Justify My Love (Of Clothes)

I’m starting to get bored of wearing sweaters with my arms in the correct sleeves and with the “front” actually facing forward. It just feels, I don’t know…dull.

But before you get the idea that I’m the kind of envelope-pushing, creative-thinking, boundary-breaking mind that casually overturns social norms, I’d like to make one thing clear: If I have you fooled, I am a great poseur. Allow me to explain from the beginning.

My mother, a painter, encouraged my three siblings and me to appreciate art and pursue training at different points in our childhoods. My brother brought home prize-worthy, head-turning pottery. My sisters mastered portraiture and mixed media. And I usually created messes more impressive than the attempts at artwork that gave rise to them.

Last October, LVMH allocated $143 million to found a private museum of contemporary art for its Louis Vuitton Foundation, and commissioned architect Frank Gehry to design and construct it in Paris’s Bois de Boulogne. Even for the multinational conglomerate that runs Louis Vuitton, Moët, Hennessy, and 66 other luxury goods companies—all of which you’ve definitely heard of—this is a considerable investment worth investigating.

What merits a price tag of $143 million? In part, social capital. When prompted to explain why he wished to open the Louis Vuitton Foundation, Bernard Arnault, the CEO of LVMH, said, “We wanted to present Paris with an extraordinary space for art and culture, and demonstrate daring and emotion by entrusting Frank Gehry with the construction of an iconic building for the 21st century.” Indeed, Arnault was able to successfully build his museum on a plot of land that had previously been denied to several other land developers. While these competitors wished to construct office buildings and business centers, Arnault was granted control of the land because his proposition was deemed to be a noble endeavor to create a public work.

But in a city that already boasts high concentrations of both art and culture, this was an ambitious—maybe even superfluous—undertaking.

The 20s had flapper dresses that hung instead of clung—the better to celebrate female liberation, my dear.

The 30s had glamorous getups of gold, gaudy glitter—the better to escape the Great Depression woes, my dear.

The hippies of the 60s sported peace signs and flowers; in the 90s, Calvin Klein and Madonna heralded in a decade of shocking, skin-revealing Minimalism.

This past Sunday, when temperatures descended below 40 and the “real-feel” was colder than freezing, I refused to wear my winter coat. In protest of Cambridge’s weather system, which fails to segue from fall to winter with any finesse, I sported a leather jacket and acted as if the cold front wasn’t an affront to my happiness.

I accessorized with an iced tea.

I felt rebellious.

Would you pay $790 for a pair of jeans? Dior believes that you might.

You’re on a budget? How about a pair of “sun bleached, destroyed” jeans from AG? For just $255, they’re yours!

Still too pricey? You want to drop as little cash as possible? You could try Levi’s, where you’ll spend $54.50, or Target, where jeans cost $10.48.

Confession: When I feel shitty, I shop.

This past summer, I battled mono for a few months. Chronically fatigued, I found that I rarely had the energy to do things I’d previously found enjoyable and relaxing, like taking my sister to our favorite department store in New York City.

After being quarantined for weeks, I rallied one day and left my house to make the pilgrimage from 88th St. to Bloomingdale’s on 59th. I arrived at the department store in one piece, but the travel left me feeling depleted. My mood began to spiral. Could it be that after weeks of being sick, I still wasn’t better? Would I ever again be able to take a walk or hold a conversation without feeling worn out? Why me? Melodrama engulfed my thoughts like an oversized sweater—specifically, the kind that envelops you in comforting softness and is conducive to mourning lost love or simply moping. I’d been wearing something like that earlier.

When I was 13, the words “practical” and “Jansport” gave me hives. Anything featuring a mesh pouch specifically engineered to hold a water bottle made me want to vomit. Entering high school, I couldn’t think of anything more preposterous than buying a backpack for my books.

To understand my singular opinion on backpacks and their ridiculousness, you need to know a bit about six-year-old me, who had so many thoughts and opinions to share that she almost never shut up. When adults struck up conversations with me, likely assuming that I was a shy and benign kindergartener, I could launch into hours-long discussions peppered with observations from snack time, ranging from my dislike of Goldfish to my theories on our class pet’s level of emotional fulfillment.

But as I—voice squeaky, toothpick-thin arms gesticulating wildly—chatted with any adult who would listen to me, I noted with chagrin that people saw me more as “adorable” than “adult.” I winced when people called me cute. Surely they thought my ideas were darling and tiny like me.