Big, fun Karen Walker sunglasses; worn by the incomparable Linda Rodin and shot by Ari Seth Cohen
Oops! A very early draft version of this was accidentally published over the weekend. Sorry about that, and please do try to pretend it never happened.
One particularly mean side effect of the migraines that have dogged me on and off for years now (and which are, knock wood, currently off) has been nuclear-level light sensitivity—the kind where the sun becomes a mortal enemy, and something to be avoided at all costs. Which is just exactly as awful as it sounds, multiplied by ten. At its worst, I lived like a vampire, working in an office that was retrofitted with blackout shades, and during my free time, obsessively checking the weather forecast for clouds. To shield my eyes on days when there was even the tiniest hint of light, I wore the most oversized sunglasses I could find, with lenses custom-tinted as inky-black as my optometrist would make them.
It was all quite hideously ironic—the longing for precipitation, the compulsive fear of getting “caught” in the sun—and like all hideously ironic situations, it led to more than few unintentionally quite comical moments. Like when I had a small health emergency —quite disorienting in the moment, but which turned out to be no big deal—and, as the paramedics readied me for departure to the hospital, I had the presence of mind to instruct a friend who’d come over to grab a few things I might need. Like the wallet with my insurance card, “And my Dior sunglasses! The Diors!” The paramedics, in what was surely a break from protocol, laughed out loud at me. And even I had to admit it was a pretty funny moment, if you didn’t know how totally funny it wasn’t.
My problems with light lingered for a few years after the headaches tapered off; it wasn’t until this winter that the dregs finally disappeared. And it has occurred to me lately that my recent (and aforementioned) affection for cheery, big sunglasses is probably somewhat related to this. For years, my sunglasses were as important a preventative step as any medication—aesthetics took a back seat (I even had to suspend my strict no-logo rule; if only these had existed then). But now I can have some fun, and fun I shall have. If I owned more than one pair of Karen Walker sunglasses, I’d say I was addicted, but at this stage in the game, I’ll just say I’m addicted to the notion of buying more, and leave it at that. These are satisfyingly clunky—but just short of zanily so—and indestructible, and delightfully logo-free. (Similar, but with a bit little less drama and a far lower price tag: this pair from Madewell.)
Old habits die hard, and I must say I am still drawn to that which is big and black and clunky. But doesn’t the purple lens set these apart and make them look all 50s and spy-like?
White sunglasses are a bridge too far for me, but I’d totally go for this pinky, creamy—I don’t know, do we call that clamshell?—pair.
These are YSL, and to me they somewhat resemble the big-framed pair that the actual Yves Saint Laurent used to wear every day—in a nerd chic move before nerd chic was even a thing.
On the less splurge-tastic side of things, this Cheap Monday version of the classic Ray-Ban Clubmaster.
A cat eye all in black feels way too costumey retro, but somehow this clear iteration feels like it could be quite chic.
It’s funny. There are some trends that strike me as so horribly wrong I can’t even get inside the head of the person they might appeal to. Mullet dresses are a little that way. And then there are others that seem equally awful, but then at some point the worm turns, and suddenly and inexplicably the repulsion is replaced by attraction. This is where I find myself vis a vis drop crotch pants—an article of clothing I would have said never to long ago if I hadn’t learned that one should never say never. Thoughts?
There are florals, and then there are florals. And then there are those so stunningly wrought that they’re like wearing a little fairy tale.
Amy Sussman
You’ve all reacted so violently to the A Detacher sandals I posted this morning (and which I will go to my grave insisting are cute—albiet maybe only in person) that I’ve decided some palate-cleansing might be in order. So here’s a sampling of a few inarguably nice items for your inspection—all of them bags, because I’m arbitrary like that. How about this couldn’t-be-more-classic option from JW Hulme? Uncontroversial enough for you?
Or maybe this more equestrian—and somehow also more rock & roll—crossbody style is more your thing.
I have a big problem with people using words like yummy to describe anything other than food, but if the slouchy-soft leather on this oversized Ligne 6 clutch does not look delicious, then I do not know what does.
APC purses can be so minimal they almost don’t exist at all, but that can be an appealing thing in its way: a blank slate of a bag like this one can say a lot about the confidence of the wearer, and wind up making a far more lasting impression than any Statement Bag might.
One of the first I’m-a-big-girl-now purchases of my adult life was a set of T. Anthony luggage: it’s beautiful and built to last, and telegraphs Respect Me to snooty hotel concierge types. This duffle is very get-me-to-the-Jitney-on-time sportif; if you crave something a touch more feminine, look no further than this weekender.
Rather lot to pay for a summer flat, to be sure. But that utilitarian red strap is the kind of really unusual touch that almost never pays off—but totally does here, don’t you think?
Two Texas boutiques—because Memorial Day is alarmingly close, which means summer is not too far away. And Texans know what’s what when it comes to dressing for the stinking heat. I’ve been a big fan of Austin’s Kick Pleat for years, and pop in whenever the rare opportunity rolls around to visit Austin: the vibe is lively and fun, but never silly trendy. This Brochu Walker dress is everything that is meant by the word breezy.
I almost never go in for a pink dress—even the tiniest hint of girly comes off all wrong on me—but this one has a kind of slouchy, weekendy sophistication that I can really get behind.
And from Myth and Symbol in Houston, a store I just recently discovered while puttering around the web, and which seems to work an ever-so-slightly arty but still quite streamlined angle: a perfectly clean drawstring waist shift from Black Crane. The short, just-a-wee-bit flowy sleeves are so much more flattering than no sleeves at all.
Another nicely long dress—all the best summer dresses are on the longer side, no?—with a flatteringly high waist and bold, almost tribal print.
