I wasn’t a badly behaved teenager, but I can clearly remember each time I was called out of class for detention.
At 13, it was for gold lamé leggings poking out from under standard-issue brown Bermuda shorts. At 15, it was for a pair of hot pink, dip-dyed tights worn with my kilt. At 17, it was for the combination of a sequin-embellished football jersey and silver leather trousers that an English teacher (perhaps rightfully) deemed ‘just too much’. In short: they were all clothing-related offences.
The rigidity of school uniforms never paired well with my teenage desire to figure out who I was by, essentially, wearing lots of outfits. These outfits weren’t necessarily tied to any specific subculture–I wasn’t punk, or goth, or anything that could be labelled in the true sense–but they were about figuring out one question: 'How can I best reflect the blustering hurricane of ideas churning inside me?'
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As a bonafide adult who has grown up to work in fashion, I’d like to say that I’ve aged out of these angsty behaviours, but the truth is simple: I have not.
I’m reminded of this each time I see a new article (or, let’s be frank, a new TikTok) extolling the virtues of investing in a tightly edited ‘quiet luxury’ wardrobe comprised of a few cashmere sweaters and a nice pair of black trousers. Other buzzy trends like ‘seasonal colour analysis’ and ‘Kibbe body type dressing’ offer the alluring promise that finding the correct undertones of your skin or the precise angles of your bodily proportions will allow you to build a wardrobe of nothing but fail-safe flattering pieces.
As with all things which sound too good to be true, I would guess that these methods don’t really work. However, I have no interest in testing them out for myself - the very thought of being told I can only wear autumnal tones (or, in the case of quiet luxury, only The Row) gives me the same itchy, rebellious feeling as thinking about my school uniform.
I bristle against the notion that the act of getting dressed is of limited importance, something to be streamlined so that the rest of one’s day may be dedicated to more important pursuits. Worst of all, the desired final effect of both quiet luxury and ‘flattering’ outfit formulas is that they flatten one’s voice down to say only one thing– either ‘I’m rich’ or ‘I look good’.
This isn’t to say that I don’t see the appeal of wearing only things that I know fit me and go well together–who wouldn’t want that?! But here’s the thing: I’d prefer that my wardrobe stay a mess.
If I were to reach into my closet right now, I might pull out a cropped t-shirt printed with dolphins that I bought at a small Greek port after realising that I had run out of clean clothes. It’s not a 'quiet' or luxurious piece, and it certainly could not be classified as a ‘staple’ in any sane person’s wardrobe, but it feels rich in that it reminds me of a week of wild and carefree travels, where my husband and I found ourselves stranded on an uninhabited ceremonial island in the Aegean sea just days before we learned that we were expecting our first baby. It’s a souvenir from a moment that changed my life forever. It also happens to look great with a simple Gucci bag and a pair of black heels.
There’s a vintage 1920s dress I purchased at age 15 that I once wore with black platforms and smudged eyeliner in an imitation of Courtney Love. I now style it à la Simone Rocha with pearls and ballet flats. The faded white of its lace washes out my face to a haunting degree, but the dress holds more than a decade of my own memories and ties me to the women who wore it a hundred years before me.
There’s an oversized black-and-pink polka dot skirt that I know doesn’t sit quite right on my hips, but I love it because it reminds me of how my mom dressed when I was little, and because it has an elasticated waist that was soft enough to change with my tender postpartum body.
That’s the thing about a chaotic closet: it services the winding curvature of real life, not linear swipes through the algorithm.
But, if you are in need of some great wardrobes to browse on your phone, I love following Pernille Rosenkilde for her ability to mix the highest and the lowest of pieces with joyful aplomb, Blanca Miro for her unabashed eclecticism, Caroline Bille Brahe for her laid-back style sees her running around town in vintage Yves Saint Laurent and pyjama pants, and Amanda Murray for her collection of jaw-dropping pieces with equally inspiring backstories.
Despite my steadfast dedication to building a style uniquely my own, I often find myself in need of a little brand-based inspiration, and in these moments I turn to labels like ERL, Alessandro Michele’s Gucci, and Simone Rocha for their ability to style nuanced, layered looks–a process that can be comfortably replicated within the confines of my own closet.
Over the course of many years, I’ve amassed a wardrobe that tells the story of all that has happened in that time. The story is being rewritten and relived each time I go to get dressed, and each new item that joins the rotation furthers the plot. As long as I am growing and changing, which I am finally old enough to realise is probably, well, forever, I don’t think that my issue of my chaotic wardrobe will be solved.
If the price for getting to tell this story is risking the occasional loud, unflattering outfit, I’m willing to pay. In fact, I’m still willing to go to detention over it.
