Springtime in New York is the stuff of urban fairy-tales, the stuff that made me fall in love with this maddening metropolis in the first place. For some, New York is all grit, all concrete; hard; cold; relentless, and never fair. Brutal winters, crowded subways, cramped quarters, and suffocating fumes that cloud the gray skies. Harsh accents and even harsher words flung at you everyday, with reckless New York drivers rarely braking for pedestrians or fashionistas in irksome heels….

And in truth, so much of this attitude dominates the culture of New York. I’m not sure if we’ve internalized projected notions of who New Yorkers are, as seen in movies (see: Woody Allen or Spike Lee) or written of in novels (read: Edith Wharton or Truman Capote), or this is simply what becomes of us over time as urban dwellers, but there is an undeniable edge that resides at the city’s core.

However if perspective is gained, one realizes that they must take the bitter with the sweet. A sweetness I always see manifest once the temperature breaks above 70.

Yes, those ominous gray clouds that hover longingly over our high-reaching sky-scrapers, subside, and give way to a beaming and lustrous burst of sunshine. The grand yellow orb above beams its rays down upon the jaded, the pallid, the joyless, and Spring bursts onto this hapless population.

We spill out from our flats, walk-ups, lofts, studios, and brownstones, where we have hibernated for months, and take to the tree-lined rows of our newly verdant neighborhood blocks. Kids whiz by on their tricycles and skateboards, shrieking out of joy and fear; older couples tend to their gardens and nod to all passerby’s; the young and old take to their blessed stoops, their hands wrapped around perspiring bottles of beer. Girls flutter by in maxi dresses, while fellows gaze suggestively after their trails.

The parks are packed, bodies strewn about on their bumpy hills and slopes, soaking up the sun’s vibrations, and you can always find me amongst its recipients. The sunshine in New York makes the city new to me, it makes me rethink its architecture, haunts, and dwellers. Everyone and everything is somehow supremely attractive, the sun seemingly dusting off otherwise shabby surroundings to make for a certain twinkle. Without hesitation, I  perch for hours in a park, indulging in its rays; the constant urge to move/do/see, finally quieted.

However, last summer when I was introduced to the Conservatory Gardens uptown, I felt my soul was not simply quieted, but wholly silenced by the unsuspecting beauty of the park. Modeled after the wistful and detailed mapping of French gardens (yes, they have sucked me in again), the Conservatory Garden is an intricate complex of adoring flora, serpentine walkways, and forbidden lawns. I thought it the perfect setting for this shoot, a lush backdrop to the simplicity of warm weather dressing.

I channel all sorts of style sirens and fashion muses for this time of year, from the classic romanticism of Ruth Orkin’s “American Girl In Italy” to the Brooklyn funk of a young Joie Lee circa “She’s Gotta Have It”. But no matter the style id I assume, I always take great pleasure in my Spring and Summer wardrobes: I love not being bogged down by layers, asserting color in the rotation, letting my newly emblazoned tan act as an accent to pastels or different fabrics, while drawing upon a “softness” that often eludes me.

Take this ensemble for instance. The two-piece patterned silhouette is certainly a blast from the past, something I imagine Diane Keaton’s character in “Manhattan” would have worn. It has a nipped waist, it dares to match, but it’s soft, thin, and begs to be worn in a very unconsciously pulled-together way. So I kept the blouse a bit open, rumpled my temporarily straightened hair (it’s grown!), and slipped into my Belstaff sandals, which are quickly becoming a mainstay. It was unfussy, cool, and perfect for climbing over the gnarled cobblestone of the park’s pathways or under the twisting vines that submerged the garden’s canopies.

Of course the Conservatory’s crown jewel is its vast main lawn, which remains prohibited to visitors, its perfectly manicured stalks of grass immune to touch. I couldn’t help myself from frolicking in its center, however, the breeze catching my skirt and literally blowing me out into the middle. I didn’t resist the pull, but plopped down, and felt an ease wash over me.

I simply basked.//

Ah, the reverie of a tropical vacation: I remember it well.

My skin accepting a well-appointed kiss from the sun, drinks before noon customary, the ocean pouring itself over my new bathing suit, fresh seafood satiating my appetite and sending me into a luxurious afternoon nap, I stirring only at the chirps, hisses, bellows of the indigenous fauna. Plenty of nighttime hijinks were to follow, with me whipping around the narrows and bends of a tiny island in an open-roof jeep, the roads only lit by the glowing moon above.

Sadly, such activities are not on the agenda of a fledgling writer these days.

I instead must escape the capricious Northeast weather in other creative ways. An active imagination always helps, my mind whisking me off to diverse destinations far, far away, while living vicariously through my globe-trotting friends lessens the harsh reality I haven’t left American soil in over a year. But I have also found that living within such a diverse metropolis as New York, you can find yourself transported elsewhere by simply turning a corner, taking a subway ride, or in this case, following a scent.

I am by no means promoting the invasive exercise of cultural relativism, but rather suggesting that separate worlds orbit on this tiny island and finding them is surprisingly easy and refreshingly transportive. Perhaps this is why I found myself visiting Soho haunt, Miss Lily’s, several weeks in a row.

The brainchild of the same team who brought us La Esquina (a spot I visit weekly for a meal that reminds of me abuela’s homecooking), Miss Lily’s is a scrumptious eatery of Jamaican dishes. Think oxtails, rice and beans, and coconut encrusted corn on the cob for the hipster set. I had heard rumblings of the spot for weeks leading up to my initial visit: every young Black creative directing me to its Houston and Sullivan St location with haste and a smidge of condescension. “You haven’t been yet?!” they snickered. No, I’ve been a little busy.

Finally when Shala and I were planning a major catch-up session, she suggested Miss Lily’s, and I considered it a sign. We made reservations and I began making mental images of the innards of this locale. My premonitions were somewhat correct.

It, like its Mexican sister, La Esquina, is a perfectly curated hub of aesthetics and epicureal delights, the staff made up of off-duty Amazonian models who whisk you to your table within a billow of bouncy curls and gossamer maxi skirts. The lighting dim, the dining room is punctuated with electric-hued booths, a smattering of wall art that consists of Caribbean flags, record covers from beloved dancehall hits, with its centerpiece the beguiling figure of Sintra Arunte-Bronte, she hanging under a spotlight against the pastel yellow tiled walls. Quaint silverware and plastic food baskets reminiscent of diners past are set before you, while instinctually you sip on Red Stripe and pluck into a pile of plantains.

The bar is small, consistently packed, its beautiful patrons having to shout over the rumbling of the ferocious sound system above. As much as the food offers the right amount of spice and salt, Miss Lily’s integral ingredient is the culture that surrounds the cuisine, one buttressed by the attached bookstore/record store/radio station, and juice bar, unwittingly known as Melvin’s Juice Box. Stocked with coveted records and coffee-table books on dancehall legends, the bookstore houses Miss Lily’s own radio station, Radio Lily, which was abuzz with good vibrations when we stuck our heads in before being seated.

The whole enterprise seemed to cast the right amount of authenticity rather than the “bastardization” of Jamaican culture Cleon often curses, and I couldn’t stop thinking of the stylish savvy of island life. Rita Marley…Grace Jones…Marcia Griffiths…Lauryn Hill: they each brought forth the groove and spirit of Jamaican culture in distinct and personal ways, without ever assuming a costume or posturing. There is clearly an easiness to Caribbean daily life that defies the bustle of urban enclaves, and these aforementioned songstresses displayed such a sensibility in their dress. Never overcomplicating the silhouette, these stylish women stuck to pared down staples (see: threadbare tanks, maxi skirts, light-weight denim), letting color and texture instead dominate. Hair, of course, was another huge centerpiece of any ensemble: dreads, tufts of ‘fro, twists, or flat-tops as signature as the mash up of red, green, and yellow.

Having acquired a mesh tank in a recent vintage quest, perfectly emblazoned in the colors of Rastafarianism, I wondered if I too could achieve a similar intent.

I tucked the Jamaican sartorial staple in to a pair of high-waisted wide-leg trousers in a complementing shade of mint, adding a clashing printed platform sandal, and cinched in the waist of my ensemble with a woven belt. It was coordinated, to be sure, but I wanted the accessories to break that uniformity up. With a nod of assurance from Cleon, a Spanish Town, Xamiaca*-native, we took off for lunch at Miss Lily’s bustling juice bar. Packed for the lunch hour, the diners inside lit up at my presence, and we quickly ordered a bevy of delicacies, including a fish sandwich that knocked me on my feet and a costly shake that remind that I was indeed still in Soho proper.

But as Cleon bit into his gourmet beef patty, he let out a sigh of relief: we may not be basking under the tropical sun, but we were close.//

Scroll through the remaining images of “Miss Ting” below and check out the LADYPANTS Big Time Mash Up Tunes playlist.

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Vintage tank + Vintage trousers + Bikini top by Lisa Marie Fernandez + Vintage belt + Vintage necklace + Bag by Mayle + Sandals by Chloe + Sunglasses by Karen Walker

All photography by Layonbone’s, Cleon Grey
 “Dutty Wine” graphic print by Robin Clare

**Many thanks to the lovely staff of Miss Lily’s, 132 West Houston St

As the title of this post suggests, I am a voracious reader–have been since I was a child. The daughter of an English professor and poet-cum-doctor, it was hardly surprising to find my head stuck in some novel (or two), my imagination propelled into adventures and storylines miles and miles away from my suburban environs.

My mother would take me to Taylor Bookstore, a Mom-n-Pop enterprise that sadly shuttered its doors at the unsightly presence of Barnes & Noble, every week in Dallas Texas and set me free amongst the children’s fiction section to help supply my habit.

I would promptly sprawl out on the floor, submerging myself into the prose of Judy Bloom’s, Ramona, or Lucy Maud Montgomery’s, Anne of Green Gables, while my mother gathered her own choices (mostly anything by Whitman or Dickinson).

We would sometimes quibble over my selections, as she felt The Babysitters Club pure fluff compared to the depths of Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry (and in truth, she was right so I read both), but reluctantly she would cave. Seeing me read was a pleasure alone. It is then no surprise that the library became a huge social nucleus for me as I advanced in age.

When I was a student at Brown, I was a ubiquitous presence on the slabbed steps of the Rockefeller Library and within its shabby 70s interiors. On such a small campus, one so well sequestered from its Ivy brethren amongst the verdant trees and hills of Rhode Island, the library was constantly streaming with action. Much chatter, gossip relayed; intellectual discourses incited and quelled; many cigarette/study breaks taken. Affectionately dubbed “The Rock”, the building stood wide, covered in vines, telling of papers completed between run-ins with friends, enemies, past loves.

At this, the Rock quickly became quite romantic in my mind, this large edifice devoted entirely to volumes of work, it housing knowledge and separate worlds. The musty smell of books, the turning and flapping of pages, the whispers hissed across “the stacks”, the squeaks of heels against linoleum floors, the silent hum of an air conditioning overhead, the intent of one’s gaze, so focused on the page before them. The stuff of geekdom, but you would never guess by looking at any of the Rock library’s actual dwellers.

As I observed quickly, my Brown classmates made academia chic–though many would never admit to such an injunction. To speak of fashion or style in any formalized way was far too glib. There was Derrida to discuss, Foucault to grasp, Butler to ruminate over, after all, which made for hardly any room to speak of conscious efforts to dress oneself fashionably. Style simply subsisted on that campus as an air of erudition, as a studied act of nonchalance. The look of the “slightly undone intellectual” was to appear as an organic doing of designer labels, vintage, and perfect eyewear–but it hardly ever was.

Take a dear friend of mine who would come wafting into the library wrapped in billowing Yohji Yamamato harem sweats, several cashmere scarves swaddled around her neck, and Stella McCartney for Adidas flats bound to her feet. Always ahead of the style curve, this was her idea of “study attire”, while her class ensembles consisted of Chloe denim jackets, motorcycle boots, and Prada sweaters. Or how about my  best friend who resembled Rosario Dawson to a T: her vintage mish-mash outfits of structured blazers, extreme footwear, large jewelry, and minis always leaving Art Semiotics T.A.s defenseless to her charms.

My male friends were no better, swooping through the corridors of the Rock in A.P.C. distressed denim, ratty Supergas or Chucks, and slightly fitted threadbare tees layered under softly rumpled grandpa cardigans of Italian make. They looked as if they had just left band practice (and many had) or finished romancing a beguiling freshman (and many had). Their haircuts transformed them into perfect derivatives of young Bob Dylan’s, Robert Redford’s, or Maxwell’s; their tortoiseshell horn-rimmed glasses slightly smudged and perched low on their nose.

As much as my classmates shuddered at the thought of being seen as anything more than ‘effortless’ in dress or thought, there were conscious aims towards a stylish end. So many of them hailed from New York, Los Angeles, or abroad, that they smacked of trends and phenomenons that were light years ahead. It is perhaps why they seemed bored at the topic of fashion: they had always been within its midst, and were waiting for us all to catch up. When WWD crowned Brown “The Most Fashionable Ivy” my Junior year, I think most of my friends were curious why it had taken them so long.

It was hard, then, to avoid being completely inspired by this stylized cadre of intellectuals, especially as someone who would splurge on fashion magazines every week at the campus bookstore and truly saw the political viability of fashion. My own look evolved from prepster to hipster within semesters, I taking to the Main Green in skinny jeans, structured blazers, vintage cowboy boots, and a buoyant of curls; a Joy James book of protest and Vogue magazine tucked squarely under my arm. Disparate in philosophies, both tomes spoke to me: the book and total fashion geek.

It was a nuanced balance, of course, one that bordered on hypocrisy and shallowness, but I would look to Brown and Vogue-alum, Sally Singer, as this paradigmatic example of how it could be done. A great fashion journalist herself, with her now at the helm of T Magazine, Singer always harbored a quiet cool and maintained a keen interest in culture. Through her varied writings of travel, I saw that even while working in the industry, life extended past fashion, while equally, a world happens outside the parameters of the academy. I should constantly be living and learning about it. My future work in fashion would not preclude me from intellectual growth of any kind.

Although it has been almost seven years since I graduated from college (it’s odd to even write that), I can still be spotted within the bookstores and magazine stands of this great metropolis. Scaling the shelves for great words and works, seeking inspiration for these shoots, leaving with stacks of finds that speak to my varied interests of film, art, fashion. I’ve of course upgraded my look of “slightly undone intellectual”, as is the way of any New Yorker, preferring to pluck Japanese cotton twill suits from Steven Alan for the occasion of book shopping.

Pairing the checkered combo with a striped silk blouse, I felt the look conjured up the Southern decorum of novelist, Mark Twain, with all the panache of fashionplate/poetess, Anne Sexton. It created a great contrast of prints, the cream and navy stripes playing beautifully off one another, while the tailored peplum of the blazer molded a serious cinched waist. The pant leg hits perfectly at my ankle, reinventing the woman’s suit into something you actually enjoy wearing. In fact, as we took to the New York Public Library, Strand Bookstore, and Soho newstand to shoot this project, all of New York seemingly had to stop me to tell me how much they enjoyed the look.

It appeared I had finally found that balance of bookworm and arbiter of style I had always been grasping for. //

xLP

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Scroll through the remaining images below and discover what other fashionable alums Brown has produced, along with who made the LADYPANTS Reading List.

As if by rite of passage, the Black model archive is filled with trials of hapharzard handling of one’s hair. Left in the hands of hairstylists deaf to the temperment of Black tresses, Black fashion pioneers have recounted tales of their coils and strands being stretched to their breaking, frayed ends; scalps carelessly permed, harshly scorched, battered with color, and left to be restored by weaves, wigs, and the shearing of frazzled locks.

These haunting experiences are now often shrouded in frustrated one-off tweets, or woeful interview admissions from present-day Black fashion favorites Jourdan Dunn and Chanel Iman, messages that acknowledge a problem, but rarely hold few responsible. This while Black model stalwarts Naomi Campbell and Tyra Banks have fought the effects of alopecia publicly, Banks raising significant awareness to the damaging toll modeling has caused to her hair by going completely natural in 2010, even urging Larry King to feel her restored scalp in an on-camera 2009 interview.

It is uplifting then to see the newest pack of Black models storming the catwalks in full embrace of their natural hairstyles, from cropped Afros, flat tops, to buzzed scalps–and in turn being embraced by the industry that has typically approached Black hair with skepticism and harsh critique.

Click here to read the remainder of my first VOGUE Italia piece on the natural hair trend I spotted on the FW12 runways. 

Photo of Herieth Paul courtesy of Ryan MicGinley for the EDUN Spring 2012 campaign

The first time Sadia and I ever met, we ate gourmet donuts and lamb chops, and imbibed three rounds of fancy cocktails. We spoke of Isabel Marant, love interests, and our backgrounds, all of it in an irreverent tone that suggested a familiarity that pre-dated our meeting. The Germans call it “kismet”; Sadia calls it “a radical belonging.”

I think bell hooks wishes she had thought of that idea first.

Sadia’s neologism would of course be one of many, she sending me lyrical emails filled to capacity with tales of international exploits and musings over the following months, but I felt this was perhaps her best one to date. It told squarely of our mutual quest for a sense of parallelism within our friendships with other women of color–that parallelism that confirmed you weren’t so mad after all ::le sigh::

Closets aside, you never really know a woman until you work with her–or share a bathroom, but I haven’t done such since college. I never fretted the outcome of “Liberian Girls”, though–just merely its makings.

A project of such magnitude would need directional styling and a shared vision, so I began sending Sadia random stills from Janet Jackson’s “Got ‘Til It’s Gone” video, a work of art that still remains relevant and true as Janet portrays a songstress from 60s, 70s apartheid South Africa. I want to recreate this energy, I wrote. Sadia replied she was surprised she had forgotten such an exercise in visual splendor. Not sure how the video imagery escaped my consciousness; the ravages of time, I guess, she dashed off to me. 

Sadia emerged at my house days later with sacks full of wax prints, tailored made pieces she had made in Liberia, African jewelry, and tales of her recent travels there. Her nights were spent in the Liberian club scene, while her days belonged to her traversing back alleyways to locate the best fabric artisans. She was thinking of starting her own housewares and goods line, using these specially dyed fabrics from the local craftsman. I told her I clearly supported her efforts, especially over those of Crate and Barrel’s dabbles in the “exotic” home goods genre.

We began styling and three hours quickly passed, my house submerged under layers upon layers of clothing, and Liberia’s Top 10 jam, P.Square’s “Chop My Money”, playing unapologetically loud in the background. Cohesion was necessary; I wanted our stories to coalesce along with our personalities. She this spritely figure; I, a bluestocking.

I was still styling up until the very moment we began shooting days later, those “tortured artist”/”crazed creative” neuroses of mine making me second-guess each sartorial move. Change this…layer this…take that away…try these!! But the kinetic energy between us assuaged all fears, and the clothes donned and poses cast, engendered a mood of female sodality. In the new tradition of “radical belonging”, Sadia and I were “iterating” what I always felt slightly out of reach.

I mean, you wouldn’t believe how envious I grow sometimes over Cleon’s bond with his male cohorts of Street Etiquette, BKCircus, and beyond: this great assemblage of Black male style arbiters that is incredibly organic and born from a mutual respect. Finely tailored yet mercilessly jovial, this male style consortium collaborates with the snap of a suit button, communes frequently over the love of a varsity jacket, and encourages one another’s creative ventures to the hilt.

Cleon asserts it is the way of the male gender, but my Gender Studies degree knows better. I refuse to believe such things evade women simply because of our biological make-up. I think a Black cool girl collective is just as reachable and needed, because truth be told: female raconteurs should travel in packs, or at least in this case, pairs.

We should be taking creative risks together, moving towards new ideas of collaboration, all whilst dancing uncontrollably to M.I.A.’s, “Bad Girls.” It, by default, is the radical soundtrack to a radical new beginning. //

xLP

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Scroll through the remaining images of LIBERIAN GIRLS: part two, and be sure to check out Sadia’s site, Orogénie, for more on the art world savant.

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ENSEMBLE DETAILS:

LOOK 3| MARJON: Sweater by Acne + Skirt, tailored made in Liberia + Shoes by Chloe + Vintage clutch + Vintage necklace (by way of my mother); SADIA: Jacket by Isabel Marant + Sweater by Zara + Dress, tailored made in Liberia + Shoes by Marni + Vintage jewelry

LOOK 4| MARJON: Vintage dress + Vintage belt (by way of my mother) + Shoes by Belstaff + Vintage sunglasses; SADIA: Vintage dress + Vintage belt (by way of my mother) + Shoes by Marni + Sunglasses by Karen Walker

A very, very special thanks to my creative partner and collaborating photographer, Cleon Grey of Layonbone. Without his talent and passion, this couldn’t have been.

Much, much love to Sadia Bruce of Orogénie: a friend full of Negritude and amazing tales. 

]]> http://lady-pants.com/2012/03/09/liberian-girls-part-two/feed/ 14 marty326 LIBERIAN GIRLS 2 22_19-1 look 3-5 17_14-2 look 3-1 look 3-2 09_6-2 MEET SADIA a moment with a moment with 2 13_10-2 look 3-6 look 4-3 24_21-1 look 4-4 31_28-2 http://lady-pants.com/2012/03/06/liberian-girls-part-one/ http://lady-pants.com/2012/03/06/liberian-girls-part-one/#comments Tue, 06 Mar 2012 16:23:28 +0000 LADYPANTS http://lady-pants.com/?p=1768 Read More

part one:

If we are to believe the late, great Michael Jackson, Liberian girls have a history of coming and changing one’s world. Unsuspecting suitors and laymen, alike, fall susceptible to the enigmatic personas and ethereal allure of these “precious pearls,” forever altered. Certainly the stuff of love songs, but in so many ways, Jackson’s tale was pointed and true.

I never met the very Liberian girl I was named after. She was to make her homegoing years before I was to make my entrance, but my parents assured me she was a woman to know.

Whip smart, popular, outgoing, friendly, a presence; she was putting herself through law school and was the only woman my parents could conceive as my namesake. A feat, as I come from strong lines of matrilineal descent on both sides of my family tree.

And just like the song, the original Marjon seemingly swept into my parents lives, a distinct woman of foreign birth, who became a great, fast friend, and soon made her exit, leaving under a cloud of references to inner-country turmoil.

To this day my mother doesn’t like to speak much of Marjon’s final departure, out of respect, but as a child I didn’t quite understand that. There were many questions unanswered, many queries lingering around such a big name for a such small girl. I knew it was a designation of deep significance, a gesture committed by my parents out of honor, but almost like a pronounced nose or pair of ears, I had to grow into my name. “Marjon” was almost unapologetically exotic, mysterious, and hefty in weight, it always eliciting a pause. Where does such a name come from? What does it mean?

Over the last twenty-years I have been working to answer those questions, trying not to disturb my predecessor’s legacy, but gradually piecing together an identity of this single Liberian girl. A girl whose name in fact bore from Persia and meant “coral” in the Farsi dialect, who traveled to the States to study during a time when Africans the continent over were reimagining their own identity in light of post-colonial independence. My mother says my namesake was slight of frame, petite, and short; brown to the hue. I wonder who her favorite author was, how the lilt in her voice must have sounded, and yes, as is my way,  how she dressed.

With this blog, I am constantly in search of the link between my own identity to that of my closet’s; always begging the question, how my background, perspective, politics, and ideals make up the wardrobe I procure, the look I curate. It is here, with “Liberian Girls”, perhaps more than ever, that I work to forge history, time, style, culture, and identity together within the vast possibility of my closet. To show homage to the woman who quite literally came before me.

Mulling over the prophetic images of legendary Malian lensman, Seydou Keita, a renowned portrait photographer who captured a signifying moment in Malian culture from 1948-the late 1960s, I was inspired on how to bring this idea to life. Keita, who was himself taken with the Malian laymen pursuing aesthetics in newfound ways, photographed men and women suited in fineries amongst his staged props of jewelry, pocket watches, TVs, and Vespas. Imbuing a French colonial past and African traditions into his photographs, Keita positioned his subjects against the backdrops of vibrant wax prints, ever-so, working to detail a sense of sophistication and intimacy in their direct postures.

Within Keita’s artistic aims, I also saw this ontological tug that mirrored Marjon’s. I saw her schooling in America but gravitational pull back to Liberia as this internal struggle between the past and the present. I wanted to articulate that through the styling, but I didn’t simply want to fashion myself in a turban and a bright lip, and call it a day; nor did I want to do this alone. I tapped Sadia Bruce of site, Orogénie, an honest-to-goodness Liberian girl, to recreate the energy of Keita’s pictures with me. A satirist, arbiter of style, and fine patron of the Black art scene, I felt Sadia and I could wax wistful of yesteryear while taking new form amidst a bevy of vibrant garments.

She responded with a resounding yes, and what was to follow was something, well…inspired.//

xLP

Scroll through the remaining images of LIBERIAN GIRLS: part one, below, and check back for the second installment of this story this Thursday.

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ENSEMBLE DETAILS

LOOK 1| MARJON: Vintage blouse (by way of Edith Machinist) + Vintage pants (by way of Edith Machinist) + Shoes by Chloe + Vintage necklace (by way of my mother) + Sunglasses by Karen Walker; SADIA: Vintage top + Vintage St. John pants + Shoes by Belstaff + Vintage necklaces + Vintage sunglasses

LOOK 2| SADIA: Bikini top by Lisa Marie Fernandez + Vintage army jacket + Vintage pants + Shoes by Belstaff+ Vintage necklace ; MARJON: Vintage top + Skirt by McQ + Shoes by Opening Ceremony + Vintage necklace and bracelet (by way of my mother)

All photos courtesy of LAYONBONE’S, CLEON GREY

All styling by LADYPANTS’S, MARJON CARLOS

Visit SADIA BRUCE’S site, Orogénie, here

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Caroline Issa x MFW

While I work tirelessly on my new LADYPANTS project (one I think you will love), I still remain inspired by the happenings in fashion that are occurring around me. Fashion month is, of course, a focal point of mine at the moment, but I am finding that so much of the excitement is happening off the runway these days. I am admittedly inundated, swept under a deluge of fashion, what with the constant stream of collections (Fall/Winter, Spring/Summer, Resort, Cruise, Pre-Fall, Pre-Spring, select collaborations, next! next! next!), that it’s harder to suss out the mediocrity and make the proper edits. I often think of what designer, Azzedine Alaia once said of it all: “Today I believe designers are asked to do too much, too many collections. It’s inconceivable to me that someone that creative can have a new idea every two months. Because if I have one new idea in a year, I thank heaven.” Only the greats can get away with such candidness.

Julia Sarr-Jamois x MFW

However, I have found inspiration in the little spots of genius like the new Barney’s New York’s Spring campaign, “Tree Time.”

Tapping editorial and style mix master, Julia Sarr Jamois, as one of its spokeswomen, the French-Senegalese former model brings her seemingly effortless beauty and instinctive approach to style to the project, below.

I also enjoyed learning more about Penelope Tree’s journey, she the face of the 70s, who almost lost in all in a near-death scrape with a skin-eating disease. I kid you not. Fashion is full of survivors.

I am equally excited about the release of the second issue of acclaimed art and fashion publication, Garage. The whimsical cover, which in its children’s illustration visual cadence, illuminates the subject of sex, sexuality, and gay rights. I have been smiling about Peter Rabbit marrying the Sly Flox in Jil Sander and Missoni ensembles since Shala showed me a few weeks ago. Divine.

I’ve also been dreaming up a possible trip soon. I feel like I have been stuck in New York for far too long, having not traveled abroad in over a year. I was thinking perhaps Paris or Tulum, Mexico: yes, I realize two divergent locales, but absolutely delicious ideas. Paris, clearly, for its culture, fashion, art, food, and ability to make anyone a believer (see: “Midnight In Paris”), while Tulum speaks to my internal beach bunny. I love Mexican culture, food, and the language; my accent is something I take great pride in. We shall see where the wind takes me….

I haven’t been reading as I should be, so I need a new paperback to tackle. I love going to McNally Jackson in Soho and trolling the shelves, so I’ll have to stop by soon to see what they have. Any ideas? I am welcome to them. Too much television, I suppose. The really, really bad kind, too: reality television is a guilty pleasure of mine. Terrible, but true. But I am thrilled to know Donald Draper will be sending me a large birthday present this year in the form of a 2-hr season premiere on the 25th. He knows me so well. I am also interested to see stylist, June Ambrose’s, project on Vh1, “Styled by June.” She’s earned it, certainly, and though I don’t always agree with her style approach it’s great to see a hard-working woman of color represented evenly.

My brother's 2006 GQ appearance

Oh, and have you been watching my dear older brother, Jordan, in his new show, “I Just Want My Pants Back” (right)? I am so proud of him: he is a constant inspiration, and one of the funniest people I know. He and my oldest brother, Joseph, used to put on puppet shows for me when I was a wee tot, so it’s amazing to see him and this amazing new break years later. Watch it tonight, 11/10 CT on MTV: it’s amazing comedic writing and my father must be so pleased that one of his children is finally a doctor (even if he plays one on television)!

It mustn’t have been a huge surprise to my father that all his children were creative somehow, though. He did constantly expose us to the arts, and me to one of my favorite photographers, Cindy Sherman. When the Fort Worth Modern Art Museum opened in 2004, he took me and I fell for her “Film Still” collection. My father purchased a large-scale print for me, and I plastered it on my college apartment wall. Cindy, ascending a staircase, cloaked in shadows. I don’t know why, but I just responded to the imagery. I can’t wait to check out the full “Film Still” project at the MOMA this month, and replace that print I have no clue how I lost!

Cindy Sherman's, "Film Still #65"

I have also been trying to figure out the perfect way to usher in the Spring, if it be through a gingham Miu Miu slingback, Isabel’s high-top sneaker, or Alexander Wang’s floral-print pants. I just want something that is very identifiably printemps. Hmmm, ok, now back to the project wherein I will most likely be listening to K. Frimprong, M.I.A., Beyonce, Jesse Boykins, Lana del Rey, or Beethoven. It all inspires me!

Photo of Caroline Issa courtesy of Tommy Ton + Photo of Julia Sarr-Jamois courtesy of Angy’s Tea Room

Writer, David Foster Wallace, once wrote that the lives of others are a writer’s dinner; they are our sustenance. We observe, analog, and interrogate the sequential series of events, happenstances, and eccentricities of strangers and those closest to us, out of necessity — not to meddle. Life’s oddities are our fuel to work, to create; we are able to make connections and deductions that work to bridge varying histories, paths, and people together. But more importantly, we analyze the innards of “human situations” as a way to asses how individuals are perceived.

Without such fodder, we wind up speaking only of ourselves. Wallace absolved a tremendous amount of shame of mine with that principle and it has in turn helped me rectify my fascination with the lives of other women who happen to look just like me. Black women, more broadly — and Black women,artistically inclined and deftly dressed, more specifically.

For a style writer, whose work’s main focal point is the intersection of class, sex, race, and gender amongst the crowds gathered at Les Tuileries, it is uplifting to find tufts of a coiled Afro peeking out above the stylized fashion packs. Although I find that I can enjoy fashion and style on a very neutral level, as an individual who simply appreciates beauty, I preternaturally want to find out who that Afro belongs to. I want to learn how she has found herself amidst the glamour, and how she has navigated it all. This is the sustenance I was speaking of earlier.

In this, I have been taken with the lives and stories of several women, as of late: Solange Knowles, Shala Monroque, Julia Sarr-Jamois, Tracee Ellis Ross, Viola Davis, Kara Walker. All enchanting women who have summoned admirers through their varied talents in art, fashion editorial, music, acting, and entertainment — and yes, their alluring personal style. I’ve eagerly read up on their beginnings, successes, and philosophies in countless interviews, attended their lauded movies or art exhibitions, procured publications which they’ve covered or been featured amongst the pages of, and soaked up their energy and conspicuous intellect overheard in recorded interviews and even, memorable one-on-one conversations.

Though erring on the side of “ogling” (again, Wallace explains, a natural component of my job criteria as a writer), all this helps me piece the woman together, etch out a greater idea of this individual, and create a philosophical and sartorial alignment with one another in my mind. What blooms is not voyeurism, nor fandom, because I think that suggests an unequal balance of interest. But something much more subtle: a simple and honest-to-goodness “girl crush.”

Read the rest of “Sisterly Love…” at Huffington Post here.

Photo courtesy of Vintage Black Glamour

The making of a woman–a Black woman at that–is a challenge. There are several odds that may deter our growth, mostly all of them social constructs (gender, race, class: man-made stratus), nebulous and arbitrary forms of difference that are enforced without any merit or grounding. Differences that suggest we cannot do or say or be (or wear) whatever we so choose: that biologically, pathologically we are benign to self-edification.

Somehow, we withstand the odds, because quite frankly as much as I do not want someone, something to totalize my being, I certainly do not want them totalizing my look. No, no that is so much apart of my own identity, and most certainly an autobiography authored at the tip of my own proverbial pen.

But it has to be, does it not? My style a form of expression, an outlet for all the roads that have led me to my present state (of dress). Author Zora Neal Hurston once declared, “I am not tragically colored,” and in that same breath I am working towards not being tragically of color. Growing up Black, middle-class, and in America was not the stuff of loss or sorrow, but it held a certain kind of pain/confusion/isolation I try to exorcise daily.

To be honest, I have walked a particularly snarled path with “Blackness”. I don’t always get it; it doesn’t always get me. I’ve battled with its myopic view for almost three decades now, even pursuing and gaining a degree in the subject, and have come to surmise that, a/ there is no authentic form of it, b/ it’s ineffable, and c/ I am always painfully aware of its presence. Or rather, I am painfully aware of someone impressing upon me an “authentic”, “tangible” idea of Black identity that does not exist.

That sensation I have felt for years, probably ever since I was a little girl growing up in the Dallas, Texas suburbs with my doctor father, professor mother, protective two older brothers, and playful dog. We sharing a life full of books, political debates (I, woefully Democrat at a young age), travel, births, deaths, and a Spanish last name (its origins, vague). All of it felt right, but I learned quickly this is the stuff people love to shroud in skepticism. This was all pre-Obama, you see. I was made to feel suspect almost immediately by my Black and White classmates and friends, alike. I was forced to explain my weird Valley Girl cadence, the nature of my dress, the books I read (oh my beloved books!), the tufts of my hair.

You mustn’t believe I was severely lonely or bullied, because I had other little Black girl friends who felt the same way. But I was fearful of being me, explicitly so, and I don’t want to suggest that these confidantes of mine felt the same way, because I am not here to tell their truth. However, I maintained that fear throughout my teens, and it would flare up sporadically in college and onward, although college was a supremely amazing time for me. I was at a school made up of misfits, so we all made sense to one another (Brown University, Class of 2005).

But no matter, I often felt an internal tug editing my thoughts, opinions, likes, and displeasures, scared that someone may find out that I was not “tragically of color”. I remember being sent into a fit over not being able to play Spades (we played a lot of Checkers and Chess in my household, instead), this odd sense of shame rising up in me because I was certain this nebulous, arbitrary factor sized up my racial identity. I felt stares from the other card players bearing down on me, and conclusions being determined in their minds: I was a fraud.

It wasn’t until I went back for my Masters in “Blackness” (read: African-American Studies), that I could accurately create the language to speak to all of this. Interestingly, it was also a time that I was experimenting considerably with my look, shoring my locks to give way to a Rihanna-inspired pixie cut and altogether edgier wardrobe. I was wearing A.P.C. the first day of school, and Helmut Lang on my last. With the help of my mentor, the late Professor Manning Marable, I invented my own etymology and pedagogy to accurately engage racial “authenticity”, speaking to the “license” we all wield when discussing identity politics. He, the most notable Black Marxist in the country, the premier scholar on Malcolm X, affirmed my work and writing, and subsequently I have felt no editor or naysayer could ever tell me different.

I collected my departmental thesis award in a fitted vintage floral sheath and Loeffler Randall sandals. By this time, I was growing intellectually and stylistically by leaps and bounds, nearing the idea of the woman I hoped to be.

And who is that woman (X), you may ask? Well, as I approach 29 I see her definitely as someone creative, independent, doing something worthy with her talents, a mother of two, a wife of just the one, funny, less naive but trusting, well-traveled and most likely living outside the States, chic but grounded, purveyor of an eccentric but beautiful home, teaching her kids to never be scared of being themselves, all while being very, very well dressed. //

xLP

Scroll through the remaining images of FEMME NOIR X, below, a shoot split up into 3 looks of a woman paying homage to, but also reimagining, Black style.

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ENSEMBLE DETAILS

LOOK 1: Vintage moto jacket + Turtleneck by Zara + Vintage leather skirt + Pumps by Charlotte Olympia + Sunglasses by Karen Walker

This project is a special joint collaboration with Layonbone’s, “Tout Nor Tous”. Learn more about its inspiration here. 

]]> http://lady-pants.com/2012/02/15/femme-noire-x/feed/ 5 marty326 x cover 2 01_37-1 bw test 019_19 (3)-2 cafe test 02_2-4 LOOK 2 look 2 x LOOK 2 portrait LOOK 3 LOOK 3 MARKET 19_19-1 http://lady-pants.com/2012/02/14/vintage-trousseau-look-4/ http://lady-pants.com/2012/02/14/vintage-trousseau-look-4/#comments Tue, 14 Feb 2012 05:58:26 +0000 LADYPANTS http://lady-pants.com/?p=1646 Read More

There is something just about two-dollars pants, something so right in this maddening world of economic downfall and class wars that warrants clothing–great clothing at that–to be solidly placed within one’s budget. To be as cheap as a Happy Meal, but as satisfying as gourmet.

I remember it was the day after Christmas and I made my mother drive me to Goodwill for a toss in the discount barrels. I had tried my hand at Barney’s New York a few days before while Christmas shopping, and found little that surprised me. I decided to only purchase clothes that surprise me, that turn me into a believer, and on that day I left the (albeit beautiful) store, listless.

It’s interesting then that walking into the sullen gray innards of a Dallas Goodwill was like thumbing through the lost archives of a mad woman’s, well, trousseau. A hodgepodge of eras and decades subsisted alongside one another: 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, all in rumpled condition, but ripe with potential. I began pulling, but as I have discovered vintage isn’t always so kind to my size.

Who is to know why exactly, but I always pull size 14′s and then try to rationalize that a 1980s “14″ is different from what we believe it to be today. I then hustle into the dressing room, emerging moments later, swimming in fabric and my mother shaking her head upon first glance. I am cursed in this way. But somehow amongst the size 14′s, I found these gorgeous two-dollar pants. Two-dollars because there was a half-off sale. At Goodwill. I find that ruefully fair.

I have also rationalized that high-waisted pants are perhaps the only suitable trouser cut on me. So the higher the better. It helps fill out my frame, and adds an unexpected twist to my silhouette. It also provides room for a good tucking of one’s blouse. This blouse being a bizarre surrealist approach to the Hawaiian shirt. This, I believe, is an actual size 14–but I didn’t care. I loved the print so much, that I would make it work.

Work, it did, with the cinch of the waist and a colorful textured shoe. I can’t think of anything so very high/low, 99%/1% about wearing two-dollar pants and a surrealist Hawaiian shirt with silly expensive heels, can you?

After my mother made friends with half of the Goodwill staff (she’s painstakingly friendly), I scrounged in the one-dollar purse bin, and a leather clutch, with bamboo detailing, surfaced.  I told myself I would oil it down to bring about the leather’s shine: we’ll see if that happens. I always start projects like this in mind while at the store, and rarely complete them.

But nevertheless, when I compiled all my purchases at the counter, one of my mother’s newfound in-store confidantes slipping me another deal, I felt there was a real posterity to shopping vintage. I do love luxury fashion, all the trappings of fine tailoring, excellent fabrics, and solid craftsmanship, but there is something novel about making an impression in two-dollar pants and size 14s. As if to say that style, in this great study on ontology, is eternal.

                                                                                                                                                                              xLP

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ENSEMBLE DETAILS: 

Top, vintage + Pants, vintage + Pumps by Christian Louboutin + Belt, vintage + Hat, vintage

All photographs courtesy of Layonbone’s, Cleon Grey

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