The Artistic Virtue of Being Where You Are

I just spent the last two weeks in Paris, barely skirting past the harried beginnings of Paris Fashion Week and stumbling into a procession for the Pope’s latest visit to France. While I had planned to stay in the country for longer, unexpected visa troubles sent me home early, which made it all the more pressing that I spent every moment strenuously observing the metropolis which surrounded me. 

Paris has always been the city of my girlhood dreams: pale buildings bathed in glittering light at dusk; the intricate beauty of their filigreed black iron balconies; the grandeur of the sparkling Eiffel Tower at night, and the undulating crowds, straining atop their tiptoes to capture the view; the whispered promise of passion, elegance, and mystery that seems to sneak through alleyways and permeate the grout between its centuries-old pavement stones. It’s the setting of every movie I’ve ever adored with zeal, from Stanley Donen’s Funny Face, starring Audrey Hepburn (it’s no wonder that I fell in love with a man who could sing for me), to Godard’s Breathless, the New Wave wonder that redefined ‘cool,’ which branded the city with nonchalance and sex appeal for a younger generation. Paris has always meant, to me, the possibility of a metamorphosis, a life-changing experience, a brief moment in time which strikes you dumb, mad, and the happiest you’ve ever been in your life. It’s at the vanguard of fashion and artistic evolution. It’s where the wild Fauvists played, where Christian Dior pioneered the “New Look,” where Sartre grew existential and where Beauvoir penned The Second Sex. Paris is a city of genesis. 

As an American, Europe has always presented itself with a special kind of allure. I can remember freezing in awe in the middle of Westminster Abbey on my first trip to London in 2011, struggling to fully comprehend how hundreds of thousands of people walked upon that mosaic floor before I did. The architecture of Europe’s oldest cities was the first aspect of the continent to truly compel me: the sumptuous and ornate cathedrals and the sprawling, gilded palaces which I had believed were reserved for fairytales and Hollywood movies. It seemed as if Europe had a penchant for glamor that America lacked, which as an adult, I can recognize is a byproduct of America’s comparative ‘youth’ and a democracy that I hold dear. But America’s austerity, the center of our civilization being the glaring, neon ads of Times Square and droning asphalt highways, grates upon the senses. America’s architecture was built with the central motivation of capitalist gain in mind. The continual construction of freeways which encourage doling out gas payments and thus the drilling of oil, as well as the forwarding of the automobile industry. National fast food chains with the same logos; monotonous parking lots; copy-and-paste shopping malls, now abandoned, which were established for the express purpose of days spent shopping. To describe this phenomenon, Edward Relph coined the term “placelessness” in his 1976 book Place and Placelessness, which essentially means that a location has lost its unique qualities and its identity. For example, the strip mall located just outside my hometown, dotted with McDonald’s, car dealerships, and pizza parlors, couldn’t be identified as a suburban community in Florida from image alone. These character deserts are rife throughout the continental United States. Our country’s evolution, centered on a core thirst for economic gain, has resulted in a lack of tangible, visual history for us to admire. This isn’t even to mention the economic inequities when it comes to access to beauty: the dearth of green spaces in impoverished urban neighborhoods, for example, or the fact that the wealthy are more likely to be able to afford art, entrance to museums, or admission into creative spaces like art schools.

However, there’s a kind of belief which permeates certain sections of our youth culture that, as a result of America’s placelessness, our generation has been left without inspiration. I find that take to be a bit boring, and I think it lacks creativity, or at least attention to detail. America’s placelessness problem is absolutely recognizable, but reducing America’s landscapes to only those characterless ghost towns is a bit short-sighted. We’ve preserved pockets of our history and our natural environment which allow us to peek through centuries of our own development to understand the colors, textures, and sensory experiences associated with a landscape that existed prior to the cultural and artistic devastation wrought by the hunger for capital gain, territory, and technological advancement. Denying that America has a ‘history’ at all, even if that history sometimes is hard to see in our day-to-day lives, also denies the rich cultural, artistic, and natural legacies throughout America that existed prior to the desolation imposed by European settlers upon the incredible civilizations of the pre-colonial era. Furthermore, rich cultural communities, with distinct characteristics and visual hallmarks – often established by ethnic enclaves, immigrant populations, and the marginalized who have congregated and collectivized as a method of protection and resistance – provide America with the specific features that make our country the tapestry of style and art that it is. In reducing America to the decimation left behind by capitalism alone, there is a rejection of the people, past and present, that have created something beautiful to survive in a difficult landscape. 

The French are doubtlessly associated with the label of “chic” within popular culture. Resultantly, while in France, I was eager to peoplewatch, to wonder how a city so beloved to me as Paris has molded its children and its transplants – to examine self-expression in a city whose artistic legacy encourages audacity, origination, and creative courage. Online, the “French girl” has become all but synonymous with the “cool girl,” and I understand why. Graphic slideshows provide recommendations as to how one can imitate the “messy French girl aesthetic.” French trends seem to define what many influencers define as elegant. Outlets from substack articles to Vogue have done exactly what I did in Paris, observing and seeking to emulate what we see, the infamous French je ne sais quoi. There’s a distinct style in Paris, one that appears to be instilled in its inhabitants by the city’s architecture and cultural milieu.

The wide avenues of Paris shock me each time I visit, so foreign to someone like me, who’s accustomed to the narrow byways of New York. Even so, the gaping arteries of the Champs-Élysses or the Grands Boulevards can quickly taper into thin capillaries and uneven cobblestone angles, evidence of centuries past, before Baron Haussmann redesigned France’s capital in the 19th century. The employment of contrasting angles while assembling outfits stuck out to me while eyeing Parisian passersby. Oversized, loosely-fitting sweaters, emphasizing pedestrians’ bone structures and leaving space to display jewelry, were slung over barrel jeans, neatly grazing booted ankles, propped up by thin heels. Paris itself is built from a beige Luteian limestone, but the monochromatic style of most Parisians embraced navy and black, in addition to the neutrals easily seen in the city’s architecture. Hair was often neatly pulled back and secured with a clip; otherwise, most girls had clearly styled their hair that morning, sporting blowouts with curled ends. Women accessorized with sunglasses, boat-neck tops were flung over dainty capris. Heels were worn casually, paired with jeans, a style choice made as nonchalantly as I would slip on my Uggs to walk to Starbucks early in the morning. Almost every woman on the street was majestically put-together, having perfected a look based on the principle of elevated basics. Our American “clean girls” taken up a notch and given a bit of an edge. White T-shirts and denim paired with luxurious leather jackets, the thoughtful craftsmanship evident in every invisible stitch, or the schoolgirls sporting Goyard bags.

 It was almost a little jarring to see so many traditionally well-dressed people on the same block, and I was wholly intimidated. Even though I’m interested in fashion, I’ve never felt like I could keep up with the girls I considered stylish. In Paris, it felt like it was hopeless to even try. There is no doubt that the French look is admirable, tied up with all the other commendable qualities I’ve always associated with France. The poise of Parisian street style has always been something I sought to imitate, and watching all these swan-like women, I felt like I should almost be acting as a student of their refinement. I returned home wanting to incorporate some of the style techniques I witnessed into my own looks: finding a pair of heels that is comfortable enough to wear on a daily basis, for example, or upgrading the way I present myself by opting for a well-fitting pair of jeans on days I might rather choose leggings. After all, style is an exercise in confidence. It’s telling to wear any garment or accessory, because it says something about how you want to be seen. But upon returning home, seeing all my fellow residents of New York state swathed in flannel and Yankees caps and worn denim, I began to think about the Internet’s idolization of the French girl, or the clean girl, or any other aesthetic stereotype. I wondered if perhaps, by taking admiration to the extremes of archetypal idolization, we do ourselves an artistic – and stylistic – disservice.

With all the discourse mourning the death of “chic” within the fashion community after the “it’s kinda chic” trend went viral, I began to think about the supposed ineffable qualities that “chic” is tethered to. I’ve always considered the French girl to be the definition of a universal “chic,” a kind of chic that everyone could agree on. Something like the classic little black dress, or the elusive label of “timeless beauty,” which no one really defines for us until it’s time to write women up a list of things to buy. But there are also undoubtedly things that I consider chic that might not fit within the definition of the word for the Carolyn Besette Kennedy admirers of the world or our favorite French girls. 

To me, the definition of achieving a sophisticated vision of womanhood, for nearly my whole life, has been owning a pair of cobalt-colored, crystal droplet earrings, like the pair my mother wore on a trip to Bermuda when I was a child. My mom’s father and stepmother lived in Bermuda for several years, and my siblings and I were raised with a variety of shades of Bermuda blue, from turquoise to navy, in every available nook and cranny of our home. And then there’s the non-traditional elegance of growing up in Florida, where grace was a pair of well-polished Petite Paloma cowgirl boots and a patterned LoveShackFancy dress for church, curled hair down your back, chains of gold against tanned skin. Chic to me is the way my mom’s best friend used to drive, donning a beautiful black knee-length dress and a berry shade of lipstick, to an expensive dinner in her neon green Jeep. It was the straightness of her spine, and the way her long, dark, unruly hair fell past her shoulders. The way two bracelets on her wrist would go click click click against one another when she hugged my mother in greeting, her open arms an outpouring of humor and confidence.  

I concluded that, being indefinable, what is “chic,” – like what is beautiful –  is subjective. What is chic, elegant, graceful – what tingles the senses, sits just right, echoes sophistication – will depend on the beholder. It’s defined by the landscapes that shape us, from your hometown’s  architecture to its cultural legacies, to the places you daydreamed about traveling to as a child, to the cities and suburban towns you develop relationships with as an adult. Chic is unique to you. And while Paris will always be a worthy muse for the fashionably-inclined, I also know that the French girl came about because she’s harnessed a specific aesthetic that’s been encouraged by her lifestyle, the women she’s observed and esteemed, the environment she’s grown up in, and the artistic legacies she has engaged with by virtue of her location. Our Parisian style icons, from Jane Birkin to Camille Rowe and Lily Rose Depp, evolved alongside specific sociocultural contexts, historical surroundings, and artistic inheritances which encouraged certain fashion choices, and those girls went on to make the style their own. I began to think that while the French style is beautiful, an overindulgent glorification of any style might actually be stifling the innovation of a distinct, equally ‘chic’ style, one that is not just imitative but authentic. A chic that could be inspired by our midwestern cul-de-sacs, our Southern downtown neighborhoods, bitter winters in New England, a city that isn’t New York, LA, or some other area where extreme wealth has concentrated – any other landscape we don’t see touted as an ‘enviable’ location online. We have to think about what is marketed to us, and the ways in which those marketing tactics have been influenced by a system that encourages us to want to be anything but ourselves, so we buy ways to be someone else.

There isn’t anything wrong with looking to someone else, or somewhere else, for inspiration. I even wrote a list last summer about how a New York resident might dress like Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw. But contemplating the American obsession with the French girl, I can’t help but feel like we’ve established another boxed-in definition for what is considered stylish or ‘cool’ – now, something we cycle through on the Internet within a matter of weeks – without considering the creative opportunities provided to us by the places we are, not just the places we aspire to be.

While France has a creative legacy more than worth exploring – delightful, deep, and spanning centuries – we forget that the inspiration provided to Christian Dior by his native France, or the free-spirited insouciance afforded to Jane Birkin by the French New Wave, belongs to a core creative practice: mining your own memories, cultural connections, and personal affinities for inspiration. Dior’s ardent love for Paris’s iconic Plaza Athénée gave rise to several of his designs, as well as the location of his couture house. Alexander McQueen pioneered one of his most notorious and beautifully-crafted collections, The Widows of Culloden (2006), by exploring his own connection to his Scottish ancestry, a practice which also characterized the beginning of his intensely successful and fruitful career, starting with his sixth collection Highland Rape (1995). The Widows of Culloden embraced traditional Scottish tartan, the tweed historically harnessed to shield against frosty mornings throughout the highland hunting seasons, as well as feathers and wings associated with Scottish game birds. McQueen is far from the only designer to siphon his own ancestral or personal ties into his work. Vivienne Westwood’s high fashion looks were directly inspired by the punk movement in London – in fact, it would be more correct to say that Westwood’s pieces were radical statements unto themselves, responding to and drawing inspiration from the political upheaval around her, the safety-pinned and torn traditional English woven textiles that had been repurposed during an era of youth rebellion. Economic crisis and an apathy towards a gilded, overly pompous British monarchy propelled DIY streetwear that became the soil for high fashion harvest. At the height of a 90s revival in 2013, Dries Van Noten – a notoriously innovative, avant garde, and responsive designer, having debuted with the Antwerp Six – answered a generation returning to the masculine and slouched silhouettes of grunge. Van Noten found himself creating in an era disrupted, jarred into clasping onto the aesthetics of their childhood with the relatively new resource of the Internet at teenagers’ disposal. Van Noten found a way to make flannel drape in a manner that was noble and luxurious. His SS13 collection welcomed checkered prints, baggy shapes, and moody riots of clashing patterns. One of the most iconic streetwear designers, Dapper Dan (who I had the privilege of hearing speak in 2018), began his career illegally printing the names of high fashion brands on leather, inspired by the logomania style of streetwear which decorated the pedestrians of Harlem in the 1980s. It was his attentiveness to and genuine love for the people around him, and their mode of self-expression, that allowed for the evolution of logomania, repurposed – and appropriated – by high fashion brands today. The monogram trend continues to define some of the most coveted purchases for those invested in the fashion space, like archetypal, logo-printed Louis Vuitton bags.

 I fear that because of social media, and all of this posturing, and the messages that only one kind of girl is doing it “right,” we’ve begun to lose the creative spark that makes style and self-expression fun in the first place: the ability to filter our unique experiences and the world at large through our individual lenses, being guided by our senses and our instincts into a patchwork of self-expression that makes us feel confident and comfortable within ourselves. To respond to our environments and make something out of them.

I’ve been writing mostly about America because America is my country of origin, and therefore the landscape I know best. When I think about the ways I might be emboldened to create something I haven’t seen before, I can only draw from my own experiences, the topography I have grown amongst, and the places I’ve traveled to, which I understand are limited in scope. But I maintain a firm belief that inspiration can be found everywhere, and you don’t have to be born anywhere widely considered ‘desirable’ to have a vision worth expressing or something worth saying. That notion exists at all because of a Eurocentric mindset, continually marketed to us, that beauty, style, and art should be defined by western standards. I’ve grown up immersed in a western tradition of art and fashion, but that cultural terrain should not be the only definition of beauty or style. We are products of the places which shape us, but every person’s relationship to their birthplace, or the places they visit, can be artistically fruitful. Innovation can be made anywhere.

I adore Paris. Every opportunity to travel is one I receive with the utmost gratitude, and each time I find myself stepping away from my native east coast of the United States, I invite the next landscape I have the privilege of traversing to change me. I hope to take something home. And when I visit the Internet, I want to give my influencers, from the French girls to the LA clean girls, their due flowers. But I want to encourage everyone reading this post to embrace the artistic virtue of being where you are and where you are from. I think about the lapping tides of my hometown beach, and the specific pink grains of sand that run through my fingers, a coralish rose that I’ve had difficulty replicating. I imagine the faded colors of Rainbow Row in my boyfriend’s hometown of Charleston, and the rusty reds of the decades-old brick buildings downtown. The patterns that could be created seeing the startling greens of the American South against its backdrop of maroon masonry, observing the summer blooms as vines crawl up and down the exterior walls. I envision the claustrophobic and crowded alleys of New York, and the rambling highways of Florida’s statewide I-95, the irreplicable shade of orange that descends upon grass, itself struggling underneath an oppressive drought as the sun rises, on an early morning drive to visit my aunt. These are my memories, the veins which carry the blood of my own artistic practice and inspiration. And I think: something could be done with all of this, if only I was paying more attention, and not wishing myself away.

My resolution from now on is to take more inspiration from the world around me, rather than merely striving to imitate others I admire. I’m trying to be more interested in my own perspective. In any artistic practice, including fashion, it makes sense to observe and mimic those you idolize. But with the endless stream of people telling you how to dress ‘right,’ I’m trying not to forget innovation’s roots lie in my individuality, even when it’s hard.