What I wore

I’m really bad at taking pictures. I was using an archaic first-wave digital camera for the longest time. It was, to say the least, not nightclub-friendly. It wasn’t even beach-friendly. Despite the daylight, all my photos looked like something out of a digital camera version of The Ring. Needless to say most of my photos in my iPhoto library are culled from the archives of my more able compatriots.

Countless people say that, in the event of a fire, they will save photo albums, for memories. I keep my memories elsewhere: in my closet.

Every phase in my life is always marked by a sort of look. I had my first kiss wearing a tie-dyed shirt from Haight Street and a calf-length patchwork denim skirt from a then-famed Eurotrash brand. A totally pretentious bobo combo, really. The mix of real patchouli vintage with choice Euro-gigolo denim garb was something that was, at the same time, both contrived (they were both cool back then) and unintentional (I lost the fashion congruity plot there).

I’ll never forget that outfit. One, because of its memorable hideousness: I think I even wore red clogs with that. Two, because that outfit always brought me back to my “first kiss” soundtrack: Peter Frampton’s (Ooh) Baby I Love Your Way and that unforgettable Royal Tru-Orange flavored kiss. Now, how can a Polaroid capture that?

I’ve commemorated my childhood memories, fantastic romances, failures and a death or two in between with the clothes I wear. I felt the connection of clothing and history early on when I first went to Hollywood.

I thought that my big break was coming when my parents proposed a day at Universal Studios. The wet dream of every talentless pre-pubescent showbiz climber is, of course, to be discovered in an airport or a horse stable. I was deeply inspired by how Kate Moss was discovered and was determined to make her fate mine (now I just buy her Topshop outfits... that’s as close as we can get). I figured an afternoon at Universal Studios would increase my chances of getting “discovered.” I begged my mother to buy me an entire teen-idolish ensemble. She agreed, the barter being I had to be her slave for life. I’m still paying for that outfit to this day. It was a fresh pink denim jacket and pants decorated with dainty shells from Esprit. I looked like an Asian relative from the Full House cast. I skipped all the rides and just lolled around the premises, waiting to be spotted. A wanton version of this would be cruising. I came home still not famous, but the bearer of a definitive ensemble that I wore endlessly till it tore apart.

My next fashion ambition was to wear black. My mother thought a child wearing black was too “much.” As if it was meant to inspire some demonic philosophies or deviant behavior in a small impressionable girl. She may have been right; look at Angelina Jolie. 

My mother finally gave in to my latent bad girl longings when I turned 13. She bought me a bad-ass black biker chic outfit from Oilily when we were in Germany, a brand known for dainty sundresses and jumpers. I had officially become a fashion douche. I wore that outfit to the park where I tried to seduce boys in their tarty Top 40 shirts. Even then I was already overdressed. Black outfits really bring out your inner vixen. Even if you’re wearing braces.

High school was a mess of Perry Ellis by Marc Jacobs grunge gear, Doc Martens and Sub Rosa couture by Tina Lapuous who I considered the coolest girl in the world. I was quite cavalier — wearing F1 racing jackets, knowing nothing about it but rather just being attracted to the bright racing stripes and commercial endorsement patches. Then a frisson of awareness came over me during prom. I was obsessed with prom. Whatever vestiges of heroin chic were left over from my Nirvana and Alice in Chains days, they disappeared in a cloud of taffeta and chiffon. I went to prom with my first boyfriend. He was not the recipient of my first kiss. Eau de harlot at such a tender age.  I wore a precious Calvin Klein strapless dress in ivory and, due to the strict dress code imposed by my high school, I had to put straps on my architectural masterpiece.

After some rowdy sychophantic dancing, the straps popped off and I was slapped on the wrist by the school for being a loose woman in a strapless dress. At least it was Calvin Klein; if I’m going to go and get expelled, it might as well be for fashion.

College was a bit of a dark period in my adventures in fashion. Wanting to fit in the fine institution I was accepted in, I adopted Tomas Maier’s philosophy on luxury: that it should be quiet and intimate. Thus Tod’s loafers with Kelly bags and knit sweaters with tapered jeans that came in the color of the ocean were the only acceptable attire for me. I had to mask my quiet repulsion for being taken away from art school (wherein I would have celebrated art and life in Margiela and Rei Kawakubo) in Connecticut-inspired wear. I looked like a major Tita. In our school it was considered daring to wear yellow Tod’s loafers to the Orwellian ensemble. Those who did it were instant fashion icons. I did have a fashion epiphany, though.

The “Stepforbes Wives”-to-be outfits drove me crazy. So I decided to never do black. No black bags or shoes. This carried on for years.

My early days as a career girl was spent looking more like a working girl. I rebelled from the Tod’s and its morally acceptable cousins and wore my Hermés scarves as halter tops. I defiled the best names in fashion, shortening my Alaia skirts even more and pairing them with diamante-embellished Bebe tops, in search of cosmopolitans and inappropriate men. Then Philippine fashion saved me. I discovered the singular designs of Dennis Lustico, Ivar Aseron and Rhett Eala. My Bermuda Triangle where bad taste disappears. My friend Joel also took me away from the world of ‘Yuki chic and taught me the ABC’s of appropriate dressing in places beyond the realm of good taste. Although his sister Katrina and I were giggling the week before about how we would go out in tank tops and terrycloth Daisy Dukes with stilettos from their now defunct line U in Rustan’s. Somehow that was my way of rekindling part of my Edwardian youth that was misspent being overly dressed.

I hit my fashion stride and despite the odd pink hair color or yellow denim pants, which I thought were irreverent, not irrelevant, to good taste, I felt like myself.

The best was playing dress-up with my friend Wendy, surprising each other with our fight outfits. It seemed like we were only dressing up for each other. One night I went out inspired by the Dalai Lama (I wore a long sheer scarf that swept the floor as a robe) and possessed by the Marquis de Sade (take a mighty guess what I did). I spent the whole night looking for the antique brooch that held the outfit together. Deliriously disheveled, I found the brooch in a martini glass. This almost a decade ago.

My fashion derring-do always fizzled when I was at my happiest. I hate happy relationships. They make me fat and I live in my Pilates outfits. I try to pimp it by going for Stella McCartney for Adidas, but wearing couture for lunch is a luxury only savored by lonely women. When I got engaged, I decided to look like the apt fiancée. Like all brides to be I took French cooking classes and bought a shitload of Tocca and Calypso dresses matched with pastel Chanel purses. Plus, thank heavens for Tory Burch’s divorce, so that we now have the fiancée-appropriate wear of Tory Burch to add to the list. My peg was Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend’s Wedding. Giddy: feminine and floral.

After my “divorce,” I used Princess Caroline, who seems to be eternally grieving beautifully, as my new fashion peg. In somber Mouret knee-length shift dresses and Louboutin heels, I tried creating a form of depressed chic. It didn’t catch on, except the depression maybe. The gay divorcée in Dolce and Erin Fetherston seemed more me. What the hell. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

So here I am in between fluffs of silken cocktail dresses and elaborate kaftans (when I need to “get away”), waiting to see what the fashion future has in store for me next.