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| Image courtesy of the world wide web. |
Inside Style - by Annmarie O'Connor - featured in The Dubliner - April 28th
Neck. I have lots of it. This can be both a blessing and a bane. Take last month’s brush with Mr. Lagerfeld, my unique ability to adopt front row seats at fashion week (when my ticket states STANDING) and a giraffe-like tendency to snag unreachable items with my six foot frame in sample sales. All neck. All good. The problem results when said shoulder-to- head junction intersects with my mouth, leaving me to choke on my own words. Not good. Not good at all.
In advising those in search of a well-curated wardrobe, I am apt to utter, “Don’t compartmentalise”. In other words, your garments should mix-and-match without the need to enter into tiring taxonomies such as ‘going out for drinks with the girls’, ‘going out to dinner with my fella’, ‘going out to dinner with my fella’s parents’, ‘going out to dinner with my fella’s parents after drinks with the girls’. See what I mean?
Apart from the fact that the latter should most definitely be avoided, there really is no need to create such closet personalities in your own...er...closet. Despite these cultured pearls of wisdom, I remain heedless (and hypocritical) to my own counsel with incriminating results.
Having booked two holidays this summer, one to Rome with mother and sister, the other to Spain with sun-seeking cohorts; not to mention a ‘best dressed’ judging appearance at the Dubai Duty Free Irish Derby, I have already required a second wardrobe to stash my clash of bikinis, little black dresses and an equestrian hat that would rival the Hubble satellite.
Capsule dressing to me is a futuristic styling tablet; not a lifestyle choice. Regardless of my unwavering deference to black and propensity to clack on about ‘downsizing’, I find myself waving at the shadow of a Groundhog weighed down in kaftans, turbans and cocktail dresses screaming that he doesn’t have the right shoes (vermin can be real divas).
The way I see it I have two choices. I can a) forgo the spiel about only needing twenty items of clothing and chalk up said wardrobe to a Francis Bacon-like melange of creative chaos. Or I can: b) follow my own sanctimonious advice for a change and embrace the force of minimalism. Hmm...I wonder is there room in the Hugh Lane for the two of us?
