A trip to Brooklyn results in a little sartorial nausea, courtesy of the trying-so-hard-to-be-hip transplants crawling out of every nook and cranny. On the other hand, my native-to-NYC friend doesn’t seem to be trying much at all, and blows them out of the water.
A bad date gets me thinking about the inner-war between the outfits we truly like to wear versus the outfits we sometimes feel we should wear.
A spring forecast of the sartorial-meets-attitude persuasion.
The company’s slightly old-fashioned manifesto in The New York Times was equal parts bold and convincing, making a case not just for ads with conviction, but conscious consumption itself.
“What maketh a lifestyle brand?” Shakespeare never asked, but surely would have, if he were still waxing poetic today. Easy: the perfect union of blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin.
What do Jack Kerouac, sunshine, shades, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s have in common? Not much, until Warby Parker brought them all together and won over my little heart.
While dabbling in vino, German philosophy, or swaths of cashmere is all well and good, a more all-inclusive strain of luxury has been rapidly forming–one that transcends taut definition and allows for an exciting melange of things high and low, textbook-right and textbook-wrong. To put it simply: luxury has been Kanye West-ed.
You should at least concede that their cover is one of those lovely stick-it-to-the-man scenarios. The man, here, being a white-washed lovechild of privilege and tradition, which in itself has many spawn…this one in particular being the gilded laurels over which Queen Anna Wintour presides.
When fashion week (on week-on week-on week) rolled around last month, I found myself dreading it. This, despite the fact that I’m not directly involved in it in any way.