Style Therapy

As the nation is in the grip of what will become the most tumultuous election cycle of this century, I am here going between sipping coffee and champagne while calmly(?) flipping through the pages of Vogue's November issue.

It seems irresponsible, I know. Part of me feels like I should be a good American citizen, glued to the TV or my smartphone compulsively refreshing the Google election page to see the latest update in the polls. Or better yet, I should be fighting with people on the Internet over this debacle that will determine the course of our nation for years to come. Instead, I am obsessing over the latest fall trends and swooning over stunning images of Naomi Campbell while trying to figure how I too can incorporate moody florals into my fall wardrobe. What gives?

This, my friend, is sartorial self-preservation at work.

Ever since I was a child, fashion has been my escape hatch away from the stressors of the world. I escaped the rigors of a brutal junior high experience in the pages of Seventeen magazine, ripping out pages of fashion and beauty trends I would have the freedom to try only after high school. I took a breather between college classes by following New York Fashion Week like a hawk, saving images to my laptop with the aim of building an escapist library I could reference when Intro to Statistics threatened to make me burst into tears. Even now, I relish getting my hands on the March and September issues of Harper’s Bazaar, delving into them like a sacred text and reveling in the couture wonderland curated by the increasingly imaginative fashion editors charged with bringing the visions of designers to life within its hallowed pages.

As chaos surrounds me in my waking life (personal, political, or existential), I know that I could find a safe place in the pages of a fashion magazine or, in more modern times, scrolling through a dedicated Instagram feed. In this world, I don't have to worry about who the President is going to be, or how to navigate a failing relationship, or worry about any aspect of my future. In these glossy pages, the most critical thought I have is whether that belt would indeed look good over this cardigan, or how sustainable fashion will change the style landscape.

Granted, most of the couture and baubles in these publications will never make it to my closet. After all, I don't yet have the luxury of dropping the equivalent of a down payment on a house at Bergdorf Goodman. However, as André Leon Talley (or "Saint André," as I call him in my head) so wisely stated: “People love fashion exhibits because they can fantasize. They can respond to a dress even if they can never wear a dress like that.” It is in that fantasy that I regain my sanity.

Fashion gives me space to dream of a world beyond the dreary static that can sometimes cloud the present. It gives me beauty in a world that can quickly turn ugly. In this current social climate, there are times that I need to bury myself into a cocoon of tulle and sparkle and let the storm pass over, if only to regain my strength to face the next one.

Mind you, this does not mean that I’m completely ignorant to the goings-on of the world, and I certainly actively participate in creating the change I wish to see. I donate to grassroots organizations, I exercise my right to vote, and I attend marches when I can or share resources when I cannot. However, I also give myself permission to lose myself in the chiffon trenches, if only to remind myself that in a world where there is so much pain and conflict, there is a space where we can all appreciate the loveliness of a little black dress and a swipe of red lipstick.

To some, fashion is frivolity. For me, fashion is a lifeline.