs as a prominent plot driver throughout the series. In season 4, Carrie wears a dark blue robe and sheer glittering underwear at a charity fashion show — before falling on the runway.  “She’s fashion roadkill!” Stanford quips. In another iconic scene, Carrie’s Manolo Blahniks and Fendi baguette bag are stolen at gunpoint. 

 Sex and the City was significant in its canny mix of high and low culture, as well as for mainstreaming luxury brand names like Fendi, Manolo Blahnik, Dior, Hermès, and more in humorous, tongue-in-cheek ways. By satirizing the women’s love for brands, SATC made the idea of luxury designer items more accessible to the mass public. Most people probably learned about the Birkin bag when Samantha tried to use her influence as Lucy Liu’s publicist to bypass the five-year waiting time to purchase the $4000 handbag, and Alexander Petrovsky is deemed husband material after he buys Carrie an Oscar de la Renta dress she saw in Vogue .  Today, the fashion in SATC is immortalized on the internet in countless memes and Instagram accounts dedicated to archiving the best friends’ outfits, showing that authentic and entertaining style never really goes out of fashion. Read on and learn how to curate your wardrobe to reflect the sartorial sense of the best friends at the heart of the iconic HBO series. Carrie Bradshaw Carrie Bradshaw’s whimsical fashion sense defined her impulsive personality, what stylist Patricia Fields   called  “princess syndrome” in daring to stand out from the rest of the crowd — whether   clad  in a white vest over a taffy-pink shirt, the iconic tutu skirt with a pink body-tight top, or the sensual white slip dress in which she asks Big, “Why wasn’t it me?” Much of Carrie’s wardrobe was thrifted due to SATC being on a budget in its early days, but also because the (anti)heroine lived in Manhattan penning a sex column for a living, hence the iconic line: “I was looking for the perfect $7 vintage dress to go with my $300 shoes when. . .” To channel Carrie’s bold, dramatic style, invest in... ... an overflowing rose tulle  skirt  from Anthropologie ($158). ... a satin slip  dress  from Aritzia ($128). ... or a  white vest  from Ralph Lauren ($175). For shoes, opt for these strappy  Manolo Blahnik  heels ($825). For an affordable nameplate necklace (remember when she loses then finds her “Carrie” necklace in Paris, as her then-boyfriend threatens to overtake her sense of self?), check out this   MeMoShe Layered Necklace  ($20). And if you’re a curly-haired girl, buy  Ouidad’s Heat & Humidity gel  to scrunch bouncy curls in all kinds of weather ($26).  Samantha Jones Samantha favored power dressing, accessories that made a statement, and touches of gold reminiscent of the 1980s (it’s often implied she’s older than the rest of the girls). A PR professional, Samantha understood the power of luxury, styling herself as the prize while being a maven of pleasure herself. If you want to embrace Samantha’s bling and confidence, check out: ... Melody Ehsani’s  Sade hoop earrings  ($25). ... DKNY’s  belted blazer ($189). ...or a versatile  white trench coat  from Aritzia ($208). And, of course, as a party girl who once frequented Studio 54, Samantha   loved  sumptuous colors and   glittering   maximalism . For a night out, wear this Hervé Léger burgundy bandage dress ($252)... ...a pale blue sequined minidress  from Paloma and Lira ($693)...  ...or buy these  shimmering pants  from Meltem Ozbek ($301). Miranda Hobbes Before androgynous style was a thing, Miranda Hobbes wore svelte pantsuits that could have easily been bought in the menswear section of any department store. A lawyer by profession, Miranda’s wardrobe either reflected the formality of her work environment or relaxed into sportswear staples like denim and puffer jackets, or   halter tops  and   breezy maxi dresses .  Whether attired in a Jean Paul Gaultier pop art dress or a crisp white-collared   shirt  with a blazer and a skinny tie, Miranda exuded power in a way that confounded the male gaze. To dress like the OG girlboss, invest in: ... this  structured black blazer  from Phoebe Philo  ($4,500). ... and a  white shirt  from Banana Republic   ($49). For an off-duty look, try this  sleeveless turtleneck  sweater from Anthropologie ($38). ....and these  overalls  from Levi’s ($128). As for the gorgeous Gaultier dress, it’s mostly sold out online—but you can bid for it on secondhand sites, or find   similar   dresses  that make up for it. Charlotte York As a Park Avenue princess and an art dealer, Charlotte’s style drew from the   prep  of her upbringing, often   wearing   ultrafeminine   clothes  that   epitomized  her dream of a man sweeping her off her feet. And yet, even with her fixation on marriage, Charlotte knew when to dress to empower herself  — the   scene  in which she   dons  dark-tinted sunglasses and a pink midi dress channeling Elizabeth Taylor in the wake of her miscarriage, transforming her grief, is forever imprinted on the minds of SATC   viewers. To embody Charlotte’s classy glam, opt for: ... a lingerie-like floral  dress  from Réalisation Par  ($270). ... a  classic Ralph Lauren sweater   ($148). ...these  dark pink tweed pumps  from Kelly & Katie ($40). ....an Alaïa  flared princess coat ($4,960). . ...and these pearl studded  Jimmy Choo  cat-eye sunglasses ($75). 🌀 Iman Sultan  is a writer, aesthete, and creative consultant. After residing in Karachi and Philadelphia, she now lives in New York City. Sultan writes on the intersection of politics, culture, and society, and the role fashion, beauty, and cities play in our everyday lives. Her work  has appeared in National Geographic, Al Jazeera, W, i-D, LA Review of Books, Vogue Arabia and many other publications. Find her on @karachiiite , and read her newsletter, Shaharazad in the 21st Century .

From bunnies to Bottega. Decades ago, trends had longer legs. The affordability of fast fashion, the decline of hand-made and homemade clothing, and the beast that is social media all contribute to this current style climate of “Thank you, next, thank you, next.” We are in a bottom-up rather than a top-down environment, where the big fashion houses and the magazine editors seem to have less and less influence on what’s trending — contrary to Miranda Priestly's (Meryl Streep) “cerulean blue” speech in The Devil Wears Prada . At this point, a lot of us are exhausted with the demands of rapid trend and micro-trend cycles. It’s hard to get excited about a certain look, fit, or accessory, knowing that it will only feel sparkly and fresh for about a season. I think you eventually end up in a place where the costs of keeping up outweigh how good it feels to not GAF. And as you get older, as I have, and we all eventually will, you start to just worry about what you  like and don’t like. How peaceful. But kinda boring, lowkey! Fashion is so fun! That might be why it’s so exciting to see a trend that has nothing to do with over-consumption. And what fits that bill lately are the bag charms I’ve started to see crop up in my city and all over social media, in a very quiet way. The bag charm trend is so whimsical to me because it has HEART! I love that this trend is mostly focused on authentic expression. After seeing pictures of girls adorning their purses with charms, I set out to interview a few people about where their charms are from and what they mean to them. Most charms are gifts from loved ones or mementos from favorite places. The point of bag charms, as evidenced by my research, isn’t to achieve a specific look borrowed from Pinterest or TikTok, but to personalize the bag to you , a la Jane Birkin. It’s a great way to take something as mass-produced and common as a bag and make it feel uniquely yours. Phenomenons like the bag charm trend have more longevity, in my opinion, because they are about personalization. You’re not trying to adhere to a predetermined aesthetic, but more so infuse your life with a little whimsy. And I find it adorable that we’re all now carrying around good luck charms, talismans, and things that remind us that we’re loved. Maddie, Chicago I bought the bunny on Amazon when I was going through a rough time (lol). It reminded me of my friend Sumner who had a Hello Kitty charm stuffed animal on one of her bags <3 I like how it’s started looking more worn as I’ve worn the bag more; it reminds me of The Velveteen Rabbit. The turquoise cinnabar charm I got from a store in NY Chinatown called Wing on Wo that’s one of the most beautiful shops I’ve ever been in :) Also an impulse purchase when I was visiting NY ... I love to impulse purchase my charms. I would rather build a collection over time than buy them all at once. I’ve been on the hunt for some good beads for a while but they haven’t come to me yet. Even though I only have 2 charms on my bag, I feel like they’re a reflection of where I’ve been and how I’ve felt. And I think they just add something fun to an otherwise very architectural and structural leather bag. Maggie, Los Angeles Both of these are gifts! The sardine is from my friend from when she was in Portugal and the little bunny in a dress is from my ex-girlfriend (she got it in L.A.’s Chinatown).  Honestly, I’m not someone who’s the type to get fun little things just because, so these remind me of people who have more whimsy than I do, haha! Avina, Los Angeles The butterfly charm is a Bottega Keychain my boyfriend Ben got me for my bday. It was a ridiculous gift I wanted and he didn’t see the issue! The beaded necklace and red jade charm on [the] opposite side are both from Chinatown, to protect me. The woman who does my nails said I’m so lucky when she saw them. Finally, the red tassel with the yellow string with a little bell is from my friend Melanie. She made it herself, it’s so precious. Layla, New York The orange charm is from a Blind Box series I loved as a teenager called "Yummy Breakfast." It must be almost 20 years old at this point. I got my Miffy from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. She's wearing a dress version of one of his sunflower paintings, which is absolutely darling to me. Danielle, New York The pin with charms is sort of an evil eye broach that my mom had. Ukrainians believe adding a safety pin to the inside of your clothes is good luck, so I think the shape of the broach might be an homage to that, but then it also has a hamsa on it, and it had a small evil eye charm but it fell off (not sure what the spiritual significance of it falling off is). I don’t really wear broaches or pins so I thought adding it to the bag would not just be a nice way to keep it on me, but it would also add some lighthearted playfulness to the legacy and seriousness of a vintage Coach lol The little red guy is from a toy maker whose whimsical work really speaks to me ( @ lifemachine .co on Instagram). I’ve been a fan of them for a while and when they were selling stuff at a market, my friends and I all got matching ones a la friendship bracelets. I think his mischievous expression is so cute, and again I really think the juxtaposition of a playful charm with a serious bag provides some joy and whimsy to my stuff, maybe helps me find common ground with the authoritativeness of my bag lol It’s always nice to look down and see a trinket traveling with you! 🌀 Cecilia O’Mara is a writer and painter living in Los Angeles. This year she really wants to go to Texas. You can find her on Twitter @2coppertone .

Four girls, one Prius, and 3,365 miles between New York City and Los Angeles. Four girls, one Prius, and 3,365 miles between New York City and Los Angeles. But what daunted me most throughout the road trip was not the possibility of a tire popping in the middle of nowhere, or whether oat milk would be accessible across the country, or if our flimsy car would get blown away in a storm. No, I had stress dreams about what clothes I would pack. My twin sister, Maisy, and I grew up in Southern California between Santa Barbara and Ojai. When it came time to attend college, she chose to go to Connecticut and I headed to New York City. She studies photography, I study fashion writing, and although we’ve grown to be different people, there is truly no one who can ground me like her. Our sisters are treasures and there is no one else I would be able to stand driving across the country with in a tiny white Prius other than her and my two roommates, Maria and Beanie. Sometimes a tiny New York City apartment can also feel like a cramped car hurtling through space at 90 miles per hour.  Maria grew up between Moscow and London, and Beanie between Cape Town and London. Somehow the three of us found each other in New York and have been strangely inseparable since. I asked them to join us on the road trip because America is so much bigger than New York. I wanted to explore tiny land-locked towns, cities with lakes that look like oceans, and dusty roadside tourist traps. I also hadn’t been home in over a year. I craved California. Gaultier on the Go I won’t bore you with my final packing list but I will say that by the time the trunk was shut and seatbelts were buckled, our rearview mirror was unusable and we had to strap a massive bag to the top of the Prius that, by the end of the trip, was not only encrusted with dead bugs, but also left a permanent dent in the hood of the car because it was so heavy. In our defense, Maisy and I had to pack for an entire summer of living away from home. Although, I will admit it was excessive. I probably could have left my Prada butterfly kitten heels at home. My road trip companion was a blue and red denim Jean Paul Gaultier bag that hung from the crook of my arm everywhere we went, whether I wandered through the Art Institute of Chicago in Illinois or hiked above the Grand Canyon in Arizona. It fit all of the road trip essentials: lip gloss, water bottle, melted peanut butter cups, Wives Like Us  by Plum Sykes, and my growing collection of postcards from each state. I wrote one every day and sent it to the boy I loved in New York, affixing stamps with various state flowers and slipping them into post office boxes in places like Elmore, Ohio, where the entire town consisted of a bank, post office, and a few restaurants and cafes where we ordered iced coffees and contemplated buying a piece of inexpensive land to share. At Mount Rushmore in South Dakota we walked past signs telling visitors that smoking isn’t allowed and guns must be left in the car. Every state’s flag billowed above, creating a runway down to four faces carved into the mountain known by indigenous Lakota people as the Six Grandfathers before it was chiseled in 1941 into the monument we know now. This mountain was and still is a sort of spiritual battle ground surrounded by an amphitheater, 50 flags, and a hot dog stand. I stood there shading my eyes and contemplating America’s history while Gaultier was slung over my shoulder.  Mary Janes in the Mountains Maisy isn’t as fashionably inclined as I am. But she is also the right-brained one between the two of us and planned the entire road trip after I said we could just “go with the flow.” Bless her heart. Maisy raises her eyebrows when I tell her how much I spend on The RealReal, rolls her eyes when I ask her if she wants to know the brand of my new shoes, and, despite being a photography nerd, barely knows any fashion photographers. However, she has style. She’s a simplistic gal with Jane Birkin-esque long dirty blonde hair and perfect bangs that she’s trimmed herself since high school. She’s got her classics on rotation: tailored Ganni jeans, fitted Brandy Melville t-shirts, and black leather Mary Jane ballet flats that she acquired while studying abroad in Rome. One of her multiple film cameras are always the chicest accessory on top of her immaculately stacked silver jewelry. And we always wear matching hoop earrings. Always. I assumed that Maisy’s simple style would fit right in at our first stop on the road trip in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. One of the lessons this trip taught us was to never say no to a free place to stay, so we stopped in a Pennsylvania town we had never heard of to stay with one of Maisy’s college friends. She put us up in her attic, which wasn’t an attic at all, but a life-sized dollhouse with pastel purple and blue walls and bunny rabbit pillows on the beds. Teenage rebellion had taken over half of the room with A$AP Rocky and Amy Winehouse posters plastered over painted daisies and white picket fences. Our host was kind enough to invite us to the Sewickley Country Club’s summer barbecue, so we changed into our bikinis — mine was an exceptionally skimpy one. Though simple, Maisy’s style was nothing like the conservative bubble of East Coast suburbia. Her ballet flats and jeans stood out against boat shoes and Vineyard Vines khakis. As everyone washed off winter in the pool, we queued for hot dogs and hamburgers and then ate tiny desserts also shaped like hot dogs and hamburgers. I encouraged Maria and Beanie to take it all in. This was the quintessential landscape of an American country club. Murky waters, sunburnt noses, and a not-so-shocking lack of diversity. Maisy wore her Mary Jane ballet flats every day of the trip. We got caught in the middle of a rainstorm outside of Chicago and waited it out in a gas station.  While we were all distracted by a group of Amish smoking cigarettes, eating pizza, and driving in a van, Maisy accidentally stepped in a puddle. Her feet remained dry, proving the resilience of her leather vestibules, while the London girls gawked at the Amish people they previously thought only existed in TLC TV shows. Maisy wore her Mary Janes in national parks through South Dakota and Utah and in the mountains of Colorado when we hiked up Boulder Creek. At the end of the day, she just wiped the dirt off.  Wedges in Wyoming Maria won’t be caught dead in a flat shoe. When faced with a road trip of unpredictable terrain and guaranteed pit stops in national parks, she packed her leather wedge booties, the same pair she wears every day in New York. Most often they’re paired with low-waisted baggy corduroys or a pair of men’s plaid shorts that end just below her knee. Maria loves silver belts and bangles, and layers fur vests over tops that she sews for herself out of old bedsheets. She is a fine art student who spends her free time hunched over a sculpture, spray painting on our fire escape, or scribbling on synthetic skin with her tattoo gun. Maria is also a dedicated rock collector and left ample space in her luggage in preparation for the rocks she wanted to bring back from the trip. In order to allow this space, she packed a very limited amount of clothing, but the wedges were a necessity.  The Great Plains of South Dakota quickly turned into white rock that jutted from the earth like pale sand castles. Badlands National Park resembled the moon but instead of hopping weightlessly from rock to rock in astronaut attire, we had our Mary Janes and boots. Maria climbed around and collected moon rocks — angular chunks that she would later sketch from every angle. We scrambled up slippery slopes in our subversive footwear, scuffing and tearing at their materials. A few hours later we pulled over to the side of the freeway for two emergencies: Beanie needed to pee and Maria needed to spray paint her tag on a cargo train stopped on the tracks. So she scaled the side of the massive metal mobile and left her mark in black paint. We all squatted in the Great Plains but made sure not to pee onto our shoes — they couldn’t take much more. Dresses in the Desert Perhaps it was my desire to feel superior in a way that nobody else understood, but I wore a minidress to Arches National Park in Moab, Utah. I grew up in nature and spent many high school years backpacking and hiking, but I felt out of practice after living in the city. Maybe I wanted people to look at me and judge my clothes instead of the fact that I was out of breath on the shortest hike in the park. The dress was off-the-shoulder and had two strings that I cinched in little bows above and below my bust. The blue, white, and gray gingham pattern perfectly clashed with my camouflage baseball hat. It was neutral enough. I wasn’t trying to distract from the scenery, only my own athletic inadequacy. When we approached the massive stone arch that stretched several hundred feet above us, I realized I would need to climb, and these tourists were about to receive a show. I made it to the crux of the arch where we could look out at the sprawling rocks and try not to get blown away in the desert wind. I kept my thighs glued together and balanced tediously on the edge of the very steep cliff. Usually my balance is flawless. As I climbed down, I got some laughs from the other tourists, but they wore tie dyed t-shirts and incredibly ugly sneakers and sandals that couldn’t be justified no matter how sensible they were. I was the only one in a minidress and that is one thing I could feel proud of. I found the balance between existing not only as a freak of nature but also as a part of it. Cargos in the Club Beanie is the final installment of this article/packing list because she had the item that got passed around the most: a pair of cargo mini shorts. Maria borrowed them in Wisconsin, I snagged them in Arizona, and Maisy was the encore in Nevada. Beanie wore them while curling up in the back seat of the Prius while knitting her rainbow scarf, calling her ten-year-old sister on the phone multiple times a day, and twirling her naturally platinum hair around her finger. Beanie is a bit posh, but we don’t hold it against her. She provides the Gimaguas and Paloma Wool for the group and makes sure everyone gets sufficient cigarette breaks even when we’re on a tight schedule. I don’t know what brand Beanie’s cargo shorts were but they had buckles on each side and one of them broke so it had to be tied with a hairband. Regardless of their minor dysfunction, they were cute and short and a bit baggy. They paired perfectly with our various boots, wedges, and Mary Janes — so much so that Maisy wore them to the club when we got to Las Vegas. We stayed at the Motel 6 on the strip where crazy characters tried to sell us tickets to the Sphere and men stared at us in our bikinis but it was so hot that we truly had no other choice but to lay starfish in the pool. The concrete burned my feet even through my shoes and we all showered and got dressed for everyone’s first and most likely last night out in Vegas. Maria wore her wedges which were now caked in dust and desperately needed to be resoled. I felt a newfound sass in my miniskirt and boots as we walked to the liquor store to get drinks to sip in the shade as we waited for the sun to go down. Despite my dress in the desert and Jean Paul Gaultier bag, I hadn’t felt like myself for most of the road trip because of my limited wardrobe. We sipped horrible mixed drinks that we made ourselves and revealed our deepest darkest secrets under the influence of bottom-shelf vodka. We might’ve gotten a bit emotional, just four girls around an outdoor table on the last night of our American odyssey. Soon, we will be exiting this beautiful bardo of a road trip. No more long drives or crummy cafes. Soon I would be somewhere familiar, somewhere where people knew me, and somewhere where a minidress couldn’t shield the inadequacy I always seemed to feel. But we hadn’t even gotten to the club yet. Maisy made me walk ahead of her because she wore her Mary Janes and I wore knee-high platform boots. I stomped my way to the bouncer and got my bag searched. They confiscated my gum, my Sharpie, my allergy pills, my eye drops, seemingly everything except my lip gloss. They tried to take Maria’s film camera but she stashed it behind a casino slot machine in hopes that it would still be there when we got out. The DJ played Drake and Bruno Mars, it sucked. Beanie and I kissed boys from a town in California I’d never heard of. One complimented my top; it was Beanie’s, and, on the last night of our trip, it smelled like a mixture of sweat, gas station snacks, and messy motel rooms. I hated clubs, but this boy was cute and he spun me around and kept me sufficiently hydrated. We danced as well as we could on a floor that was sticky with spilled drinks.  We made one last stop on our way out of Vegas to commit our final fashion faux pas: purchasing matching hot pink booty shorts. They were as obnoxious as they sound, with metallic rainbow angel wings on the ass with “Las” and “Vegas” plastered in cursive across each cheek. God forbid I ever wore these outside of my bedroom, but the four of us committed to them for the last four hours of our drive. Our picture in front of the “Welcome to California” sign had to be cropped from the waist up before getting sent to our parents. Only a few hours later as I arrived home, the air smelled like jasmine, orange trees, and the smoke of a certain recreational herb. Deep breaths. I no longer needed my closet as a comfort. I could embrace my mom and my little sister and my dog even in my sweaty and cranky post-road trip state. I could let my guard down. But the Gaultier remained over my shoulder the entire time. 🌀 Jane Lewis  is a writer, editor, and fashion journalism student at The New School in New York City. She spent her adolescence playing and working on farms in California, but now wears her Marc Jacobs FW 2005 plaid trench coat every day and always matches her shoes to her bag. Find her on Instagram ( @janethefarmer ) and Twitter ( @janelikethesong ).