Let's Move!

I get that Thom Browne has done more to revolutionize menswear than any designer in the last half-century.

I get that his signature suits-- with narrow lapels, jackets that fall just below beltlines and shrunken hems which leave wrists and ankle bones exposed-- have been conferring instant hipster-cred upon wearers from Ginza to Williamsburg since 2001.

And I get that it was only a matter of time before women would turn to the master in search of an avant-garde aesthetic we could call our own.

But when the first lady emerged from the Capitol Building wearing a custom coat with fitted bodice and flared skirt by Browne during Monday's presidential inauguration, my initial reaction was Does Thom Browne get Michelle Obama?

In a post-inaugural interview, the designer explained: "I kind of assumed that the President would be in navy so I wanted to do something in navy so that they looked really good together. The fabric specifically was one I was developing for my men's collection that I just showed: a silk jacquard fabric based off an old tie. There's a beautiful structure to the fabric."

In fact, the Obamas did look like a match made in fashion heaven, and Michelle's ensemble was perfectly structured. But as I watched her move throughout the day it occurred to me that FLOTUS's greatest assets were being muted by design. 

 While the navy jacquard was an elegant choice, I wonder what the million spectators who braved the cold for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs. O-- whether on the Mall or along the parade route-- thought of the color choice? Might they not have preferred a pop of color to help identify her in the crowd? As it was, even I had trouble keeping my eye on Obama in the sea of black and blue hues-- and that was with Rachel Maddow's brilliant color commentary to guide me as I watched MSNBC from dawn to dusk.

Of course, the unofficial title of First Lady is as ceremonial as it is anachronistic, but inaugural parades being what they are-- what purpose is served by having a figure head blend in when she could stand out? And though Michelle Obama's educational and career pedigree are the best argument for equality between the sexes, when it comes to special events, the last thing I want is for her to look like one of the guys. 

At 5'11', the first lady is a designer's dream: all arms and legs. But these physical characteristics were minimized by the proportions of her coat-- which appeared to compress rather than elongate Obama's statuesque physique. Likewise, the belted high waist did little to play up her lithe torso, and the neckline did not flatter long neck.

For me, there are two hallmarks of great design-- whether in architecture, interiors or clothing-- and the two are diametrically opposed. First, I want the creation to take my breath away, and then I want it to disappear. And the latter category is where Browne's design really left me cold, because each time Obama lifted her arms to wave to the adoring crowds, her range of motion was severely truncated by her coat. 

To be sure, this design flaw would not have been apparent on a first lady who was adept at giving the presidential wave: that iconic, insincere, emotionless affect that says I'd rather be home, watching the game, eating some Cheetos than here with you. But when the Mom-in-Chief-- a woman as renown for her hugs as she is for her kitten heels-- appears to be straight-jacketed by a garment, it tends to stand out. 

I felt uncomfortable for Michelle as she kept having to adjust the coat-- which would ride up each time she raised her arm above shoulder height. The stiff fabric seemed to dictate her expression-- which left me wondering if Browne even considered his client's personality and physicality before designing her ensemble.

Fifty years have passed since the words pizazz and first lady could be spoken in the same sentence without a trace of irony. And while Jackie Kennedy remains the standard-bearer for unerring style during her White House years, part of Michelle Obama's legacy will be the dawning of words like kinetic and dynamic to accurately describe a sitting first lady. 

In Michelle, we have a woman who is as inclined to bend down and meet her constituents at their level...

 

...as she is to boogie down with grade-schoolers to demonstrate the value of physical fitness. 

She is the living embodiment of her signature issue Let's Move! at a starting lines...

...and receiving lines alike.

Whether doling out hugs on the campaign trail...

or on a basketball court...

 there is no more spirited cheerleader than Obama.

Her enthusiasm can even make something as prosaic (to non-green thumbs like me, at least) as gardening seem like an exciting pursuit.

She is the first first lady I'm aware of who is as pretty in pink...

...as she is in a pair of Pumas.

And whether surrounded by stars... 

or clad in stripes...

the glory of love is evident in everyone she touches.

It goes without saying that I didn't expect Thom Browne to dress the first lady in sleeveless, athletic gear for her husband's inauguration to facilitate freedom of movement. I understand the constraints of time & place and pomp & circumstance. Moreover, the climate had to be taken into consideration as winters in DC can be bitterly cold. 

But when a designer has an opportunity to catch lighting in a bottle-- as did Browne with Obama-- I think the first step must be to get who she is, accentuate the positive, and then get out of the way. 

Not putting Michelle Obama on lock down with a coat that was so unyielding (though beautifully crafted) through the arms and shoulders would have been an excellent first step, and would freed her to do what she does best. Express herself.

With feeling...

with conviction...

and, always, with abandon!

The Fashion Weaklings

Everything I know about light, I learned from my friend Fabrizio Ferri.

Fabrizio is a photographer known for doing with shadow & light what the Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer did with pigments & a brush. He paints to exquisite effect.

Courtesy Fabrizio Ferri

Fabrizio's favorite place to shoot is the desert because the dry, hot climate renders a clean, sharp light. Likewise, as the weather turns crisp in New York, the sun sits lower in the sky and a drop in humidity heralds the coming of fall-- one of the things I've come to appreciate in this urban landscape is the way contrasts are sharper and shadows are blacker now than they have been all summer.

Still, for all my fascination with black & white palettes-- now that fall is in the air my fashionista friends are all over the other end of the spectrum: as in "What will the hottest colors be this autumn?" And when it comes to matters of style, my go-to guy is Freddie Leiba. 

http://bryanbantry.com/artists/styling/freddie-leiba/

A front-row habitué of couture and ready-to-wear runways in New York, Paris, Milan and London for over 25 years, Freddie is also the go-to guru for A-listers like Beyoncé, Madonna and Elizabeth Hurley when they need a stylist to help put their best stilettos forward. Glossy magazines including Vanity Fair, Essence and InStyle routinely turn to Freddie to keep their pages fresh, clean and current. So when he told me the must have colors for fall would be "bright red, cobalt blue, berry, plum and violet" this year, I took him at his word and spread the gospel-- because Freddie is to fashion what Fabrizio is to photography: a savant.

And yet, for all of his credibility and expertise when it comes to making other people look fantastic, I already know Freddie's message will be lost on half the population.

Can you imagine a world where stags kept their antlers trimmed high and tight to avoid standing out; peacocks dyed their feathers brown to blend in; and the king of the jungle wore his mane in a bun to discourage admiring glances? 

I can. Because this is exactly how their domesticated human counterparts comport themselves. Even in style capitals where terms like Fashion Week have moved from insider lexicon to everyday speak, the human male is all to happy to play the role of Fashion Weakling.

I was shopping at Century 21 in lower Manhattan last weekend when I overheard the following exchange between a little boy and his father in the men's department:

"Daddy, is this for a boy or a girl?"

"That's for a boy, Sweetheart."

"But it's... pink."

"I know, but there are some men who like to wear pink ties."

If the child's expression indicated what he thought about men wearing pink I missed it because I was determined to keep my eyes trained straight ahead while pretending to mind my own beeswax. Which I never do. Which is why no more than two seconds passed before I felt my head spontaneously swivel to left and heard myself asking the dad if he'd ever considered wearing a pink tie.

A shy smile spread across his face as he said: "No, I work in Washington, DC and they're really... you know... (indicating "straight & narrow" with his hand gestures) down there.

"Most men would love to break out of that box," came my unsolicited advice. "But they need someone else to take the lead. You should be the pace car and set the trend in your office. You'd look great in pink! Why be a follower when you can be a leader?"

For all his southern gentlemanly manners, I could tell Daddy-O was not having it. After giving me a look that said "You wouldn't understand," he sweetly allowed me to snap a picture of himself and his Mini-Me as they returned to the task at hand.

Courtesy Gail O'Neill

I often wonder if there's a biological imperative behind the human male's aversion to standing out on a sartorial plane.

And, to some degree, I can see how women like me are part of the problem. 

I once had a friend who broke up with her boyfriend because his grooming products took up a disproportionate amount of shelf space in their shared bathroom. Ingrid was a lean, long-limbed, all-natural beauty who only needed shampoo, conditioner and some lip balm to get 'er done, as Larry the Cable Guy might say. While her Dandy Lion, a male model, possessed enough creams, gels, tonics, toners, lotions and potions to supply a cosmetics counter at Saks. Ultimately, the deal breakers were his concealer and eyeliner pencil (...no, she was not dating the Artist Formerly Known as Prince...). And while it's hard to say if he even noticed that she was gone, I was in full support of Ingrid's decision to pull the plug on the relationship with her 90's incarnation of Narcissus.

Nobody likes the dude whose favorite sight is his own reflection. But the average guy could afford to be more like his brethren in the animal kingdom, flaunt whatever he's working with and consider upping the bling quotient to reduce the blah quotient.

Like this... 

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

Too much?

OK. I was just messing with you.

But what about this?

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

Too Keith Richards?

I hear you...

...we can't all be rock stars, can we?

But can you get with this look?

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

I thought so!

Adding color to more traditional wardrobe staples is one way men can stand out without looking like they're trying too hard. And there is no quicker way of putting a pep in your step without having to make a Starbucks run or downing a can of Red Bull. 

My friend, David Goodrowe, an Aesthetic Identity Designer http://www.goodrowehobby.com/ based in Atlanta, is as passionate on the topic as he is discerning when selecting just the right tones to make his day. These days, he has a thing for yellow-- from his VW Beetle named Sunny to the lemony beads he incorporates when making bracelets in his spare time-- and David believes the fever is catching. 

Courtesy David Goodrowe

"I think all of the color in the Olympics, especially all of the fabulous yellow shoes in Track & Field were great, and men  are now taking more notice of color." 

A creative by nature and profession, David's motto is, "Why blend in when you can stand out?" And while his tribal chic accessories won't necessarily raise any eyebrows in his industry, the majority of men in more conservative settings wouldn't dare experiment with the look for fear of what other men might think. 

And that's a real pity, because as the picture below demonstrates, there is nothing about beading which inherently undermines a man's masculinity. 

 

Is there?

The color pink is another taboo tone for men, mostly because it's been co-opted by girls from cradle-to-grave. Whether the dominant color in a nursery, the must-have hue for budding princesses-- and all those scary princess-themed appurtenances that are making a post-feminist comeback-- or the popularity of blush-toned diamonds for engagement rings: nothing says "I love being a girl!" more than pink. 

But when a man has the cojones to rock that color with swagger, is there anything sexier?

Courtesy Gilles Bensimon

¡Claro que no, Papi!

Of course, the other great reason to embrace color is to enhance the view of everyone proximate to you, as does Nicholas.


Courtesy Gail O'Neill

Nicholas and I crossed paths on an Uptown E train near Wall Street and his colorful ensemble brightened my day. He also managed to do the damn near impossible and brighten that grimy subway car. Which is about the kindest thing one strap hanger can do for another while riding the rails.

But what if you're better suited to be an Undercover Brothers? One of those men who appears perfectly tame on top, while taking a walk on the wild side down below?

Well... you could follow the lead of the hippest salesman I have ever met and represent your clan in an understated kilt.

Courtesy Gail O'Neill

I did a double-take when I spotted Ray Bowen roaming the aisles of Home Depot in Midtown Atlanta and knew I'd regret it later if I didn't ask for a picture. I love Ray's look not only for the originality and confidence it belies about his character; but the great pop of color his apron gives while doing double-duty as a sporran is absolutely genius!

Naturally, I was dying to ask the million-dollar question-- but even I have my limits.

Then again, if you're dying to know what Home Depot's policy is on, shall we say, foundation garments for menfolk-- and aren't too afraid to ask-- you can always check in with Ray at Invictus Forge http://www.invictusforge.com/  where he is a blacksmith and an artist.

Courtesy Ray Bowen

Then get back to me.

Please.

Not man enough to follow in the fine tradition of Ray and his peeps in the Scottish Highlands?

Then why not get jiggy with your socks?


Courtesy Gail O'Neill

I was seated next to a handsome dinner companion, Paul, at a mutual friends birthday party this summer, but only had eyes for his fancy footwork once I noticed the blast of color and play on patterns orbiting his ankles. In this case, I wasn't too shy to ask, and was rewarded with a full monty of the Robert Graham socks http://www.robertgraham.us/shopmen/accessories/hosiery.html  Pau'ls wife Rima bought for him.

To this day I can't think of Paul without picturing those funky stripes and smiling.

The same goes for this dapper, Atlanta-based salesman who recently helped me at Nordstrom. Clearly one who put as much thought into the upper half of his appearance as he did the lower...

Courtesy Gail O'Neill
... it was his sock garter gave me the vapors.

Courtesy Gail O'Neill

Which is not to say that I have some fetish for men in support hose, but the element of surprise in any outfit is absolutely irresistible to my eye.

And that's why I fell in love with this duo the moment I spotted them crossing West 72nd Street on a motorcycle.  

"You guys are adorable!" I bellowed as they rolled into view. To which the biker responded "Yeah, me and Captain go together pretty good." 

Indeed they do.

Sure, he was sporting the typical man-palette of gray-to-black, but I think any guy who would take the time to accessorize his best friend in a pair of aviator goggles and a shearling throw deserves an A+ for effort. 

And making an effort is, ultimately, what separates the men from the Fashion Weaklings... in any light.

Climbing the Corporeal Ladder

When a hospital staffer inspires comparisons to Nurse Ratched this is not a good thing-- as anyone who has seen "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" can tell you.

Jack Nicholson's character R.P. McMurphy encountered his nemesis on the ward of an insane asylum in the iconic 70's flick. I crossed paths with her doppelgänger two years ago at Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta. 

My Nurse Ratched was the technician who happened to be on duty the day I got my first bone density test. The procedure was as straightforward as a CT scan, and concluded with a computer-generated printout consisting of random numbers. I had no frame of reference for what the numbers meant, so I asked the technician if she could explain their significance. And that's when Little Miss Sunshine mumbled something about my bones being average... for a woman of my age... followed by her glass-half-empty prognosis of "It's all downhill from here, anyways!"

Really???

Suppressing an urge to bark, "Gee, is this what passes for bedside manner these days?!", I bit my tongue, snatched my paperwork and made a beeline for the exit before my inner-grammarian could lecture that "anyway" was an adverb, and adverbs could not be plural, thus there was no such word as "anyways".

But I digress...

Under normal circumstances, my exiting a health care facility with the velocity of a bat out of hell would not raise any eyebrows. I'm a germaphobe, and my idea of a bad time is hanging out anyplace where staph infections might thrive. But on this particular day, the contaminant that set off the Code Red alert in my head was that insidious strain of thinking which equates getting older with a slide into nothingness. Nurse Ratched's parting shot was the tell that indicated her status as a carrier. 

In hindsight, I guess I'll never know if she meant any harm that day. Who knows what her elders had been preaching since Baby Ratched first crawled out of her bassinet? Maybe she'd fallen victim to the not-so-subtle social cues that tell all of us "it's all downhill from here after we turn 30, or 40 (or whatever the hell the new 20 is supposed to be). Certainly, her sensible, beige, rubber-soled shoes; I-don't-give-a-damn halo of a coif; and perma-pinched expression did little to attenuate my belief that Elvira had left the building many moons ago. Maybe my self-appointed Oracle of Doom & Gloom just wanted to give me the 411 on aging lest I sally forth under the false impression that growing old would be child's play.

Whatever the case, if given the chance to do it all again I would have patted down the quills of my ego, challenged Nurse Nasty's assumptions about the trajectory of me and my lovely bones, and encouraged her to bone up on 19th-century German philosophy.

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

The fear of aging is the abyss of our time and culture. In the process, far too many of us are wasting our youth thinking we're old as we anticipate uncharted territory and assume the worst. 

This theory first occurred to me when my brown-eyed, dark-haired, South American friend Sylvia told me how birthdays "depressed" her. Nothing new about this lament, I know. But what makes my friend unique is that she confided her fear when we were freshmen in high school. Apparently, Sylvia's turning ten-- or "crossing into the double-digits" as she put it-- was what tripped her panic buttons.

My own experience as a model left me with a motherlode of tales from the front lines of gerontophobia: from the well-meaning fashion photographer who encouraged me to lie about my age (because being 23 could prove detrimental to a mannequin's wealth), to the bloodsport that passed for entertainment in make up rooms from New York to Paris-- where  the super models who'd preceded me were judged mercilessly, by former colleagues, for having had the temerity to turn 30.

Eventually, I came to understand that the fashionable set had nothing on the civilian population, as they too were marching to the same sad drummer: savaging themselves in the process.

I've seen 40-something friends freak out over gray hairs; 50-something friends cry over laugh lines; and 60-something friends look back on images of their 50-something selves and marvel at "how young and beautiful I was back then."

In each instance, it occurred to me that the only thing "old" about any of my beautiful friends was their attitudes. My personal measure of beauty, after all, has always been the twinkle in one's eye as opposed to the tautness of one's ass, but try telling that to someone whose self-regard is directly related to their body parts.  

When Bette Davis said "Old age is no place for sissies", I know she spoke from experience. Far be it from me to question the wisdom of any diva who survives the slings & arrows of aging out of ingenue roles in Hollywood. But if we don't get our minds right and consciously reconsider the myths and misconceptions we have internalized about aging-- that which is destined to be a bumpy ride will certainly morph into the highway from hell. And since clicking our heels three times and going back to Kansas ain't exactly an option, would it kill us to walk the walk with courage, fortitude and grace? 

My mother's generation are masters at this art. They use genteel terms like "aches & pains" to describe any afflictions associated with climbing the corporeal ladder; while we Boomers have gone hog wild with our wall-to-wall talk of high cholesterol, hot flashes and incontinence wherever and whenever we please. 

A) That's just not cool. B) Your age-related breakdowns are not nearly as interesting to others as they are to you. And C) If we, as children, were spared the play-by-play on exactly what can malfunction as one grows older then why have we not passed on the favor to our youngin's? Call me old fashioned, but when a ten-year-old is well-versed in the argot of a pharmaceutical sales rep, I think that's kind of creepy. Erectile dysfunction, anyone?

Have you ever visited one of those tourist sites where climbing a ridiculously high number of steps is part of the attraction? The kind of place where the staircase is spiral and the quarters are cramped, dark and poorly ventilated? Perhaps, like the rest of us, your visit happened to fall on the kind of summer day where the thermometer reads "¡No Mas!" 

Whatever the season, such climbs are an apt metaphor for getting older: where we are as likely to meet a fellow traveler who'll inspire us on the way up, as we are to be brought down by draughting behind all the wrong people.

Where do you fall in the scheme of things?

Are you the climber who embraces the challenge without complaint or breaking a sweat, even if the going gets tough, with a spring in your step?

Might you be more of an average joe who ascends in fits and starts, complaining the entire way and whining "How much longer till we get to the top?!" every time you encounter someone on the descent?

Or, are you the irritant who feels compelled to count each and every step out loud, no matter where you are on the trek? You know the one I'm talking about. The one who imposes their bad attitude on everyone within earshot as they huff & puff "Four hundred and sixty-five! ... Four hundred and sixty-six! ... Four hundred and sixty-seven! ... Four hundred and sixty-eight!" as if the rest of us can't count. 

Don't be that person.

Don't sheepishly accept anybody else's paradigms on what life is supposed to look and feel like as you grow older. 

Photography Courtesy of Gilles Bensimon

Don't lose perspective and overlook an inch of any view while you're lucky enough to be on the journey-- no matter what the signs say.

Photography Courtesy of Gilles Bensimon

Don't be cavalier about the caliber of company you keep along the way.

And if anybody ever tells you "It's all downhill from here, anyways!": channel Mick Jagger as you instruct them to get off of your cloud... 

Photography Courtesy of Gilles Bensimon

... before soaring higher in search of like-minded rockers.