The author, Olivia Stren, in her signature style.Īnd then there is Lauren Hutton, the exception (she’s American), who has perfected the look of preppy ease. (I’ve more than dabbled in sleep deprivation, with much less attractive results.) There is also Inès de la Fressange, French aristocrat and the first model signed exclusively to Chanel, with her unrelenting habit of looking superb in trousers and flats, and Corsican-born fashion blogger and illustrator Garance Doré, who (literally) wrote the book on signature style - her men’s shirts, Porselli flats and Wayfarers make me wonder about the kind of life (more productive, more successful) I’d surely have if I were more committed to a uniform of white button-downs. Her straight - never skinny - jeans and fringe were best accessorized with mussed hair, a look of vague and languorous disinterest and a sexy air of general fatigue - the kind of exhaustion that is the necessary consequence of pleasure. Jane Birkin was among the first to portray this fantasy of effortless signature style, as if she were born in Breton stripes. Plus, when I think of a woman with a signature style, I think of those women (French, bien entendu) with alpine cheekbones who are too good-looking for makeup (save for, maybe, a slash of red lipstick) and who have mastered the glamorous, unbuttoned mélange of simplicity, ease and polish. I never thought of high leisurewear as my signature style so much as an expression of my general aversion to reality - my preferred wardrobe is meant for some endlessly summery somewhere that is nowhere near my life. When I was in my early 20s and working as a junior editor at a magazine, an intern once remarked that I looked like a bourgeois on holiday, as if I had a yacht to catch off the Costa Brava after work. Resortwear may be enjoying a particular moment right now, but I’ve dressed this way for a long time. To be clear, I don’t have plans (or, frankly, the remotest hope) to visit the Cyclades.
The sorts of clothes best worn in the company of luffing sails and salt-air luncheons. I recently snapped up a few sundresses - smocked, airy and betasselled - all ideal for a jaunt to the Cyclades. I prefer not to dress for the job I want (as the old chestnut goes) but rather for the expensive vacation I can’t afford. If pressed to define my personal style, I would say it runs somewhere between leisurely and delusional.
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