by Garance Dore
That’s the moment Zara opens in my city, Marseille. Life revolution. I fall in love with the prices and the fact that suddenly all trends are available to me. Goodbye, thrift stores! No need to look like a dusty library rat anymore. Shiny new clothes—bring it on!
In the span of a few months, my wardrobe is 80 percent Zara. Zara becomes my religion, and I make sure to go to my church once a week in case a fashion miracle has happened. And Zara delivers: Fashion miracles always happen there. Soon I have no idea how I ever got dressed in the morning before Zara.
Problem? Same look as all my friends. No, wait…Same look as my entire city. No. Same look as all of France! No. Same look as the entire world!
Looking like everyone is looking like no one, I tell myself while taking a drag on my cigarette.
I go back to my thrift stores and learn to mix it up. By that time I have a proper washing machine and I know which fibers and fabrics to avoid. Tergal, get out of my way. You stink!
I even learn how to iron. I’m an adult. I know things. Sort of.
I AM 27 AND I AM SUPER EXTRA BROKE.
I quit my job to work as a freelance illustrator. Bohemian life, here I come! I am broker than ever.
Even H&M is a luxury to me, as I hit rock bottom. It’s the fashion juice cleanse. The only things I can’t stop myself from buying are magazines. Dreams on paper…
I learn to shop in my closet, reinvent my old clothes, steal from my boyfriend, swap with my girlfriends. I also learn to mend, recut, and dye my clothes. I don’t throw things away, I repurpose them, like I used to see my mom do. A man’s shirt can be recut to make a super-cool skirt. Baggy pants can be worn super low with a belt to give a completely different look. A slipdress can be worn in the winter with a big sweater…
This shopping diet is actually a great way for me to find important elements of my style: men’s clothes, coats, classics…
Having no money helps me understand that you don’t need cash to be creative, fashionable, and cool. And, most important, I discover you don’t need it to be happy.
I AM 33, I AM AN ILLUSTRATOR, AND I HAVE A BLOG!!!
Fashion blogs were born in France just as the fashion mass market exploded.
Zara, Topshop, H&M, and it’s also the beginning of high–low designer collaborations (remember the war for a jacket by Karl Lagerfeld for H&M?). We are entering the years of over-shopping.
I am starting to make a living on my illustrations, and after the fashion juice cleanse, it’s a total relapse: Instead of staying calm and buying just a few good pieces, I ruin myself with “good fashion deals” and lose my mind at stupid private sales.
I move to Paris and encounter the myth of the stylish Parisian firsthand, which is as depressingly real as can be. The cool girl I was in Marseille just doesn’t measure up to the impossibly, effortlessly chic Parisian. On top of all that, I feel like I have to live up to the expectations of being a fashion blogger. I try to adjust, but it’s the worst time of my life in terms of style.
I am not dressing for a guy, for my best friend, to look like my idol, to be special, or even for me: I’m dressing to try to be fashionable.
I buy the cheap version of whatever’s on the runway, with no sense of myself. I wear things that don’t flatter me, just because they’re on trend.
Do you remember those baby-doll dresses that were all the rage when Phoebe Philo was at Chloé? Can you imagine me in a cheap version of a Chloé baby-doll dress? No? Me neither.
But I buy and wear them. If you find a photo of me wearing one, please throw it away. Really, these are the dark ages of my style. And the worst part is, I know it isn’t working, but I have no idea what to do about it.
I learn that I’m not immune to the trends and that being a fashion victim is essentially being a victim. Yep. That’s all I learn, but the lesson is totally worth it.
And at least it makes funny stories for the blog.
I’M 36, MY BLOG IS FAMOUS, AND I’M A FASHION-INDUSTRY INSIDER!
It’s starting to sink in.
I’m understanding who I am, what I want, and what I don’t want. I learn to say no. No to passing trends, no to cheap copies, no to things that don’t flatter me.
I find my fundamentals: mixing menswear with feminine elements like skirts and high heels. I make my first fashion investments. An Hermès Kelly. A Burberry trench coat. A pair of Manolo heels.
I find my colors. I had known them forever—I was attracted to them naturally—but now they make my wardrobe. Whites, beiges, grays—and touches of red, blue, and green.
I still have moments where I panic and try to morph into sexy-cool Jenna Lyons or sexy-chic Carine Roitfeld, but moments like these usually don’t last for long.
I still have a lot to learn. Evening dressing, for example, is still a challenge. And sometimes I freak out when the runway shows come around, because I feel like I have to dress the part. But I’ve come to realize that no matter what I do, I can’t help but be me.
I’M 39, AND I HAVE REACHED FASHION MASTERY!!!
Just kidding.
I know what fits me and what makes me look good. I find myself buying the same thing over and over, but I don’t mind—these are my classics, they always work, they always make me happy. You’re going to learn everything about these essentials in the following pages.
I still make mistakes, but I’ve learned to ride the fashion-disaster dragon like a pro: I try new combos, new lengths, and new colors on days when it’s safe to experiment—and on important days I stick with what works.
I know now that fashion can really empower and make anyone feel beautiful—and that missteps are not the end of the world. They’re okay! They’re fun! Nobody cares!
Style is a fascinating way to tune in to who we are, understand who we are not, be creative, and express our inner selves.
1. I love this photo, shot by Derek Henderson for Vogue Australia – a very fashionable version of me. 2. A day at work in New York City. 3. Front row at Chanel, trying to keep my cool. 4. Downtime, checking e-mails between shows. 5. A shot by Patrick Demarchelier for a Net-à-Porter international campaign, seen here in V magazine. 6. At Fashion Week, a more sophisticated version of me. 7. At the shows, in heels you can only wear to the shows.
LESSON LEARNED
The setting is Paris, in the days when I was seeking the answers to all of life’s questions at crowded sample sales.
In other words, I’m drowning in a sea of Rykiel pants that retrace the past twenty years of fashion, from the proudest moments to the most obscure. The only thing missing is the present—this winter’s collection—which I dream about night and day.
I’m lugging around a bag full of at least three pairs of 6ers,1 a long cardigan—striped, of course—and a whole bunch of happy happy Rykiel-eries that I’ll hurry to slip on as soon as I get them paid for.
Right then I run into my friend, beautifully and freshly scarved. The painful sting of jealousy is quick to follow. Led only by greed, I swan-dive into a box of scarves and emerge proud as can be with a green, silky-soft floral scarf. Around my shoulders it goes, and she has nothing to say but “wow”.2
It feels so right. I need this scarf. How much is it? Not that I really care. “It will be mine,” and “I do have a 401K,” and other end-of-the-world thoughts run through my head. I find the nearest saleswoman and grab her by the collar, threatening her with the power of my 6ers if she doesn’t give me the intel.
HER: Surprised look.
ME: Haggard look.
HER: Knowing, sardonic look.
HER: “But, madame, this isn’t a scarf! It’s the fabric we use to line the bottom of the bins!”
ME: Feeling like Jessica Stam falling down on the catwalk.
A few steps behind me, my friend can barely hold it together she’s laughing so hard.
And what do you imagine I did?
I found the manager and told her she needed to give me the bottom-of-the-bin fabric. She says no. I say yes. She says no
way. I say, “I’ll pay!” She says, “We don’t even give these to employees.” I say, “Name your price.” She says, “Okay, fine, wait here.”
She comes back with a little box and says, “On the house.”
I always say that in life there are those who carry a loaded gun and those who dig.3
Me, I dig. I persevere. I push through. And, sometimes, I triumph.
Knowing your style goes a long way.
It gives you the power to communicate without saying a word; it turns you into a discerning shopper, the editor in chief of your own wardrobe.
After years of very serious research, fashion missteps, and wrong purchases, I have discovered that personal style and boundless fashion bliss lie at the intersection of four cardinals.
Jessica De Ruiter at home in L.A. Perfect relaxed elegance.
1. WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT YOURSELF.
Take heels. As much as I love them, I know that I have to save them for special occasions, evenings out, and business meetings.
My daily routine varies. I take pictures, I write bundled up on my couch, but I also walk all over town for meetings. My days sometimes end with a cocktail, sometimes at a concert, with no time to change in between.
To be fully present in the things I do, I know what I want: I want to look good, but I also want to be able to forget about my clothes.
That’s why I try to have a wardrobe that works whether I’m in heels or flats. Then I swap depending on my activities. I adjust and adapt not only to suit my tastes but also to suit my lifestyle.
Knowing yourself is knowing the distance between your dream self and your real self.
Marina Larroudé in Paris. The ultimate blend of femininity and ease.
2. WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT YOUR BODY.
Any body type can look beautiful, under the right conditions, but let’s be honest: It’s just easier to wear what you see on the runway if you’re skinny and relatively flat-chested with narrow hips. It’s boring, annoying, wrong, and sucks.
You know why it sucks?
Because it’s not your body’s fault; it’s the designer’s fault. Most clothes are cut to look good on models, and for any other body type, it will be a struggle to make them look great.
When I’m in a bad mood, I curse about it. When I’m in a good mood, I see it as an opportunity to narrow my choices and edit. And less (choices) is more (style).
I have long legs (yaaay!) but that makes for a rather short torso (boooo!), and I do have boobs (yaaay? I’ve never been so sure if it’s a blessing or a curse).
These are three of the reasons why you will never see me wearing high-waisted pants (I look like the pants have taken over my whole body and my boobs are floating atop my belt. CUTE).
Other things, on the contrary, look really good on me. Skirts. Tuxedo jackets. Deep V-necks. The list is long enough to be part of what makes my style.
This is a great process to go through. Try, try, try, and cross things off the list. In other words, edit. That’s how great style is revealed.
Anna Grey, easy and sensual.
3. WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY.
Our clothes carry the message we want to convey to others, and it changes, depending on what we’re going through in our lives.
Today I work in fashion, so I want to communicate to others that I’m poised and in control and that I mean business, which may or may not be true, but anyway.
When I was twenty I was in a rock band. I wanted to be different, a rebel. When I was thirty, I wanted to say I was an artist. I might not have done this consciously at the time, but now I do.
My wardrobe is made of richer, solid colors and blues, blacks, and a lot of whites that are of course my personal taste but also express harmony, function, and freedom.
Maybe tomorrow I will want to say I’m sexy or adventurous, and then maybe I’ll add a whole new layer to my wardrobe. Maybe I’ll get rid of other parts that don’t feel like me anymore.
Knowing what you want to say makes clothes your best friends.
Ale Tarver on the streets of New York. Jumpsuits are my favorite!
4. WHO YOU WANT TO BE.
This is the dimension of dreams. This is where you add that extra touch to your style that makes it an expression of your deeper self.
What are your dreams? The ones you might achieve and the ones that will always stay dreams? Those unattainable dreams are to be cherished as well; they say so much about who we are.
Are you reaching for a new career? Looking for love? Go on and dress for it.
Borrow from your dreams. Of being a movie star. A great lover. A great mother. A respected teacher. A free spirit. An astrologer. An artist. A painter, a sculptor.
Whatever they are, these dreams are ours and they make us.
They guide us in our style—and in our lives.
LESSON LEARNED
NYC, Sunday, December 20, 2009, 3:00 p.m.
I’m ready to fly back to Paris, but huge snowstorms have me stuck in the Big Apple. Life can be SO rough sometimes.
Blissed out at the idea of an unscheduled day, I decide to do what I love most in NYC—buy books and cupcakes. And then I’ll go back to my hotel, make myself a cup of tea, and scarf down all three simultaneously.
I gear up for the tundra outside. Parka, pants, heavy socks, scarves, hat, big hood. When I can’t see anything or move, that means that I’m ready.
And then…then.
I get all my shoes out…and I realize that NOTHING I have will help me brave the snow. Most of my shoes are heels (at the time, I hadn’t yet found my style), and I love my few delicate pairs of flats too much to go walking out in the slush and salt (salt is terrible for shoes, TERRIBLE).
But I’m not gonna let a little snow stop me. I get out my platform-heeled boots, the ones with a thick crepe sole that’ll keep me far above the slush—almost like mini-skis, if you look on the bright side, and, voilà, off I go down Bleecker Street and into the blizzard.
I walk like Master Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back, when he sends Luke into the cave. Mountains of slowly decomposing snow followed by pools of mud deeper than Kate Upton’s neckline don’t scare me. As long as I take it slow, I’ll make it through. Yeah, bring it on, winter.
Except, after about three steps, I’m quite literally stuck.
I stand there pretending to check my phone. All around me, New Yorkers have gotten out their rubber boots. Stylish and practical, they make huge graceful bounds in the snow.
I’m jealous, but that won’t hold me back. I’ll make a little pit stop at Marc by Marc Jacobs, just next to Magnolia Bakery, where I’m sure to find some rubber boots for ten dollars.
A half hour later, I am still struggling to make it around the block. My hopes are flagging a little. There’s a Starbucks up ahead, and I could always just get a muffin there and then get back inside and finally finish Journey to the End of Night instead of buying myself some gratuitous chick lit.
No. Not good enough. I’ve got to keep going. Prove it to the world (= to myself) that my love of heels won’t get in the way of my life as a liberated woman.
I make a desperate plea (Give me any excuse not to finish that Céline—the author, not the brand, shallow people!) and attempt a jump over a giant puddle…and suddenly my Chloé mini-skis are in motion, starting the fatal cascade: my vanity and me, hopelessly linked, heading face-first into a pile of snow.
Mortified, I make my retreat.
Adieu, cupcakes, Marc by Marc, and piles of chick lit.
Sometimes you have to forget fashion and put your rubber boots on.
Jeanne Damas, the quintessential Parisienne.
“The French woman does not exist!
She is a myth!
Why waste your time on books about her secrets?
She’s as much a mess as you are!”
This is the answer I give (with a heavy French accent) when I am asked about the secret of French style. But:
1. This is fake modesty, which is very French—I
am actually pretty flattered.
2. If everybody talks about something, it means that it exists, right?
Ah, this myth of French chic—I’ve lived with it my whole life. And I certainly don’t mind being associated with the long line of Catherines and Jeannes and Emmanuelles that it brings to mind.
So let’s get to the bottom of it.
It starts with an attitude.
Ana Kraš wearing one of my favorite staples, a striped top.
ELEGANCE IS REFUSAL.
The French woman is nonchalant and will apply herself to carrying that stance in every aspect of her life. In France, we’re not supposed to stand out too much. Wanting to show off is suspect. It doesn’t mean matters of style and beauty are overlooked, but they are very carefully cultivated to look effortless and to not overshadow your neighbor.
That’s why you won’t see so many colors, crazy hairstyles, or exposed body parts on the streets of Paris. Fashion is a quiet, personal matter. You only get a few short years when it’s okay to dye your hair pink (or shave it).
High waists don’t really work on me, so I love them even more on others!
SHE SAYS NO TO WHAT DOESN’T FLATTER HER.
The secret is to own your imperfections. No hiding them or trying to change them—you learn to make something interesting out of them. And clothes are there to help, not to be instruments of torture. They’re at our service.
