The Drama King Comes Home
Can you name your style in 2 words? I did and it explained a lot.
Last night at a family event, we were each trying to reduce our style to a few words. I love this exercise, because I’m in the branding business, and as a writer, to tell a packed story in sparing words is the ideal.
So, the exercise. One sister in law was California Athletic. Another: Malibu Minimalist. Me? I’m a Drama King.
I once had a beautiful red dress. It fit me perfectly. Was flattering. A designer I admire. I never wore it. Because it was just a beautiful red dress. Lady. It didn’t look intentional with a sneaker; it looked like I was on my way to work. I couldn’t practice some unexpected clash color pairing or print mixing. It was a solid. red. dress.
There was just nothing to do. But wear it with … I don’t know maybe some gold necklaces? Black shoes highlighted the red-dress-ness of it all. Even though this designer has edge (it was Jil Sander), the idea of a red dress on a woman is a cliche. Lady in red. And specifically, a “lady” cliche. Like that (ugh) song. Adding pumps, jewelry, only adds to the lady of it. (It’s also a color challenge; black and red always feels velvet painting-y to me, red and white always makes me think of Santa…)
I’ve said here before that after 40something, I stopped liking lady pieces. They just stopped feeling ironic and started feeling very on the nose and expected for what I am (wife, mother of teen, etc.). To like them, I need to rough them up in some way. Sneakers, tough boot, T shirt under, pants under, etc. All of which, I realize, are garments that started life as man/boy garments.
It’s weird to talk about them this way because today we know there’s not just he/she but also they. We know that anyone can rightfully wear anything. So these words are vestiges, and yet I can’t think another way to describe them.
Today, I virtually never wear an outfit that doesn’t have one of these elements in it, an element that once was dude provenance. It’s not just what Trinny Woodall calls the “casualizing” effect for me, because I also like traditional man tailoring, say a tuxedo style jacket or a wide wool pant.
All of the above might put me in the minimalist camp: restrained, tailored pieces rendered in the wearable, pairable colors of traditional menswear: navy, charcoal, khaki, olive, black, white.
But oh I love color. And sparkle. And a crazy collar, cut, oversized anything and everything. I love it all. In fact, without this sort of element in the mix, I hardly feel myself at all. In short, I need the drama.
I need the man stuff, i.e. the “king,” but I need the drama. Thus my aha moment: My style is Drama King.
And Miami is a place where a drama king can feel at home.
Since moving to Miami, I realized something I’d been missing in Boston, a sense of community as I walk through the world. In Boston, everything feels strained to me. Reserved. It’s better to blend in. I once met my beloved sister-in-law at her horse barn. It was a freezing cold day, so I wore my warmest coat, a “me” version of a down coat. It was Marni, a layered piece consisting of a short olive puffer with a long navy wool cape you fitted over it. (In Boston I was always searching out ways to be less cold, less miserable). My sister, taking me around, said “She’s from the city.” As if this oddity needed to be explained. For which I don’t blame her! It did!
It was a sign that I didn’t belong.
There is a New England uniform of Patagonia and North Face (black or navy), jeans (usually still relatively skinny), Birkenstocks or sneakers, wool sweater under (maybe fisherman or turtleneck). Goyard bag or LV Neverful. Maybe a small H bracelet. This uniform says everything about how uncomfortable I was in Boston. And when I ventured outside that uniform (like, always) I generally felt stared at versus celebrated. “Oh wow where are you going?” (Not in a nice way.)
In college, I once got dressed up to attend a meal at a fellow student’s house in Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia. Her mother was a little … snobby or snide, and I still remember how she made me feel. “Aren’t we fancy?” (arched brow) or something like that. But I’d dressed the way I had to show her how much this invitation meant to me.
Whether or not it lands effectively, I dress the way I do to show respect for people around me. And for the moment in time. In Miami, that’s very much appreciated.
Example. I take a morning walk in Miami, from my place all around the Design District. I don’t wear workout clothes! I wear something colorful, with a T shirt I can wash under, a cool pair of sneakers or my Prada rubber fisherman sandals or some dad sandals. A playful crossbody bag . Because I’m going out into my community. I want to bring a little sunshine! I see the security guard in Miu Miu and we always nod (he) and wave (me) and smile. He has a twinkle in his eye, and I swear that one look says — we get each other. I am a gentleman, and a pillar, and we are right now in the universe of fashion and lovely, optimistic things.
I look in the store windows and feel a surge of inspiration. I see sales associates in trim tailored navy, or pleated skirts (Prada) getting their pre-work coffee. I see families taking kids to classes. I speak French to a beautiful morning cleaning woman from Haiti who once showed me a bathroom when I really, really needed it. Sometimes I bring her water. She’s pregnant (and glowing) but hasn’t said anything about it, so I don’t say anything either. She often says something about my bright colors.
I stare into the windows of lively, experimental art galleries and match the sherbet colors of outdoor sculptures. I feed the stray cats (they are minimalists, mostly all black) but they know I’m coming with my clinky bracelets and sequins. I literally stop to smell the flowers; there is a woman who sells them under an overpass every day to restaurant owners and others who come by. I know she appreciates the brightness I bring; I feel the same about her flowers.
This week, the cafe I prefer is no longer branded for Fendi as it was all last month. But it’s still a bright yellow, and I sit enjoying my coffee with parrots chirping in the sky (I don’t know how or why they’re here.) Once, a man walking with his family noticed my all-yellow outfit and asked if the coffee shop had hired me to sit there as a prop? No, but if asked, I’d gladly be called into service free of charge.
If there’s an official sound of Miami, it’s a car with an impossibly loud muffler. If there’s an official smell of Miami, it’s hot concrete and strong marijuana. If there’s an official language of Miami, it’s Spanish (I’m learning). If there’s an official uniform of Miami it might just be a matched set of bodycon workout wear, no matter your size. But since that’s not me, this is what I offer. Respect for my adopted home in the form of color and spirit and fun.
The other day I layered a pleated, uneven hemmed wrap skirt over a white shirt dress with loads of necklaces and an old LV belt bag. A guy walking with a girlfriend said: “THAT SKIRT IS FIRE!” The other night, walking in Wynwood, we stopped to look at a hot rod lifted up so high, women were dancing by it with impossibly long fake eyelashes. I had on a poofy blue dress and rubber fishermans. The car owner asked to take a photo (pretty sure he said for High Times magazine.) Obviously yes! At dinner the other night I paired a giant hot pink ball skirt and a bright yellow pussy bow top and a flat pouch with a vintage car on it. People looked at me, I felt it, and for a moment I thought about the looks I would get in Boston (up, down, disapproving), but when I held their gaze they said: “We love what you’re wearing!”
And I love you, Miami. The Drama King is home.
