the muse

“She thought she had a big nose and big feet, and she was too skinny, and not enough breast. She would look in the mirror and say, ‘I don’t understand why people see me as beautiful.’”

Who was she?

She could’ve been a friend or a sibling. The neighbor down the street. A daughter or a mother. Any one of us really.

But no, this perplexed bundle of insecurities also happened to be one of the most jaw-dropping beauties of all time. Muse to Givenchy. Fashion icon. Doe-eyed and demure yet stunning in anything, from ball gowns to ballet flats.

She was Audrey Hepburn.

When I read the portrait in Vanity Fair, I was stunned by this account from her son, Luca Dotti, who shared her belief that her signature look appealed to people because it “must be a good mixture of defects.”

How could the infamous, impeccable Holly Golightly possibly think such deep thoughts?

When she’s on screen, you literally can’t take your eyes off of her. She’s effervescent, flawless, floating above mere mortals in haute couture creations, gliding across the ether of unattainable glamour and blinding beauty.

Yet the image projected on the silver screen was only a facet of who she was. In this account, she is also human—with her share of sadness born out of the “hunger and danger” of World War II, insecurity, marital strife, indignance at the suffering she saw as a Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF, and later in life, fatal illness.

Not that she was at all buried under the weight of these things, but rather, like all of us, they were deeply a part of who she was and how she perceived and pursued life.

What I find most interesting is that though the famous images of her are seared into our brains, it’s these quiet, beautiful qualities—her individuality, her simplicity, her elegance, her essence—that those closest to her loved and remember.

Hubert de Givenchy was her couturier, close friend and confidant for decades. When asked about their relationship, he said, “She was wonderful. She was someone unique. She was real. She was natural.” She inspired his most iconic looks and surely her beauty fueled his incredible creativity, yet in his description are words that have nothing to do with her physical appearance.

Her son shares a similar sentiment. When asked in what way his mother remains most physically present in his life, Luca says, “Through scent.” Not perfume…there are certain scents, you know, a certain cake, or a flower, things like that. It’s not so physical, but it’s powerful. And every spring, especially here in Rome, you have this smell of orange blossom in the air. Spring is coming and it was her favorite season. It makes me think of her.

happy pants

We’re hearty Midwest stock. We should know better. But every year we ride the same emotional rollercoaster. In winter, we hunker down, brace ourselves each morning to brave the bone-chilling cold. With brows furrowed, we slog through slush, making sporadic eye contact, through veiled faces, with the slivers of eyes peeking out of warm woolen scarves.

And then it happens. An unexpected warm spell. Usually on a random weekend in March, it hits. BAM! 65 and sunny. The streets, the lakefront, the sidewalks are all teeming with humanity. We’re people again, not scowling robots trudging as briskly as possible from point a to point b to escape the frigid temps. Our bodies—and our souls—embrace the welcome thaw, relishing in the warmth and the return to life and vibrancy. Spring is finally in the air!

Or so we think… As inevitable as the dreaded Monday morning buzzkill, Mother Nature shows her true colors. In an instant, our zeal, optimism and “ding, dong, the wicked winter is dead” dance is silenced by the onslaught of downright nasty weather. “Take this!” she taunts, slamming us with torrential downpours, arctic chills, marble-sized hail, and howling wind.

There’s a technical name for this phenomenon, which I learned during the course of my twenty years living in Chicago. Wait for it…[drumroll] it’s a Midwest winter.

I include myself among the millions who fall for the folly every year. Mother Effer….err Nature is going to blast us a couple more times for good measure. She will, just like last year and the year before. So what can we mere mortals do about it (besides the obvious swearing, cursing and picture posting of the latest shaft to our heat-seeking psyches)?

Well, when I’m in the throes of weather-induced depression (aka SAD), I tend to pine, agonize and long for sunnier locales. LA, Miami, Tuscany. Idyllic trips I’ve taken, where my favorite ensemble was not a flirty sundress or Tory-inspired tunic, but the simple cloak of sun enveloping my body—no, my being. Yet dreaming of delightful getaways has its perils. It feels good at the time, but usually plunges you into greater depression when you realize you’re here and NOT there. #realitysmackdown

During one particular moment of reverie, I did have a revelation. It was a dark, rainy day, so naturally I reached for my goth go-to: the handy black cowlneck—warm, practical, reliable. Reflective of my blah mood and the bitter weather outside. Trudging and scowling, all I could think of was “at this time last year, I was in Los Angeles.” Shorts, sun, sand. Palm tress and balmy breezes. It was torture.

There was one day in Lala Land that stood out vividly in my mind. We were headed back from a road trip to San Luis Obispo, admiring the coastline along PCH. “Hey guys, look! There’s a rainbow.” The colorful arch emerged from a mass of clouds far off into the distance and stretched out over the vast expanse of sky.

“It must be our lucky day,” we all agreed, and continued on our drive.

“There’s another one…and another!” The boys were squealing.

“No, it’s probably just a different part of the same one,” I dismissed, turning around to console them. But when I gazed out the window, I found that they were right! Crazy mist or sea sprays or magic created rainbows all across the sky. I had never seen anything like it. Nature had stolen a page out of Pixar’s playbook and, over the course of an hour’s drive we counted a jaw-dropping total of six separate rainbows.  

As I crustily made my morning commute, I thought about that day. It’s crazy how the colors caused grown adults to giggle with delight. We were just as excited as the kids, scanning the skyline for our next ROYGBIV fix…and then it occurred to me. Why do we have to wait for such spectacles? For blue skies to wipe away our blue moods? As if our very sanity rests on a sliver of sun stingily doled out on a whim?

When you’re so dependent on the weather all you can do is wait—impatiently—for Mother Nature to cooperate. Or you can take matters into your own hands. Turn to color in its absence. Over the last few months, I’ve invested in some shall we say “bright” articles of clothing. Hot pink, brick red, cobalt blue jeans. Lemon yellow Hunters. Emerald green dress. Statement pieces perhaps. Tacky, maybe. But I don’t care. They actually lift my spirits. Make me happy when I wear them.

Perhaps a splash of color just might be the sunshine you need to get through this schizo weather until spring officially arrives. Who says toddlers and trannies are the only ones who can have some fun with color. Lighten it up. Brighten it up. Put on your happy pants and show Mother Nature where she can stick it.

wanderlust: paris, je t'aime

I missed the shot. It’s been seven years since we went to Paris, but the image is still seared into my brain.

There we were, standing on the famed Boulevard Saint-Germain. The day was winding down and the street was just beginning to bustle with the energy of commuters weaving through the streets to make their way home. Friends clustered on sidewalk cafes, scarves artfully wrapped, lips primed and puckered for the double air-kiss greeting, and cheek bones accentuated by the long, deep drags of their cigarettes.

As we prepared to brave the busy intersection en route to Café de Flore, I saw her. She had a Vidal Sassoon-style bob. Smooth, glossy, perfectly coiffed despite her hurried pace and the slight breeze gently blowing through her hair. She wore a crisp navy blazer, perfectly tailored, with a striped boatneck tee peeking out from underneath. Skinny dark jeans, shiny black flats and a simple red scarf tied elegantly around her neck perfected the look. A cognac leather backpack adorned one shoulder, brass buckles gleaming in the sunlight and the flap shifted over to make room for a single, slender baguette sticking out of the top.

I hastily reached for my camera and fumbled over purse straps and lens caps. I quickened my pace to catch up to my muse. But as soon as the light changed to green, she was off. She walked briskly, confidently toward a balmy tree-lined side street, and by the time the viewfinder made contact with my eye, she was gone. 

What was it about that image that I needed to capture? That I simply can’t forget all these years later? Sure she was attractive, but far from gorgeous. There was an undeniable elegance and effortlessness to her style. But that wasn’t even it…

It was the baguette. Totally jarring, unexpected. A big, fat middle finger pointing directly at our grab ‘n’ go, convenience-driven culture. In contrast to the sad loaf of hard but healthy sprouted grain Ezekiel bread in my fridge, this was a delectable surprise that offered a glimpse into Parisian life. Was this her routine? A post-work ritual, stopping in a favorite boulangerie to pick up her daily bread? Or was she planning a romantic picnic at the Luxembourg Gardens, racing to meet her lover with a wedge of Camembert and bottle of Beaujolais tucked away at the bottom of her knapsack? Or perhaps she was trying a new bouillabaisse recipe and hence needed a thirsty baguette to soak up all the flavors of the sea?

I have no idea. But the image gave me permission to dream. About her life. And mine. To contemplate what I wanted to take from this magical place, to savor and eventually bring home.

I missed the shot…well my camera did. But the image is still with me, along with countless others that shaped a tapestry of life as it should be lived.

The French call it “joie de vivre.” It’s not just about the beauty, but the ethos of the people and the place. The art of living: dressing without self-consciousness, eating without guilt, making time to laugh with friends in cafés, singing on street corners, or simply sitting in quiet contemplation.

Seven years later, I am reminded. We don't have to be in Paris to live like this... 

in the trenches

i have always believed that style is personal, so i rarely dish out fashion advice. but the recent sounds of birds chirping in the early morning hours signal to me the official coming of spring. i realize this may be delusional since the weather here can turn on a dime, but as discussed in previous posts, i am choosing to be hopeful and leaving the doomsday predictions to the doppler radar.

so what is my sage advice to you now that spring has nearly sprung?

if you don’t already have one, go out or hop online and get yourself a trench.

i remember when i was younger and trenchcoats were synonymous with london fog. khaki. conservative. utilitarian. and wholly unglamorous. the perfect pairing to the blue suits and briefcases of lawyers and accountants around the world.

enter burberry…and everything changed. with kate moss as its poster girl and its signature plaid trim, the fashion house catapulted this outerwear workhorse onto the list of coveted luxe pieces. in the ultimate homage, burberry created “art of the trench, a living celebration of the burberry trench coat and the people who wear it.” click around and immerse yourself in these inspiring images uploaded by burb-wearers around the world. the fabulous thing is that everyone wears them differently. no two trenches are alike once personal histories (and fabulous accessories) enter the mix.

whether you’re a guy or a gal, there is no more essential piece for your wardrobe. and today, the options are endless. classically tailored. structured and military. more shades of taupe and ecru than a room and board catalog. black buttons. gold buttons. big belt. no belt.

even the old stalwart, london fog, has come around, featuring buxom “mad men” vixen christina hendricks in its latest ad campaign to make its trench more titillating.

today, trenches are, in a word, fierce. you can straddle the line between smart and sexy. stylish and sophisticated. and most importantly, lest you think i’m sacrificing form for function, you can stay dry when that cheap umbrella you bought at walgreens flips inside out and folds like a house of cards when the next windy monsoon hits.

vive la difference

back when bush (aka “g-dubya”) was in office, the term “freedom fries” was introduced to spread pro-american propaganda to the masses and demonstrate a symbolic united front against france, who at the time strongly opposed the UN invasion of iraq. on many levels, i found this notion to be utterly absurd.

politics aside, the overall sentiment that nothing good can come from other countries or divergent points was ridiculous. i for one believe that inspiration, innovation, insight can come from anywhere. we are better when our perspectives are broader. when we learn as often, if not more, than we teach.

so who better to teach us a thing or two about fashion than the french.

for our 5th anniversary, my husband and i took a trip to paris and fell in love with this glorious city. a simple walk down any street can lead to an amazing meal or a jazz band playing on a bridge or a live fashion shoot in progress (as pictured above). it is infinitely glamorous and for countless reasons: the art, the culture, the cuisine, the markets, the cafes, the croissants, we were blown away by what i consider to be one of the greatest cities on earth.

but one of the things that struck me most of all was not the couture windows of chanel, YSL, lanvin and dior on the rue saint-honore’, paris’ most fashionable street. though they were gorgeous, living in a city like chicago with access to nyc and la, made them not entirely unique.

rather, it was the style of everyday people that truly made an impression on me. the bourgeoisie. there were a few stunningly gorgeous people that crossed our paths, but most were not. they were a mix of ethnicities: anglo, middle eastern, some asian. many chain smoked themselves into weathered complexions. some were skinny, some were not. some were polished. some were grunge. but no matter what their profile, young or old, the parisians were, in a word, chic.

it wasn’t about expensive designer duds or spell-binding good looks. it was about confidence. unapologetic self-expression. no body issues. no fretting about what people will think. no “can’t wear white past labor day” arbitrary rules. no wishy washy, off-the-rack ensemble dictated by someone else. in paris, you don’t just put on clothes. you accessorize. you mix. you match. you put it together and make it your own.

sure basic black was the flavor du jour, but all you had to do was scan the booths in the neighborhood brasserie to see 50 different interpretations of  the look. sleek black turtleneck and pencil skirt with slick-backed pony and bug-eye dior shades. loose blond chignon with crisp tailored blouse and high-waisted jeans. an old grandma in a simple dress but the most impeccably tied scarf draped around her neck. twenty-something dude with a caeser cut, ray bans and retro sneakers. uber-crisp businessman with a bright paisley pocket square peeking out of his bespoke suit.

my brother and i have a saying that often gets bandied about in conversation. “dress for success.” half-joke, half-truth, it is a philosophy. are we materialistic, superficial freaks? maybe. but there actually is a deeper meaning. it’s not about pricey pieces and expensive indulgences. it’s about looking your best so you can feel your best. forget about the peanut gallery. buy what you like. wear what you want. define your style. and own it.