Five Journalistic Questions #5
This dispatch was only like 27 days late…relax. Hehehe
If you are reading this, I’m probably 30– that is if I haven’t, between typing this on a local downtown D train (track maintenance, don’t ask) and whenever you read this, gone into a catatonic state from something that the MTA probably did. Regardless, I’m not gonna lie, 29 was pretty gutterbutt. It was the most doubtful I’ve ever been of myself in the duration of my twenties. I associate it with societal pressure to always be further than one presently is or what the young people call productivity culture—the new “PC”. In this dispatch, I’m going to switch it up a bit and talk about the things I hope for in my thirties and the way I’m about to come for edges between now and 2032– that is if I’m not taken out the game by bioterrorism and end up as someone’s mother before then. Thank you for reading and, per usual, if you enjoyed this edition of Five Journalistic Questions, leave a comment, tag me, send it to a friend, and/or recommend this shanty-letter to a friend by word of mouth! Here we go…
Who is Joan what the fuck does she have to do with your thirties?!
Joan. Joan. Joan. What can I truly say about what Joan Carol “Martyr Complex” Clayton has meant to my life as a Black woman with natural hair who came of age in the early aughts right as reality television was putting the nation and media companies in a vice grip for unscripted series. More importantly, what am I getting from my continued and constant rewatches as I enter my thirties, both sartorially and sentimentally? First things first, I knew Joan long before I met Carrie. It was at approximately the same time I met Vogue magazine and began sounding out the names in the ads: Gucci, Prada, (Winona Ryder shoplifting era) Marc. I had to be nine years old. Every Saturday I’d tote that Vogue under my arm into choir rehearsal, and subsequently not pay attention, and every Monday night Joan Clayton would briefly appear on my television to help fill in the gaps…ya know, before my mom changed the channel. She was my original fashionista, an introduction into languid style, my Birkenstock buff– if we don’t count my great-aunt, and Costco Queen, Lorraine. My mom originally tried to forbid me from watching Girlfriends during the original run of the first 4 seasons because the subject matter was slightly mature for nine-year-old me. Nevertheless, the maternal barrier was short lived and I occasionally tuned in for reruns when my mom was at work or school. In high school and throughout my early twenties, I began streaming the inaugural season of the Mara Akil production I missed in my youth on bootleg websites and YouTube as some sort of style Masterclass. For hours, I studied the hair, the clothes, and the boutiques mentioned. I listened for brands that I recognized in Teen Vogue and W. I spent months trying to get the perfect cloudy and soft Joan fro…until I realized and accepted that Tracee Ellis Ross is biracial and I’m, well, not. (There’s a thin line between 3C and 4A…but that line has something to fucking say.) As I progressed to my late 20s and got my first solo apartment, I looked to Joan as an interior design North Star—still a work in progress but I’m getting there and one day I’ll have a benched breakfast nook in a beautiful craftsman. Now, after countless hours of Angie Stone’s voice greeting me at the dawn of every episode and, as I embark on this journey through 30, I’m understanding this show more intimately than before and it, in addition to therapy, is highlighting some things I want in my thirties.
May I present my Thirties Manifesto? It’s only five short things not including the benched breakfast nook. Ok, here goes: Community: Community because surface level friendships are simply not my style. I want to carouse with my friends but also be a pillar in their lives, to know the happenings, both celebratory and arduous and vice versa. I want to refine the relationships (platonic or otherwise) I can rely on and recalibrate the others instead of shutting the world out (a slight character flaw I was recently discussing at lunch last week). I want thoughtful platonic and romantic relationships I can wrap myself in and feel safe and I want to do/be that for others. Intention: I’m stylish but I want a wardrobe. I not only want to love what I’m buying at the moment of purchase but I need to utilize, wear, and cherish it long term. At this time in my life, I think I’m pretty removed from the pursuit of trends but I want to build a cohesive and holistic array of attire. In essence, I’m honing my skills of being a smart consumer in my 30s and investing in pieces that bring me joy and utility–my favorite style foundations. Luxury: Luxury, to me, isn't about price tags or brand recognition. Luxury, again, to me, is a way of living with the most ease and beauty possible. Luxury is a daily meditation about investment and priority, in addition to being the privilege of decision and choice. It’s buying flowers every week so you can be imbued with happiness and a motivation to clean every week; hell, it’s cleaning every week! It’s incense paper in the bathroom. Luxury is bringing clothes to the tailor so you don’t find yourself unnecessarily buying short-lived and fleeting items. It’s investing in the original, maybe higher-priced item in lieu of the knockoff because it means wardrobe longevity in addition to the warm and fuzzy feels the product brings. Through writing this, I think it’s safe to say that true luxury is about forming decisions that make you feel good later and style is the manner in which you live with those choices. I hope this decade brings me the utmost style and luxury. Mastery: This word is last because it’s kind of the most important thing in my manifesto outside of community. In my thirties I want to learn. I never want to stop being a student of writing, fashion history, comedy or any subject matter that should pique my heart’s curiosity. When learning ceases, stagnancy grows in its stead and I hope to never be stagnant if it’s within my control.
*SZA’s mom’s voice* And THAT’S what I think about Joan. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
What are the Top 5-8 (I’ll decide as I’m writing) fashion films that must be watched both fiction and nonfiction?
Before you comment, DM, or even ask yourself “but what about XYZ film?”, know that this list is based on films I consider comfort films. This is not the full list of fashion films and documentaries that I hold dear but these are highly ranked.
Unzipped: This guerilla style film featuring designer Isaac Mizrahi is like a cup of hot cocoa for the cold fashion heart. It’s filmed during the creative process and production of his A/W ‘94 collection, it’s an intimate view of the creative process and the inner workings of what goes into creating a collection. My favorite parts of the film, unrelated to the supermodels models, are the scenes featuring Polly Mellen. It’s beautiful to see genuine mentorship in fashion! Additionally, the scene when Isaac Mizrahi, Andre Leon Talley, and John Galliano (pre-scandals) are having a tarot reading (Andre’s reaction to this reading is hilarious) in a random basement in Paris and are conversing about everything else under the sun from worn leather to the wallpaper in the bathroom. It reminds me of how I interact with friends and, maybe it was because the cameras and mics were on, however, seeing a fashion conversation sans salacious gossip was refreshing. Additionally, I love his adoration of Mary Tyler Moore because…same.
Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel: I think I’m attracted to films that show the gilded age of publishing– not just because it was an exhaustingly fabulous era of life but because it influenced and coincided with a prodigious quality and body of work…and resources to support that work. All those things culminate in The Eye Has to Travel, the 86 minute film that chronicles the life and times of Diana Vreeland, her subsequent bevy of fabulous falsehoods, how she revolutionized and redefined the role of the editor, and how the biggest night in fashion is a direct byproduct of her unemployment. It is a film that I vividly remember watching in my late teens (maybe early twenties) and not wanting the film to end because I was so mesmerized by the process of creating evergreen, high quality art that resonates beyond a fleeting moment or media cycle.
The Gospel According to André: Though I have been a slight critic of André Leon Talley, I still admire his work and the strides he made for himself within the confines of the fashion trade. I recognize that he was of a different time and was dealt a different hand of cards to be played in order to rise through the ranks of the industry. That being said, I went to see this film in theaters when it was released and subsequently purchased it because I think ALT is an extremely important fashion writer, though he’s more widely known to my generation (millennials) through his role of creative director or editor-at-large for Vogue. He possessed a very unique gift of being both technical in his writing without boring the reader while writing with humor and flair sans being too conversational. He greeted his reader with respect, treating those who anticipated his column like the knowledgeable consumers they were. In other words, he knew how to “language”. I think this film does a great job of showcasing his immense talents and life before they became consumed by the likes of Diana Vreeland, Anna Wintour, and the business as a whole. My favorite section was Chapter 3: Debutante that highlighted foray into writing during graduate school at Brown, his time at Interview Magazine with Andy Warhol, Fran Leibowitz, and his first interview with Karl Lagerfeld that catalyzed the beginning of their friendship. I adored learning of his time writing for Women's Wear Daily as the first Black Paris bureau chief. The film left me desperately hungry for an anthology of his fashion writing, something I hope his estate (or, at the very least, loved ones) will create to pass on to the next generation of sartorial scribes. Trust me, we need it!
Boomerang: I categorize Boomerang more as a comedic art film (See: the conceptual video producer/editor Nelson played by Jeffrey Holder) than just a mere comedy— I mean anything with Grace Jones, Eartha Kitt, and Jeffrey Holder deserves to be held in the highest esteem. Starring Eddie Murphy, Halle Berry, and Robin Givens along with an all-star ensemble cast, Boomerang is a stylish movie vs. merely fashion because it gives the audience everything: interiors, New York in the 90s, and a costume that is beyond befitting for a Black-owned cosmetic-slash-marketing firm. My favorite wardrobe moments belong to: Jacqueline. Her coordinated suits, overcoats, texturized hair combos inspired a generation of upwardly mobile Black professionals. Angela: Her style was definitely pre-gentrified Fort Greene, the bohemian lofts of SoHo, or even Greenwich Village. Her commitment to accessories (chapeaus specifically) doesn’t get enough commotion but it’s ok because she is more about the work anyway. Last but not least: Supermodel extraordinaire Strangé played by Grace Jones. Her style in the film and (in real life) is so adventurous, feminine, and sexy. It takes chances beyond the typical wardrobe you would see of an off-duty supermodel of that time. She embodied style on and off the clock and was not to be fucked with! She was absolutely transcendent in this role and inspired one of my favorite affirmations. See: attached.
Devil Wears Prada: An homage to the days of publishing yore complete with substantial budgets, expense accounts, and car service. A movie dedicated to the days before the ivory towers of publishing consolidated titles and declined to so much as bestow you with a MetroCard to commute to and from the office. The times of unpaid internships and paying gritty dues that some might call exploitation. Nevertheless, the Meryl Streep/Anne Hathaway/Patricia Field collab known as The Devil Wears Prada is absolutely a fashion film of comfort and great knowledge if you know where, and what, to research.
Prêt-à-Porter: As a movie that is oft described as chaotic, plotless, and dizzying, Prêt-à-Porter is an apt creation that feels very appropriate for today’s content machine…I mean industry. Conceptualized in 1987 when director Robert Altman went to Paris Fashion Week with his wife, Altman likened fashion week to a circus and knew he needed to document it. Contemporarily, the fashion feels like a circus that is off-script. It feels very dopamine driven with creative directors, fashion designers, and editricies shuffling back and forth, forward and backward between houses like itinerant deacons and trying to imitate the fashion high of last season’s favorite designer. Substantive magazine perspective being substituted for quick content and website traffic. It’s dizzying and chaotic, confusing in place of mystifying, and sex-crazed– though I’m sure it’s always been the latter way. Pret-a-Porter is semi-perfection to me regardless of plot. I admire satire and adore sartorial satire. Additionally, how can a movie be bad with a list of cameos that’s too long to write but spotlights the likes of Thierry Mugler, Issey Miyake, and Sonia Rykiel– hell even Cher makes an appearance! This movie also has footage of shows by Jean Paul Gaultier, Christian Lacroix, Issey Miyake and features designs by Vivienne Westwood. It’s a movie that could leave much to be desired if you don’t participate or even orbit around stylish commerce but, as someone who can remember live fashion reporting on cable, it is at once both nostalgic and prescient.
L’amour Fou: What can I even say about L’amour Fou beyond it’s a fashion documentary for the lover of couture, art, and interior design. It follows the massive estate sale of Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé following the death of Yves Saint Laurent in 2008. It chronicles their peaks and valleys as business and romantic partners and is a beautiful and thoughtful dedication to the life and love they shared of both each other and their work. It stirs up some serious FOMO in me for having not been born in the right time to collect Piccasos for the low, have a Polaroid snapped by Warhol, or experience Yves’ Marrakech collection in real time. Outside of the Bill Cunningham documentary (also must watch if you are reading this), L’amour Fou may have been my foray into my love of fashion documentaries and sparked this insatiable hunger and thirst for knowledge as it pertains to the creative process.
When: Still fleshing out my thoughts for my When.
Where: Nowhere. I was sick and isolating for a good portion of this dispatch.
Why: The chichest thing I purchased this week was a cappuccino cup, well mug. I have been spending money with abandon which is typically the case in the summer because I qualify every decadence as a “birthday gift”. However, this behavior usually lasts until seasonal affective disorder swoops in with her mighty grip around mid-October (sometimes November or December, when global warming is factored in *wink, wink*) and figuratively slides me down a wall. Nonetheless, I’ve enjoyed my purchases thus far: the Jil Sander calf skin glove pumps, the stilettoed Loewe roses, and even the $45 black denim maxi skirt I envision will support me in frolicking around the city to galleries and lunches alike. None, however, have compared to the cappuccino mugs from Cloud 9 Clay: an item so chic that the specificity of its function is outlined and I still purchased despite not indulging in espresso, lest desperate and in a trance of exhaustion, or even coffee. I do, however, partake in matcha and chai so that’s what I imagine my intended use for them shall be. I bought mismatched cups, even more chic– I’ll talk about this at a later date: one in a red-to-plum ombre and the other in a rugged imitation of blue and white bone china; both colors will surely offset the green matcha quite nicely. I believe that this purchase is so luxe because outside of the one houseguest who will be able to partake in this morning indulgence with me (I only bought two cups. They’re not cheap.), it promotes quiet. Intentional “me” time. In the 5-7 minutes it takes to boil a pot of water to 175º, whisk water into the matcha powder, and combine with warm the milk, my mind is silenced to everything. And that strange, but blossoming, acquaintanceship with hush continues between 7:45 and 8 in the morning while I sit on my couch, feet on the coffee table, only breaking the void with the sound of periodic slurps. I can’t think of a better way to introduce pleasure and ease into my morning routine.
