Hey homies. Nylon has a new iTunes playlist out. Fo' FREE!
That's right boys and girls, they're invisible shoes. Designed by Brazil-born Andreia Chaves, the footwear is made of mirrors and seems like just the thing to punch up your little black dress for New Year's Eve."I'm fascinated by anyone who's willing to, like, rock personal style, and you've got to giver that, she's got great style...You look at her [Rodarte] video, and the writing doesn't sync up with the way she talks about fashion. When I watched that video it smacked of this ethereal vagueness--the vacantlike quality where it was like everyone was on Vicodin. Like everyone was uncomfortably dumb except for me...I'm not trying to take anything way from her--her love of fashion, her love of style. She's either a tween savant or she's got a Tavi team."
As the decade comes to an end, I find myself thinking about what will be the characterizing trends of the first decade of the new millennium. The ’90s had grunge, the ’80s had harsh blush and side ponytails, and the ’70s had bell-bottoms.
Karl Lagerfeld made over a SpongeBob figurine for a fundraiser.
"Let's be honest, the reality rarely lives up to the romance and I am OK with that--I think we all could benefit from letting ourselves get lost in the romance of an idea or perception instead of having to know every excruciating detail of reality."
I did a little bit of shopping while I was home for Thanksgiving. Ok, a lot of shopping. But in my defense, I haven't gone shopping in forever AND it was my birthday. So there. 
There’s something I must declare to having a bit of a beef with. It weighs tirelessly on my mental wellbeing day in and day out. I often times awake with a start in the middle of the night, so burdened with annoyance at this very issue.
The problem? Celebrity fashion lines.
It seems as though every gal in Hollywood with a pint of success has slapped her name on a clothing line. If these desperate attempts at consumerist acceptance aren’t a case study in narcissism, I don’t know what is. It’s no secret that celebs have serious entitlement issues, but I just have to ask, why do this?
There are, of course, exceptions. To the Olsen twins, thank you for continually giving me $200 t-shirts to lust over with your lines, ‘Elizabeth and James’ and ‘The Row.’ If it weren’t for your pricey pieces, I may have long since dropped out of college and joined the circus. But a click through your fall collections gently remind me, “Sam, you need to make a living someday. Those feather-trimmed blazers aren’t going to pay for themselves. So stop scrolling through the backlogs of Textsfromlastnight and get to work. A diploma is supposed to mean a paying job someday, right? Har har…”
Then there are exceptions within lines that are otherwise deemed a disaster. For example, my roommate Erika trotted home from a particularly exhilarating trip to Wal-Mart a few weeks ago and exclaimed, “You will not believe what I bought!” With that, she procured from her smiley face-branded shopping bag a surprisingly adorable screen-printed t-shirt dress. The designer, you ask? Miley Cyrus with Max Azria. No one was more shocked than I, trust.
Gwen Stefani’s L.A.M.B. brand continually delivers charming punk-preppy separates. Nicole Richie’s House of Harlow accessories line boded surprisingly well among fashion critics. Then there’s my personal guilty pleasure, Jessica Simpson’s shoe collection. I love the girl’s footwear so much that I own two pairs of her flats.
A friend and I were wandering around a department store over the summer and—no lie—every time I liked a pair of shoes enough to pick them up and look at the tag, they were Jessica Simpson. A little embarrassing, but I ignored the brand and bought them anyways. My friend on the other hand, insisted she would never purchase anything with Simpson’s name on it just for the principal of the matter.
For me, the JS line worked because I genuinely liked the merchandise. But the very selling point Simpson’s marketers banked on to move product is simultaneously its greatest downfall. If ‘Jessica Simpson’ hadn’t been stamped into the sole, my friend might have picked up a pair, too.
Do retailers really think that collaborating with a D-list celebrity is going to stimulate the credit card-wielding masses? I know the economy is flagging and all, but there are better ways to increase profits. For starters, try making clothes that are actually attractive.
To the celebs, all I’m saying is stick to your acting/singing/socialite-ing and leave the designing up to, uh, actual designers. Capisci?
Dear Stylist,
Take your seats, boys and girls. It’s midterm season, and that means it’s time for another lesson in Sam’s Psychology of Fashion 101. This week’s lecture: positive reinforcement.
To get you up to speed on B.F. Skinner’s catchphrase concept, positive reinforcement can roughly be defined as the presentation of a favorable stimulus directly after the desired response. After awhile, the stimulus becomes associated with the response and increases the frequency of the response.
The age-old phenomenon has been used for more than canine obedience training. It’s hardwired humankind to be responsive to compliments. We’ve grown so accustomed to mumbling flattery whenever we want to get on someone’s good side that it’s practically white noise.
Remember that time the girl in your mass communications class told you she liked your necklace? She probably was just trying to get you to do all the work in your group project. The time that guy at a frat party told you he liked your shoes? Well — you know what he wanted. Do compliments ever have any validity these days?
Over the summer, I was sitting in a New York City bar one afternoon, and a guy next to me was throwing paper towels into a trashcan on the other side of the bar. I laughed and said something along the lines of, “Nice aim. Good luck with the NBA.” And you know what his response was? “You’re clearly not from New York. You’re too friendly.”
I’d never been more offended in my life. If there’s one thing I’d rather be mistaken for more than a friendly person, it’s a bitter native New Yorker. I was hoping my all-black ensemble would put on the right facade, but apparently it wasn’t enough. Apparently, New Yorkers don’t give compliments.
Perhaps, however, these uncongenial city dwellers are on to something. After all, I do hate when people give compliments just to hear themselves talk. There’s surely nothing worse than the hesitantly reciprocated compliment: “Oh thanks, you, uh, look cute today, too.”
Self-obsession is a human impulse. The ever-expanding world of social network media outlets attests to this theory. Do I really believe that everyone wants to know whether I’m having a good day through my Facebook status? Yes, I do. Call me your friendly neighborhood narcissist.
I wish I could say I’m at a point in my life where compliments don’t mean anything to me, that I’m happy with who I am all on my own. The unfortunate truth is I’ll probably never tire of positive feedback. What can I say? I’m vain. Does anyone honestly not enjoy the small boost to his fleeting confidence?
It is for this reason that I’ve never understood people who don’t put in at least a base level of effort when dressing in the morning. Maybe they’re admirable. Maybe they really are so secure they don’t need adulation. After all, fashion is essentially the physical manifestation of fishing for compliments.
But I think these people are selling themselves short. They don’t know what they’re missing — it’s really quite nice to hear good things about yourself. My personal getting-ready-in-the-morning philosophy is as follows: If you don’t put anything on that warrants a compliment, you probably shouldn’t bother leaving the house in the first place.
So here’s my call to action: I’m asking everyone to cut the obsequious flattery. Speak up when someone is dressed well and keep quiet when you’re just trying to break the ice. There are better ways to start a conversation.
Oh and guys, just because I compliment you does not mean that I’m hitting on you. You’re probably not even my type. So few guys dress well, though, that when they get something right, I feel I need to keep nudging them in the right direction. Positive reinforcement, remember?
“The September Issue”
Starring: Anna Wintour, Grace Coddington, Andre Leon Talley
Director: R.J. Cutler
A&E IndieFilms
Grade: A-
The small screen has taken an increased interest in the fashion industry in recent years, indulging the pleasures of die-hard magazine readers and giving viewers a behind-the-scenes look with varying degrees of success.
“The Rachel Zoe Project” led us into the famed stylist’s catch phrase-filled world of celebrity-dressing hysteria, and for the most part, it seemed believable. “The Hills,” on the other hand, wasn’t even close at giving us a firsthand account of the magazine business. Unless, of course, Heidi Montag’s morning grooming rituals are considered insider information. “America’s Next Top Model” tried to convey what it takes to become a successful supermodel, but Tyra Banks’ self-branding agenda got in the way more often than not.
Luckily for those genuinely interested in gaining temporary access into the industry, the fashion gods have teamed up with director R.J. Cutler to give us “The September Issue.” Critically acclaimed at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival, the film scooped up a win for cinematography and a nomination for the grand jury prize.
The film is bracketed around the creation of the behemoth five-pound September 2007 issue of Vogue. As the months and weeks whittle away, we watch as Anna Wintour — the editor of Vogue for over two decades now — and her Voguettes click-clack around the Conde Nast office in killer stilettos. Just a glimpse at these people, who arguably must be some of the most glamorous folks around (they are, after all, the tastemakers of the world), is mesmerizing in itself. It’s oddly reassuring to see them squirm to avoid Wintour’s wrath. Vogue editors are insecure too? Who knew?
The beginning scenes establish Wintour’s power in the fashion business — just in case, you know, anyone with a remote interest in style wasn’t already aware of this. One interviewee is asked if there’s any aspect of the fashion industry on which Wintour doesn’t have influence. He pauses for a moment, searching for a small glitch in the system that’s out of the reach of her manicured palm. In the end, his answer is simple: “No.”
Even viewers without an invested interest in the industry should have a subliminal understanding of Wintour’s character. Her rumored editrix nature is, after all, the alleged basis for Meryl Streep’s character in “The Devil Wears Prada.” Those looking for a similarly plot-driven gossip fest, however, should look elsewhere.
“The September Issue” is more documentary than chick flick. It reveals a glimpse at the hard-edged business side of fashion that so often gets pushed aside in favor of a portrayal emphasizing parties and glamour.
Wintour’s daughter, Bee, describes fashion as “a weird industry,” insisting that she’d rather “go to law school” than follow in her mother’s footsteps. It’s astounding to think someone would pass up such easy access to that impenetrable world, but as the film shows, fashion isn’t for the faint of heart. And for those who are hankering to score a job in the industry, it’s comforting to know there’s one less person with connections vying for the same position.
While the film certainly accentuates the toils and stresses of the industry, Andre Leon Talley, Vogue’s editor-at-large, serves as the film’s much-needed comic relief. Upon Wintour’s demand that he lose weight, he takes on playing tennis, decking himself out with Louis Vuitton and rolling onto the clay court. God bless a man with style.
And if Talley provides the laughs, then flame-haired creative director Grace Coddington provides the soul. The film follows her crafting a series of extraordinarily beautiful photo editorials that Wintour heartbreakingly tosses aside. Seemingly heartless moves like this make it easy to see where Wintour gets her reputation. Behind her platinum bob and oversized shades, though, Wintour isn’t cruel-hearted. She’s a hard worker with impeccable standards. It’s a shame, really, that being so passionate and skilled at what you do means a media-driven perception of soullessness and frigidity.
“The September Issue” is not without its faults. Just as Wintour harshly edits the pages of her beloved magazine, cutting out seemingly perfect photographs and articles, the documentary editors cut too much from this film. The credits roll after a mere 90 minutes, leaving viewers scrambling for more, searching for what sets these people apart from the rest of us mere mortals.
This diverse little gang of toddlers almost makes me want to have children before I'm 32. All courtesy of Stella McCartney's Gap Kids line. So freakin' adorable. I want that jacket for myself.
Open casting call to all hipsters: I’m looking for a date.
I’ve been in this peskily nostalgic mood lately, and I’m thinking that getting back in touch with my childhood will snap me out of the trance, and what better way to revisit my youth than with the recent release of “Where the Wild Things Are?”
Unfortunately, all my friends are either too busy to go to the movies (since when does being a senior imply responsibility and work ethic?), have no interest in seeing “WTWTA” or are waiting until the long queue of hipsters has gone down — and their fellow moviegoers have showered recently. Yes hipsters, it might be time to disprove that unfortunate stereotype.
My friends fail me when it comes to indulging in this film fantasy, as none of them are pretentious hipsters. I’ve burdened myself with genuinely friendly, non-conceited and well-adjusted comrades. No one will go see “Wild Things” with me tonight, which is why I’m desperately seeking a hipster guy to take me to the movies.
Let’s take a second to define this whole hipster paradigm. Because of the negative connotation, it pains me that the word has become synonymous for anyone with a creative fashion sense.
For the record, just because you have good taste in clothing, movies or music, that doesn’t make you a hipster. It’s what you do with this previously aforementioned good taste that classifies you as such. Hipsters use their pop-culture knowledge for evil rather than good, sniping at anyone not as knowledgeable as them.
Before all you Pitchfork-loving kids start scribbling angry hate mail, let me say this: I feel for you. I like being ahead of the curve as much as the next asymmetrically hair-styled kid. And I genuinely appreciate your style. I’m the first to champion unique fashion statements. I actually harbor a secret desire for the ability to pull off tortoiseshell reading glasses more than just about anything — I just don’t have the right face shape.
I’ve been trying to find a fluorescent pair of Nike Dunks for months now, but every time I try them on, they simply look ridiculous. I envy you. Don’t go and get your keffiyah in a twist.
I would even go so far as to say I have a mild hipster-esque impetus. There was this one time in first grade when the whole class gathered on the carpet to listen to Miss Adams read us some book about the rainforest. I was devastatingly bored, though, because my mother had already bought me this book. I had already consumed it cover to cover, already laughed at the punch lines and already looked at all the brightly colored pictures of toucans. When the rest of the class would laugh at the boa constrictor protagonist, I rolled my eyes and thought, “For God’s sake, couldn’t we read something a little more cutting edge? What are my parents’ tax dollars going toward, anyways?”
You see? We’d probably get along fine. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. Indulge me when, say, I haven’t heard of the latest group of whining 20-somethings marketing themselves as the world’s next electro sensation. Wipe that “Oh-my-God-you-haven’t-heard-them” scowl off your face and get over yourself. Didn’t your mother ever tell you your face could freeze if you hold it like that for too long?
So if any hipster boy out there is reading this and needs someone to accompany him to the movies this weekend, look no further. I’m your girl. You’re going to have to leave the fedora at home, though, because it’s obstructive to other theater patrons. Your septum ring and thick-rimmed spectacles? Those are just fine. The tighter your jeans, the better — I’m not big on surprises, anyways. And if you aren’t wearing some neon-colored V-neck or hoodie, you might as well forget about our date. Turn around and high tail it right back to American Apparel.
