I grew up under a roof with two brothers and one domineering father. If I wanted to be noticed or taken seriously, I had to catch up; I had to stay on my toes. I had to do my homework on the subjects of politics, sports, movies, music, culture; I had to cross my "t's" and dot my "i's". I could not fret with the silly dalliances and frivolity of "femininity", behavior which resulted in a quick-tongue, an aggressive attitude and will, and a lack of domestic skills. It's made me stick out like a soar thumb amidst my girlier-friends: a slight tomboy whose impulses towards fashion and luxe were both femme and homme. I didn't wear make-up until two years ago, but spent most of my money on clothes, fashion magazines, and the rest. I slip easily out of my Chloe platforms and into my Nike Air Dunks at the end of the day, and shorn all my locks recently (save for one side) much to the chagrin of my mother.
Although I love sky-high heels, I don't like to be uncomfortable. I don't like bells, whistles, fluff. I need to be able to move freely, unconstrained in my clothing, while pulling off an effortless look of measured cool and sexiness. So maybe that's why recently when I found myself in the J. Crew Men's section, I felt like I had stepped into my closet. Or at least the one in my head.
A dear friend of mine works--scratch that, runs--a New York location on the Upper West Side. Although his title is not official, rather more implied, he flits about that two-leveled enterprise with the attitude of a veteran, wielding power he may (or may not actually) possess. However, for unknown reasons, he goes about unregulated. But regardless, I went to visit this dear friend at work, as we mostly conduct little fashion shows, talk smack about his co-workers, and plan meeting up after his shift for more of the same.
Except on this trip, I was decidedly more distracted by the Fall men's collection. Mmm yes, the Red Wing Irish Setter boots spoke to me as soon as I arrived. The shrunken gray tees, chambray button downs, and flannels all cooed in my ear. Was that a Barbour jacket?! With a drawstring waist, which would instantly give me shape and form?! Was it waxed?! I slammed by bag to the ground and began trying things on, styling as I went. I pulled the arms up on the chambray and rolled them. I figured it would go perfectly with a myriad of titty tanks I have, and my distressed Current Elliott black jeans or my Acne Hex boyfriends in stonewash. I could pair it all with my Red Wing Irish Setter boots, and maybe a red lip to emphasize my play on gender. Jeez, I was like the Naomi Wolff of J.Crew....
When I looked at myself in the mirror, my very short haircut only emboldened more by my "lumber girl" pastiche, I was so in love. What's up with J.Crew these days?, I muttered to myself. Doing another look around it was obvious that Drexler was trying to sell a lifestyle here with his new collection. A steampunk vision of the future, that resides solely on a post-modern read of the past. Meaning, I really liked those boots and that flannel because it imitated an entirely different, rural world I was unfamiliar with, but had "idealized all out of proportion." Paul Bunyen's world. Or maybe Ernest Hemingway's (ha!). I was supposed to drink whiskey in my loft, while listening to the sounds of '60s folk or a 2009 musical artist's impression of '60s folk. My dog, Walter, sat idly by on a Navajo, paint-spattered rug and responded to the smells in the kitchen, which was most likely something beefy, like a fancy pot-pie, fixed with meat from the butcher. I was professional but creative. Successful but not rich-rich. I enjoyed literature and art. In fact, J. Crew was telling me what art to like.
Having collaborated with some of the art world's newest and most established guard, J.Crew peeked into the closets and studios of a few. Which was interesting, considering one of those artists, Lucien Smith, I had actually met before at one of J.Crew's rivals: my employer, A.P.C. . All of 20, he's admittedly adorable and apparently taking the art world by storm with his work. I was intrigued. I would love to track this fellow down for an interview for Huffington Post. Maybe he likes the Red Wing Irish Setters too? Although he admitted he didn't have a fashion uniform and was secretly working on two new projects.... Regardless, I found his inclusion in all of this telling, instructive,...deliberate. J. Crew was resisting its rather vanilla roots of loafers with cuffed jeans (although that look is also appealing), and trying to edge in on the turf of Steven Alan, RRL, and Rag & Bone. They build a culture and lifestyle up around you. You buy the clothes, because it represents you, your tastes. And they do it all on a bigger budget, with a smaller price-tag. It is focused, shrewd, detailed. I mean, I fell for it and I am certainly not their target customer.
Interestingly enough though, Vogue also agrees. I was flipping through October's issue with the lovely Michelle Williams on the cover, and they had a spread so pointedly titled, "Take A Hike" (pg. 180) which mirrored my own fascination with the men's section. I mean, what is it about that section? Who knows, but I'm sold. And so are another pair of Red Wing Irish Setter boots....
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