A Vintage Victory?

This summer for me has been different in so many ways. Most of these differences reside in my personal life and the fact that my career in fashion has taken flight. I have been officiated into the court of Fashion royals I suppose, which after a long trek is incredibly rewarding. And it is this royalty, this idea of understated glamor that has populated the U.S. much faster than the NFL can come to some sort of an agreement. I mean really-they say women have trouble deciding? No, women can decide and men want every option.

Yet back to our message, this summer has a sepia tone that was undoubtedly inspired from the age of a past generation. Sitcoms like Mad Men have brought a new kind of style to the forefront of American fashion culture. It is not just the floral brocades that make this time period alluring. Rather, as Mad Men stylist Janie Bryant states, "it is that time of Camelot and pre-disasters in America and you really get a little glimpse into what that life was all about, before assassinations and before war, just all very pristine and perfect." Perhaps this is the reason why retail manufacturers across the world are donning a style incredibly reminiscent of a more perfect era. It is interesting to observe this conservative fashion revival, in a time where liberal inklings dominate the popular opinion. Why is it that women are flocking to mimic their Grandmothers, and men the icons of the past?

Has the age old belief been validated that everything comes full circle? This question has been tugging at my thoughts all week. In looking at the fashions that are approaching with the change in season, there is an organic divide occurring in the fashion community. There are those of the revolutionary nature and there are those who charge ahead in hopes of a vintage victory. I'm incredibly intrigued to see who is crowned the victor, for I find myself a double agent, constantly floating between the two camps with my ever changing outfit choices.  Is it possible that we'll be the love child generation of the  Jones' and the Modernists?  In terms of fashion, I am curious to see. I love my modernism, but I must confess, a good collared sundress is one of favorite things.




Piano Man's Daughter

They say that when you don't know where you are- look back to where you came from. And tonight my friends is exactly what I need to do. Working in fashion, I'm no stranger to the immediate judgment I receive based on what outlandish or [Grace Kelly] classy ensemble I've chosen for the day. The original post for today will be coming out later in the week because tonight, as Billy Joel churns the vocals that lulled me to sleep as a little girl, he's bringing back the memories of sweet blueberries and cigarette smoke. It's easy to be coy with my writing and I love to change up my tone, so tonight will be a sweet melody.

Just call me the Piano Man's daughter.

There's something we do everyday, whether its the girl and her baby daddy walking along the sidewalk to get to the Jewel, or the man holding up a sign stating that he's a Veteran without a home. I'm guilty of it, and I believe so are the many of this world. We judge. We look and we crown ourselves the writers of the world and text ourselves a snippet that sums up years of misunderstanding. That's the thing about fashion sometimes, it casts us all in a role that makes the suburbia driveways stages of superb performance. Yet what happens when you want to roll up in your blankets and ask yourself the question that's been pulsing my mind...How many people really know you?

I get this all the time. I have a bursting-at-the-seams personality...no doubt of that. Ever since I was little I chased the firefly of limelight and have longed to keep him in a jar by my bedside. Yet, here I am, looking in the mirror at the age twenty-two and I'm surprised. No one would ever know that back in first grade they called me Chipmunk Cheeks. My smile will never fully close due to my misconstructed jaw. Meaning? I've never used my front two teeth to bite into a New York slice of pizza. I used to wear a self made tiara of butterfly clips in my hair everyday...and I thought I looked incredible. I began my writing as a way to handle moving around better. I would write the life I hoped each new state would bring. First story was titled Maddie.

Holding my Tory Butch clutch, no one would guess that I grew up wishing for stairs.

I didn't come from a family with money, I came from a family whose pores bore out ambition and determination. I grew up looking at my friends with their two story homes and begging my mother for a big house. A good lesson of being careful what you wish for.

I will not argue that money can bring you pretty damn close to happiness- but it will not carry you all the way home.

On my mother's side I am the first college graduate and I walked that stage for two people. My mother and grandmother, the two most brilliant women I have ever had the honor of knowing.

My grandmother's name was Barbara Jean McClory. And she was the one who took a whirlwind of a child and turned me into the portrait of a lady. I owe my life, my inspiration, and my fast beating heart to this special lady.

I don't want to live my life. I want to experience it.

I want my life to play out like the Piano Man's song...sweet and rhythmic.

So tonight as we all close our eyes, let's remember where it all began.

Because at the end of my story I'm an Irish girl born in Queens, NY. 
Take away my designer wallet, my fancy linen harem pants, and wipe the YSL mascara off my lashes. I've got something that can't be bought...and I think it's something more people have than they realize.

I have my story. So remember to take time to write yours.