The Eyebrow Chronicles

“Th’ whole worl’s in a terrible state o’ chassis,” says Captain Boyle in Sean O’Casey’s play “Juno and the Paycock.” But if you think that’s an excuse not to put your gladdest rags on this Christmas and/or New Year’s, you can think again. Now is the time for sequins, beads, sparkles, and baubles, for satin, velvet, and silk, for bold prints and big jewelry. Not, you will be relieved to hear, all in the same outfit.

In my opinion, there are two ways to do festive dressing, and no, head-to-toe fleece is not one of them (unless you’re a sheep). You can do all the drama with your dress and downplay everything else, or you can use accessories to liven up a simple base. If you’re going for the former, here’s some inspiration (from fantasy to reality):

Hanna silk and velvet dress by Christopher Kane

Beaded silk tunic dress by TIBI

Raindrop dress from French Connection

But if you don’t have a festive frock in your wardrobe, there’s no need to go out and buy one. You can take a simple black knit dress — one you might wear to work — and dress it up with a statement necklace, sparkly belt, or patterned tights. Start with something like this:

Sarafina knit dress by Trina Turk

And add something like this:

Sunken Treasure necklace by Subversive

Subversive has several highly covetable collections of jewelry featuring the brand’s signature tangles of chains and baubles. It’s easy to recognize and easy to rip off: J. Crew, for one, has comparable (though undeniably less fabulous) pieces for a fraction of the price.

Mint pearl mega cluster necklace by Subversive

Pearl and crystal avalanche necklace from J. Crew

With decorations like that, who needs a tree?

Etsy has some very cute offerings in the handmade hottie department.

It’s snowing in London. It’s too cold to snow in New York. It’s pretty bloody chilly in Dublin, where I’m going to be next week. At times like these, I fantasize about all things warm. Cashmere, cats, hot chocolate, saunas, thermal underwear, real fires, wool tights, big fluffy duvets … and hot water bottles. There are many new-fangled devices for warming beds, things like electric blankets and shapeless objects you put in the microwave. But I secretly wish I lived in the days when a maid would come to your room and run a copper pan full of still-glowing coals over your sheets just before you got into bed. Of course, if I lived in those days, I would more likely be the maid, who then has to climb a draughty staircase to a freezing attic where the wind howls all night long and fur-coated mice nibble frostbitten toes. But anyway. Maybe it’s because they were the stuff of my childhood, but I still have a fetish for hot water bottles. In fact, I’m quite sad that I don’t need one where I’m living now; the radiator squeals and burbles alarmingly and emits more than enough heat. But encased in a snug wool or felt cover, a hottie is the perfect bedmate: it won’t steal the covers or snore or wake you up to tell you its crazy dream about making sandwiches with Kim Jong Il. Find the one pictured here, or browse Etsy for other designs. Just make sure the top of your hottie is on tight, though, or it could wet the bed.

Lately, I’ve been seized by the idea that there’s not enough poetry on the internet. I don’t mean you can’t read poems online, I just mean that most of what’s on Facebook, Twitter, and, to a lesser extent, blogs like this one, is depressingly prosaic. This has already inspired some odd behavior on my part, including posting a tweet in Latin. I’m sure one could argue that social media sites have encouraged many kinds of creative, anti-utilitarian verbal experimentation. Rather than diving into that debate, I think I’ll just leave you with one of my favourites by the Northern Irish poet Paul Muldoon. A copy of one of his collections would be an excellent addition to any bookworm’s stocking.

Quoof

How often have I carried our family word

for the hot water bottle

to a strange bed,

as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick

in an old sock

to his childhood settle.

I have taken it into so many lovely heads

or laid it between us like a sword.

An hotel room in New York City

with a girl who spoke hardly any English,

my hand on her breast

like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti

or some other shy beast

that has yet to enter the language.

Behind every great woman ...

... there's a big bear giving her a hug.

Those who know me know I love bears. Those who know and love me tell me that I will never be tenderly hugged by a bear. I maintain a surface bravado but deep down I have a niggling fear that they might be right. With this French Connection T-shirt, though, all my dreams could come true. Safely.

This ad (for the jeweler Michael C. Fina) got to me. And not in a rush-out-and-find-the-one-in-a-million-who-thinks-I’m-one-in-a-million-and-sulk-until-he-buys-me-a-big-f-off-rock kind of way.

Let us parse:

“She’s one in a million.” OK, so far so not that rage-inducing (though more on this later).

“Now let the whole world know.” Sir? Sir? I have questions.

1. Why? Seriously, why not keep it to yourself? Does the world care? Did you think about this, Michael C. Fina: maybe the world ALREADY knows. Maybe the world already has a population of roughly 6,692,030,277 and therefore couldn’t give a rat’s arse about one in a piddling million.

2. Why with a diamond and not with a song, poem, painting, tattoo, teacup pig, Krav Maga training she’s always wanted, or by volunteering to do laundry for a year?

Oh, because the world might not get it. The world is a little slow. The world doesn’t speak in laundry, teacup pigs, or Krav Maga. The world speaks in diamonds aka small, portable symbols for lots of cash.

I’ve got nothing against diamonds (aside from the dead miners, the civil wars, and the indentured child slaves). I’m sure a lot of people buy and wear them just because they look nice and not because they want to let the world know anything. And a hand-woven caftan can be as much about making a statement as a five carat solitaire.  Oh, bugger. I’m actually starting to respect the simple honesty of this ad. Some people will buy diamonds to “let the whole world know” that their net worth girlfriend is superior to that of everyone else. Those people are probably the ones most likely to be swayed by an ad in a Sunday newspaper.

One thing still gets me, though. I’m one in WAY more than a million. What kind of stone do I get for that?

I could buy tops till the cows come home. If I were buying things, that is. Actually, last night I dreamed about a cow coming home. In said dream, I went to pick up my pet cow from the vet. She was as wide and well-stuffed as a sofa. I wondered if I should ride her home but decided against it on the grounds that I didn’t know how she would behave in traffic.

Anyway.

Bottoms are a different story, especially trousers. So hard to get the right fit! And when oh when will harem pants go away? Not for some time, I fear: Topshop and Marks and Sparks just showed next year’s collections to the press, and M&S is banking on “the new pyjama pant” being the next big thing. How does it differ from the plain old pyjama pant? Well, I bet it will cost a lot more. The best solution might be just to stop getting dressed. Or, better yet, stop getting out of bed.

harem scare 'em

J. Crew recently told me that if I thought I couldn’t “do skinny,” I might be mistaken. So I went into the Time Warner Center store to test this hypothesis. I tried on a pair of ankle stretch toothpicks, which sounds like a form of torture for mice but translates as short, stretchy, and tight.

mouse torture instruments

Surprise: there is some truth in advertising. I thought I couldn’t do skinny, and there I was, doing skinny! Bigger surprise: they only looked good from the calf up. I guess I can do skinny but I can’t do short. They would probably look SUPER HOT with preposterous heels. And a white ribbed tank top, dark roots, crumbling trailer in the b.g., loser boyfriend named Darryl Wayne a blur on the horizon as he makes off with my welfare check in his beat-up Mustang.

Dang, I shoulda bought them jeans!

My friend David Page recently posted an article on The Traveler’s Notebook entitled “Do Freebies Undermine Honesty in Travel Writing?” It’s a thought-provoking and beautifully-written piece which sparked a lively online discussion. Apparently, freelancers for the NYT’s Travel section have to agree never to accept freebies, even when writing for another outlet. The idea is to breed a morally incorruptible, fiercely independent journalistic stable. The reality, given that most freelancers also have to write for publications that can’t or won’t cover their expenses, is that this policy makes it very hard for those without independent means to make travel writing a career.

I can’t help drawing a comparison to fashion writing, where the proliferation of freebies may be one of the main attractions for many hopeful young Wintour-Wannabes. Obviously, the average style story isn’t likely to come with the same kind of tab as a travel piece about trekking in Nepal. But I think that the questions about who should pay for what and the ramifications of that raised by David’s piece resonate far beyond the travel pages. With old and new media mud wrestling in a shallower revenue stream, do you have to be a mad man (or woman) to go into journalism?

I have never heard of a style journalist turning down a freebie. But it’s just clothes and cosmetics, right? It’s all frivolous, empty, and totally subjective anyway! Who cares if glossy mags are basically catalogs that readers/consumers have to pay for, while most fashion and beauty blog posts are press releases that publicists don’t (except with the odd free purse or powder compact)? I do care, actually; as David suggests, it’s hard to write well and sell a product at the same time. That’s why advertising is so lucrative. If I really wanted to do that, I should probably be begging to be hired at BBDO, not browsing “job” listings where established cosmetics companies offer to pay bloggers $15 per 300-word post. I kid you not. But hey, you probably get free face cream!

There’s already more than enough writing out there online and on newsstands that’s been sucked dry of all liveliness by the need to sell ads. While I’m not getting freebies, beholden to commercial interests, or on the payroll of an organization that is, I may as well say exactly what I want. Better that than acting as if I were subject to the same restraints as someone writing for a major commercial media outlet just in case I might be in that position again sooner or later. For some reason this makes me think of self-basting turkeys, which I always imagine climbing obediently into a roasting pan and offering helpful advice on the oven temperature. If the regurgitated press release is the norm in style blogging, we are all in danger of forgetting that there are other ways to write.

Vive la independence! Uggs are vile. Marc Jacobs’ clothes are unflattering to women. Sleep, sunscreen, and water will do a hundred times more for your skin than Crème de la Mer.

I might or might not sell my soul (send offers here), but I certainly won’t give it away.

Next: the freebie-eschewing frontline of fashion writing freedom fighters.

My basic philosophy about being an eco-friendly consumer: most of the time, the greenest thing you can do is not buy anything. I stand by that. If you junk your perfectly viable car to get a Prius, which takes a lot of energy to make, you might feel better in the Whole Foods parking lot but the only cause you’re helping is the thriving green-washing industry that wants to give you smugness for dollars.

But not all choices fall into the category of “to buy or not to buy.” Some are more like “to buy these boots or those boots.” So I was excited when last night’s launch party for sustainable style website Ecouterre introduced me to Kaight — a Lower East Side eco-friendly boutique featuring some familiar labels (Linda Loudermilk, Matt and Nat) and some new finds (dreamandawake). I wanted to shop! I wanted to mingle! I had to go to “Heaven”! In the words of California’s dubious patron saint of the environment: “I’ll be back.” (Although The Terminator never added “… to try on those really cool slim fit organic cotton pants,” I always felt it was implicit in his tone.)

Alemos bootie by Coclico

Discovery of the night was these boots (made in gray exclusively for Kaight) and the brand, Coclico. Yes, they’re leather — tanned with vegetable dyes. Read about the company’s sustainability aims here.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the leather thing recently. I wear leather shoes, jackets, belts, reasoning that it is a by product of the meat industry which, though I don’t contribute to it, is a very real fact. I wish there weren’t a giant mountain of dead cow skins, but since they’re there, shouldn’t we do something with them? Or is that lame, because by wearing leather I am just perpetuating the idea that it’s fine to slaughter animals to satisfy a whim? There’s the animals rights issue, and then there’s the environmental question. From the point-of-view of sustainability, isn’t it less wasteful of energy to use those hides for shoes and clothing that to manufacture those things from scratch? So many mind-boggling calculations, and before you know it you are living in a cave wearing shoes made of newspaper and banana skins.

And if you’re a vegetarian, you’re probably yawningly familiar with the old “you wear leather, don’t you?” chestnut (the spoken or unspoken follow-up being “you are therefore a giant hypocrite, so stop silently judging me and come chow down on this steak”). Why some meat eaters think it’s necessary or socially acceptable for them to call us vegetarians on our choices and stick them under their blurry (lard-smeared?) moral microscopes, I have no idea. If by “hypocrite” they mean “imperfect,” guilty as charged. But it’s illogical to suggest that a vegetarian who wears leather might as well be a full on meat eater. If I were a self-righteously evangelical veggie who flinched at the sight of a lamb chop and made barfing motions in the presence of bacon, I’d understand the need to niggle. I’m not and I don’t. But I sometimes think that switching to all vegan footwear and belts would at least save me from having the same discussion five thousand times. So I’ve been considering it, and I’ve been looking at vegan shoes, and it’s even harder than I thought to get anything aesthetically pleasing in between plastic sandals and Stella McCartney (neither of which is an option right now). Most of what’s out there and affordable is pretty uninspiring, as previously noted. Maybe sustainably produced vegetable-dyed leather is a good enough solution for now — or at least, for the next time I really need a new pair of shoes. I know it won’t keep the meat eaters quiet. I carry a ham sandwich in my pocket for that.

I adore Betsey Johnson about as much as I abhor QVC and the TV-shopping-verse in general. Which is why my tiny mind is boggled by the news that Bets may partner up with said network for a diffusion line. 

The eccentric designer picked up a Lifetime Achievement Award in Fashion from the National Arts Club last night and she told New York Magazine’s The Cut that she has her eye on a TV shopping slot. Among her reasons for gravitating to QVC: “My dentist is a big QVC-er.” 

I know Rachel Zoe is already on the network, and her line looks OK if you like that kind of faux fur and bling-bling thing. But RZ doesn’t have a fraction of Betsey’s design chops; she embraces a trashy aesthetic, whereas BJ flirts with it then turns it into something more: playful, flattering fashion. How I wish I’d been at her Spring 2010 presentation in the Palm Court at the Plaza Hotel (where she is redesigning Eloise’s suite). 

Betsey also cheerfully revealed that she is the kind of Luddite only the very rich and successful and well-staffed can afford to be. “I can’t deal with those electrics,” she said, apparently referring to the internet, computers in general, and even the telephone. Luckily, helpers like “Theresa the Twitterer” ensure she maintains a semblance of modernity. 

Well, if the unholy alliance of Betsey and QVC happens, you can bet I’ll be all over that sh*t like pink tartan on black tulle.

Coat: Jil Sander +J for Uniqlo. Boots: Via Spiga

Skills that enable The Brow  to take decent photo of self: 0

Accidental homages to Bridget Jones/Helen Fielding in last post: several