Baggage Claimed

2010-08-10T16:13:00.004-05:00

Clear "Jelly" Heeled Sandals, c. 1993

I was waiting for the F train the other day when this overly nosey woman, who had already talked to three people on the same platform, holding the New Yorker, the Arts+Leisure section of the Times, and wearing the ever-popular (and ugly?) No. 6 clog boots approached me.

She tapped me on the shoulder after I'd already turned the other way anticipating her arrival and intrusion, and she jumped, "Hey! I LOVE your shoes! Are they real jellies??" I wanted so badly to say, "No, they're Prada Spring-Summer 2010." But I didn't have the heart to lie nor tell the truth to this poor hyperextraverted soul that they were J. Crew sandals from 1993 and I'd found them on Ebay for $9.99.

So I just said, "Uh, they're plastic, if that's what you mean..." She seemed just as satisfied with this answer, made a squinty excited yet silent face, and so I made my escape just as the train approached.

I Heart NY

2010-08-10T14:50:00.003-05:00

My high school days: creative, and filled with color and questions. Most of the items in this archive I accumulated and saved were from those days. And at that time, I was a budding fashion designer, not just wearing my clothes, but styling my clothes in the way I felt the most imaginative, creative, and fun. Designer labels were definitely not a part of my compositions then as they are now, but in a way, the younger, poorer and more innocent version of myself was always more willing to take risks. One such risk was the physical trust involved in the act of destroying one item to create another. And such was the case with my "I heart NY" tee. I proudly snatched it from a Chinatown street vendor during my fourth and final year of high school on my second trip and not so final trip to New York City. I took it home and with great pleasure cut right into the jersey fabric. A wider boatneck, a shredded sleeve at the shoulder built up into a lively pom-pom, secured at last with a vintage rhinestone pin -- I wore it well and I wore it often (quite an honor for a wardrobe that doesn't see many repeat performances) - It always made me smile. Styled with large plastic bracelets, colorful belts, fitted jeans or short '80s miniskirts, and finished off with my omniprescent vintage pumps (white, red, aquamarine, hot pink suede, spectator: a harbinger of the dangers of footwear-fetishes to come, I had them all), I loudly and proudly used that tee over and over again in my colorfully coordinated yet bravely naive outfits. It was a trophy of my autonomous ability to alter and create my own original garments. It was a symbol of camaraderie with an extroverted proclamation of love for a city in which I longed to live. And it was an exhilarating statement of a delight over a newfound romance; for I not only fell back in love with New York that autumn, but I fell in love with a boy whose name bore the same initials as that city. N.Y.

The City and the Boy. Both had always been quite tangible loves but intangible lovers since I first laid eyes on them both at the age of 13. And both were admirably evasive, coy and outwardly uninterested in being "taken," so to speak. New York was only ever an option after high school, and the boy, well, he only ever became an option after an accumulation of missed opportunities. The choreography of these slip-ups had stepped in time to the "I'm single, you're not, and now you're single and I'm not" tune for many turns. Many, many turns...until all of a sudden everything seemed to fall into place with some sweet combination of timing, magic, and well, fate. N.Y. and I were dancing at last. And as for the other NY, the elibable bachelor, whom I still willed to educate, entertain, nurture and house me during my upcoming four years of fashion studies, I knew it was going to take more than just a quiet game of footsie at a local restaurant, a secluded park and freshly-shaven legs to capture that bad boy. Young, pale, ambitious, and fiercely feminine (as I suspected most all the other applicants to be), getting into fashion college in New York City, even with a strong application, interview, and portfolio, was still pretty much a shot in the dark without a connection. Nonetheless, I had a plan: it was my strong intention to date Mr. N.Y. my last blissful year of high school, continue the relationship on through my studies at Parsons School of Design or Pratt Institute, graduate, land a position on a design team at a young, hip label and marry Mr. N.Y. shortly thereafter. It was an outfit for success: custom drawn and designed, fitted and tailored to me and my NY loves, completed and ready to wear, all by the age of 25.

However, fate always seems to design a different version of the stories we so diligently and delicately, naive as they may be, plan and hope and dream of. After getting wait-listed at both New York schools while Mr. N.Y. was promptly accepted to Stanford University in California, it became clear our dance was not going to continue as we had designed, or at least as I had. Even a shcolarship at the acclaimed School of the Art Institute of Chicago could not soothe the pain I felt from my NY dreams swiftly slipping away. Mr. N.Y. and I had been friends before we fell in love and felt it best to sacrifice our romance for the sake of our friendship rather than risking the ruin of both over time. It was the realistic, logical, and smart thing to do. However, for a girl who gets heart palpitations from the Haute Couture show reports, dies a little whenever she hears the French language, and requires a daily intake of dark chocolate for survival, being "down to earth" about our relationship did not sit well with me. For four years of college and one year thereafter, in between (and sometimes during...) boyfriends, girlfriends, three time zones and 2200 miles, we shuffled back and forth with our conflicting ideas of what our relationship should, and one day, would be. We had picked up our old song and dance, when one would give up, the other rebutted full force; one step up two steps back. We knew we could work, just maybe not cross-country. And so came the final attempt: I offered to pack up and move to the West Coast, find the first retail job that fell into my lap and vow to make things work. But somehow, I knew even that would not save us. The fizzling dream had at last become a palpable reality; Cinderella had finally dropped her other shoe.

The dream unraveled further. I opted out of the SAIC's Fashion design department for the more mathematically lax but conceptual rigorous major of Fiber and Material studies. And upon graduating, rather than moving to my dreamy New York and working in the industry, I decided to stay in dreary Chicago and continue my retail job. An although my employer was home to the most exciting, pristigious and profound collections of designer clothing and shoes in the world, it was not enough to make up for what I'd lost in dreams, although what I gained in shoes came close. My hope of both my NY dreams had almost entirely slipped away by the time my fifth Chicago summer had come. I knew there was no way to control my fate with Mr. N.Y., but the more I mourned over the loss, the angrier I felt. Angry with myself, disappointment in myself; having laid dreams on something and someone to deliver my own design. Et voilà! That was just it, my design! My life. My story. I would simply go back to the table and cut out a new shape. Not for or with Mr. N.Y. but instead, for and in NY. And why not? NY had always been there, calling to me in waves, whispers, shouts and sighs. It was time I listened. So with the help, support, encouragement and reminders from friends near and far, coworkers, previous NYers and current NYers, I decided to go to it. And again, as if by magic, timing and fate, all at once I found a full time retail job, a part time creative design internship, an apartment, and roommates. I packed up my belongings, 86 boxes in total (10 dedicated to shoes...) and on the eve of New Year's Eve, my 86 boxes, my cat, my shoes, and I arrived in Brooklyn, NY, USA. I had done it. I wasn't just writing my own story; I was living, breathing, and designing it. The move unearthed an instinctive and determined bravery that had been buried under those layers of Chicago comfort for so many years. I had always possessed the will to do to my life what I had done so well with my clothes, I just hadn't been the one holding the shears. My ability to collect, style, maintain and treasure, and of course, to alter my clothes had kept me and my passion above water and snow in Chicago, and I would take that same skill with me to little less snowy, but a lot more bravely stylish NY. My direction, my career and finally my life were going to benefit from my rediscovered bravery. I may not have graduated from a fashion school in NY, or even with a degree in such, I have the design job I dreamt, or the boy for that matter, but taking the scissors to Chicago, Mr. N.Y. and a life settled for was the first step in living the real NY dream. A dream I am in charge of designing, styling and maintaining. And loudly and proudly, that is a job I am thrilled to take.

So today and every other day when I walk past the street vendors on that Chinatown street, the same street I walked years prior, I pass by the "I heart NY" tees; I face the irony of a past loss but present gain. It is a reminder of the proclamation I once designed a dream by. It's still available in every color and plastered on every object; it's still a bold fashion, romantic and city-pride statement; and it still makes me smile - but it's no longer fit for my sleeve. I kept safe under my bed, and finally I've given it its due. As for the large bangles, the colorful mismatched accessories, but certainly not the fabulous footwear, they're all put away too. And although time has stripped its sting and naive notions, the memory of the N.Y. dream prior remains, for it holds a page in my book, a step in my long dance, and a stitch in the continuously-growing fabric. Without it, the NY dreams I am living today would not be as sweet. And sweeter they grow day in and day out because this time the story I'm living, the song I'm dancing to, and the outfits I'm wearing are all my own, and my own to bravely alter. And this time, I'm on my own two feet, with a litte less naiveté, a little more focus and independence, and a hellova lot more shoes.

Romance and Rayon

2009-03-19T23:45:00.002-05:00

White House | Black Market, 92% rayon, 8% spandex white cowl neck, empire waist, bell-sleeve top c. 2001-2002

I used to call this my “angel” top; It was the perfect date, dinner, and dancing companion and reminded me of my true hero at my freshman-in-high-school-self time – Claire Danes as Juliet in the excessively Pop, room-spinning, car-chasing, gas-station-and-fireworks-exploding, late 90s remake Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet as only Baz Luhrmann could make. Claire Danes was simple and innocent, beautiful and serene, and wore an angel costume to her parent’s ball the night she met her star-crossed lover, and I, too, felt when I wore this top, I was of course that much closer to fate, love, and Shakespeare himself. I wanted to be swept off my feet in this top! I wanted to look like a Grecian angel, and I convinced myself I did when, at the time, my long, chestnut, doll-like curls rolled over the cowl at my neck and draped across my chest with the same ease as the fabric. I of course wasn’t oblivious to the hints of wedding dress whispers that this top used to give me; I was 16, what else did I want other than to marry my first real taste of puppy love boyfriend? (that and the freedom to be out after midnight…) Why wouldn’t I have entertained the idea of getting married in a wedding dress very near in shape to this top – it just screamed romance! I still love the neckline and bust, as it was flattering to my figure and collarbones, and who knows, maybe someday you’ll see me in a wedding dress with the same qualities, just probably not with the same Romeo...

School Girl or School Teacher?

2009-02-12T20:48:00.008-06:00

Brass Plum chocolate 100% cotton ribbed turtleneck, c. 2000

My mother and I bought this on one of our back-to-school ritual shopping outings: During the first week of August of every year, Nordstrom has it’s Anniversary Sale where they bring out all the new Fall merchandise and price it at 40% off. Once the sale goes away in another two weeks, so do the clothes, only to come back a few weeks later a full price. So needless to say, a few weeks before the first day of school and the week before my birthday, we had to take part in this event. Of course, I wore uniforms to my school, but looking good at the football game on opening night was just as important as that perfect “back to school” outfit. I don’t remember loving this the first time I picked it out, and I’m still not really sure what drew me to it or my mother, as it is quite plain in style, and somewhat dated with that typical, thicker ribbed-knit look of the late nineties sweater, but to this day I have let it sit in my closet for eight and a half years now without throwing it to consignment wolves or charity trashcans, and, “Why?” might you ask, seeing as it’s seemingly dull appearance doesn’t seem to fit in the closet of a luxury clothing sales woman and stylist…well, little do my clients know when they buy the McQueen and Gaultier and Oscar from me that their little sales girl all dressed up in Japanese and European avant-garde clothing at the time has a total soft spot for everything vintage, straight-up granny. I feel like I have three different clothing personalities; some people only have one and know it and stick to it like a chiffon dress to your legs on a winter day in Chicago, others change from time to time, and some are just all over the god-damn place. A white Bebe track suit one day, to elegant McQueen gowns the next, greasy and paint-splattered jeans and hair art student to gold, flashy Euro-trashy the next night; some people just don’t know who they are. I; however, am still figuring it out, but have at least have narrowed it down to three, and any combination thereof. The first, coming from my line of work, Japanese and European avant-garde clothing, mostly anything with an asymmetrical hemline, misplaced buttons or zippers, and of course, black, black, and more black with the occasional slip of navy blue or a variation on a white button-down shirt. Next, straight up Granny. I know. How could someone who spends all day with Yohji Yamamoto, Alexander McQueen, and Azzedine Alaia even imagine dressing in her granny’s skirts, tops, sweaters, and shoes? And I don’t mean in the “vintage” look: I’m talking straight up Granny from 1980-1990 – oversized poly blouses with huge belt buckles and mid-calf, unflattering skirts, dumpy flats and to top it off, my “Ethel” glasses, as I’ve come to affectionately call them. These are the glasses I found while working at my Wicker Park consignment store in college; they have huge, thin silver frames that loop around with fake diamond sparkles on the outside edges, pearl and tortoise shell bands on the sides of the face and they are of course my own prescription. The lady at LensCrafter gave me a “I’ve never seen crazy like you before” look when I handed them proudly over to her so she could measure the size for the lenses. Yes, it must seem like sacrilege to chose the mustard yellow, oversized Grandpa (yes, sometimes Grandpa style, too) sweater and white perforated penny loafer flats over the Marc Jacobs sweaters and Lanvin skirt, but I believe that Marc and Alber probably understand where I’m coming from – there is beauty in everything, and yes, even Grandma. I feel as though my choice to dress that way comes from my close connection to my grandmothers at an early age and a need to identify myself with my heritage. So judge me all you want, but Granny is it for me. Along with of course the dressed up version of Granny: vintage lady-like: A-line or pencil skirts, cream blouses with high necks and embellishments of embroidered or bead work are encouraged and appreciated, fitted waists of the 40s and 50s, drop waists, pleats, fringe, and feathers of the 20s, or empire and A line from the 60s, but still, no flashy prints or colors, save for the occasional nautical striped blouse or sundress and still mostly black, blue, cream or white and maybe a splash of red thrown in too. So through all that, I try to buy and save according to the kinds of clothes I know I’ll wear the most – and back to the simple, plain-Jane brown ribbed turtleneck, I just can’t let go of it as the perfect 60s school girl top to wear underneath a woolen jumper dress with shinny brass buttons at the shoulders and hand-stitched pockets at the front! But every time I try and buy a jumper that I think will complete the outfit fantasy for me, it just ends up looking more like 90s school teacher than 60 school girl…not so good. So I’ve finally decided that a) I don’t wear brown and b) I’ll never find the dress to go with it much less wear it alone. So it has to go. And with it, a little bit of my vintage 60s fantasy style. Sigh.

Salutations.

2009-01-17T20:19:00.003-06:00

Salutations,

I am Catherine, and these are my clothes. Not just my clothes, rather my clothes as my life; the clothes that tell the stories of my self.

Clothes are more than collected fibers, be they natural or synthetic, woven, knit, stitched, or sewn together. Clothes are ideas, inspirations, emotions and feelings, thoughts and theories, memories - both good and bad - purposes, momentums, and movements. They are transformers, informers, indicators and both conscious and unconscious methods of meaning. Culturally and socially learned, regionally understood and universally present, they voice who we are, where we came from, what we’ve been through, where we’re going, and where we wish to go. And as we dig into the bargain bin, carefully select from our grandmother's closets, pick through hand-me-downs, dream up wishlists from windows and collect ideas from catalogues, we are simultaneously choosing our selves and our stories in cloth. And beneath all the layers of cloth, clothes, and meaning, the most adept level of communication resides within the wearer, a dialogue between the wearer and themselves. And this is why my clothes are here. Some have been with me for months, others since I could neither read nor write. And among all the clothes I have outgrown in size or style, donated, handed-down or worn holes through, these are the ones that remain. They have a hold on my mind and a place in my heart that cannot and will not be forgotten. Through elementary school, high school, college, two out of state and five inner city moves, these are the pieces I've kept. Call it baggage, luggage, stories or cloth, they are here, and I am ready to claim them, to finally give them the proper eulogy that they deserve and I need. So for both our sakes, here it is: my clothes, our stories, myself and our 'selves.' Please enjoy, as I write to find, what I like to call “clothesure.”