Strong Women

Dara writes:

I’m tired of the cliché strong women. When people use the phrase they seem not to talk at all of courageous women, but of cowardly women who use outward trappings to seem strong.

At Olympus Fashion Week in NYC in early September, a reporter asked designer Nanette Lapore about her inspiration. Lapore designs kind of ‘50s-style, half housewife-inspired, half-Carmen Miranda-inspired, fun clothes. While I’m sure strong women wear them—but probably not to sit on the Supreme Court or hold children or write poetry—I’m not sure that when I look at the clothes, they scream: feminism, bravery, resistance, etc.. But I have been in the store, and I consider myself strong, so. And I've worn the clothes. But I just didn't feel like Wonder Woman when I donned them.

To the reporter, Ms. Lapore gave her inspiration as “strong women everywhere.” How does that notion manifest itself in her clothes? What is a strong woman? I suspect it’s someone who might dare to wear green instead of black. I guess sartorial spontaneity is an element of strength, but probably not the most essential one. Integrity, ingenuity, loyalty, passion, etc., would seem more important markers of female resilience.

Stella got her groove back

8pm today found me at not one but two H&M stores rifling listlessly through racks of Stella McCartney tee shirts. Oh, yeah: I and about 13,000 other supposedly savvy women.

In the Fifth Avenue store, my second stop, weary boyfriends slumped on leather seats at the front of the flagship store as their tiny size 2 girlfriends fought over cable knit "blousons" in Large. See I found myself part of the herd, and my fighting instinct came out. A nice salesperson arrived with an armful of dressing room rejects and I spotted the edge of what looked like the over-sized sweater I'd been eying on line. I have one of these gigantic sweaters from Marc Jacobs and I really do wear it with everything because it multi-tasks as sexy but also camouflaging, when bulky underwear and tight pants don't match.

Anyway, I take the sweater from him but see it's huge. All of the sudden a small woman more petite than I sidles next to me and insists, "Are you taking that?" When I say no, because it's like for TWO people, she grabs it, retorting, "See, I already have one on, and it's a large. The style is BIG." I'd say so; it looked like she'd pulled it right from the washing machine.

Ahhh, the sweet smell of V-tonic from Fresh--I mean, desperation.

Did I mention basically every item had sold out the day it arrived in the store?

And by the way, walking from subway, a man stopped me and asked if I spoke Spanish. Since I'm learning, I proudly said, "Si, un poco." He blessed me and thanked me and then it became clear he wanted money, that he was HIV positive and needed cash for medicine. I don't usually give money on the street but I gave to him and it was too little for his taste and he cursed me but gosh, I haven't learned those palabras yet en espanol--and man, that's what you get for stopping to listen to someone's story, which I always think is the meaningful part of the exchange anyway: the recognition.

The Gap by any other Name...

...is still the Gap. I know at this point I'm shooting fish in a barrel, but I completely concur with Alex Blagg's barfing all over American Apparel. Is Dov Charney's chain not the clothing equivalent of Whole Foods? Put "sweatshop free" on a tee shirt or "free range" on a fucking chicken breast and suddenly the two become sexy. Am I the only one who misses concept-free shopping, the days when buying dinner or basic attire had no meaning attached to them?

What I really object to, though, are Mr. Charney's arrogance and ignorance. Apparently he asked an editor at Jane magazine if he could masturbate in front of her during the interview; then, he balked when female employees resented his bringing sex into the workplace. Did someone just plunk Mr. Charney into a 2005 office environment from the moon, circa 1310? Has he never heard of workplace codes, of sexual harassment? The current climate is such that a male executive told me he can no longer say to a female co-worker something as banal as, "Did you get your hair cut?" for fear of subjecting her to the "male gaze."

It's funny because when I see peach-colored sweatpants and yellow underwear beaming from a new "American Apparel" outpost on Orchard Street in the Lower East Side, let's say, I'm reminded of going in and out of discount stores with names like "Kleinmans" with my mother on Delancey Street in 1983. Sure: at AA you can choose your tank top or bra off a chrome rack and not rummage for it at the bottom of a torn, industrial-sized cardboard box, but when it comes down to it, the items are still schmattes, and Mr. Charney is still a schmatte salesman.

That's what I'd like to see. That's what would really be ironic. Mr. Charney in a handlebar mustache and polyester shirt is not ironic, it's pathetic, like he was an extra on the set of Boogie Nights and can't let it go. What would be cool would be for Herr C to return to his roots: to don a yarmulke, gain a paunch, get married and hire his wife as the only other salesperson, and sit behind a desk in a tattered storefront deep in the bowels of Norfolk Street where he'd peddle ladies' intimates with a gruff yet loving manner. Were he to stock quality items at decent prices, were news of his store to spread by word of mouth, now that would be the balance between recherche and revolutionary for which he seems to strive.

PS--and this is a tangent--isn't this old-fashioned approach what high-concept outfits like the publisher FSG embrace? The company justifies its ratty offices and low salaries with the explanation that the money goes into clients. In 1997, I interviewed with the venerable house for an editorial position, the salary of which was 18K. 18K!!! When I asked how to live in New York City on that dime, the editor replied, with no trace of humor, I was to rent a tenement apartment on the Lower East Side with five of my girlfriends.

Ok. Thanks.

So it all comes full circle. Of course, today I couldn't damn near afford an apartment on the LES, so I guess some things have changed. Point is, the ostentatiously shabby thing has been done, too.