Don’t forget it: the survivies style guide

348 and Maine street: With spring in your step: dressing for April showers

And then, suddenly, spring was upon us. It happened without warning while you were sleeping, like Lindsay and Oprah’s friendship or Kimye’s Vogue cover.There seems to be some confusion as to what spring is. Perhaps it is easier to say what spring is not: It is not winter and it is not summer. Shocking, I know, but I have it on good authority from scientists and my kindergarten teacher that spring is, in fact, it’s own season.
I thought this was common knowledge, but it turns out, like the whereabouts of Amanda Bynes or the Malaysia Airlines flight (my theory is that she hijacked it), spring is unclear.
It seems, thanks to global warming toying with our seasons like Blue Ivy plays with her Bugattis, we’ve forgotten what spring is. Well it’s time spring got the respect it deserves.
What spring is not is wearing the same clothes you’ve been wearing all winter, only fewer of them.
Flannel, for example, is strictly a winter affair, and just because you can now wear it without a coat does not mean you should. In fact, you shouldn’t.
The same goes for your bulky winter sweaters, your down vests and your fleece-lined pants. There is a time and place for all these things. But that time is not now and the place is not here.
A word on shoes: I appreciate that spring is a particularly tricky time for dressing your feet. Puddles abound and navigating your way to class without falling into one is a treacherous game. But this does not mean you should continue to wear your winter boots.
We know that Bean Boots are a horror and an assault on the senses, and that has never been more true than now.
Wear Hunters or some other rain boot if you must. It is the rainy season, and your feet are probably going to get wet. That is, they are going to get wet unless you are able to use your eyes and see the puddle coming up ahead and, imagine, avoid it.
If you can look where you’re going—any preschooler can teach you how—you can wear whatever shoes you want. Maybe something a little less clunky and a little more fun.
And then, on the other hand, we have the people who think that just because the sun is finally shining, it is suddenly and magically a day at the beach in August.
Here’s the thing: it isn’t. So take your flip flops off and go to class.
When the temperature slips above fifty, I know it is tempting for some of you—though I really can’t understand why—to wear shorts all the time, always and forever. Do not do this. You look extraordinarily foolish and overeager.
Shorts should be approached gradually and with caution, and only after the thermometer has topped 65.
But if you must wear shorts, please, for the love of Oprah and all that is good, keep to muted colors and pastels, and throw out the ones that fall in the same family of hues as road signs and stop lights.
And, really, I’m looking out for your health and comfort.
Dress for a summer heat wave, and you’ll freeze to death after the sun goes down.
Bundle up for a winter squall and you’ll have a heat stroke midday. The only way to survive spring is to dress appropriately for the season.
So put on your bunny suit, pick up a basket of eggs and matzoh, and hop on your merry way.

348 and Maine street: Dressing to look homeless is distasteful, not humorous

There was a time in my life when I spent most of my energy trying to dress like an eccentric, using clothes to exclaim my difference and announce to the world that I was special. “Pay attention to me,” my style said. “You will pay attention to me.” My wardrobe reeked of desperation, or maybe I was just strange. Maybe I still am. Some would say that I still dress wildly and weirdly. Some days, at my most insecure, I deck myself out in my loudest clothing, hiding behind the neon sign of an insanely printed shirt or a scarf made of vintage saris. We all have those days. Most of us hide at home in sweatpants; I go out and beg to be seen.
On the whole my style has tamed. My clothes are simpler, and I care less what people think. However, it’s in a much different way than I claimed before. Sometimes I worry that I’ve become too conventional, that I’ve lost my nerve and verve in dressing. But I don’t think that’s it.
For better or worse, the way we dress speaks volumes. Unfortunately, much of what it says has to do with outdated ideas about class and gender and lots of other things, and it doesn’t help that the fashion industry is really, really shitty most of the time. Sometimes it is vapid, but sometimes it is dangerous in telling us what we are supposed to look like and who we are supposed to be.
I still think that style matters—matters very much. Every day we get to wake up and ask ourselves who we want to be, who we want to present to the world. I still care. I think we all are presenting some version of ourselves to the world with our clothes, and it’s empowering to be in control of that.
In light of all this, I am distrustful of any style that pretends not to say anything or not be in control of itself. I have noticed a pretty disturbing trend at this school—and elsewhere—which I will call homeless-chic. A certain set of well-off young people dress in unwashed, mismatched, old clothes. It is a look that tries to say “I don’t care at all.” But we all know that these people spend hours at vintage stores, and hours putting these ensembles together.
It’s not only false, it’s not only ugly, it’s also kind of offensive. It strikes me as a contemporary collegiate take on slumming. Having control over your style and the way the world perceives you is admittedly a luxury. So when you have that choice, and choose to fetishize those who don’t, it is a really questionable decision.
I don't know what this look is trying to say besides, “Isn't this ironic? I'm rich, but I look poor! Isn't that funny?” No. It really is not, so cut it out. Dressing ironically will never go out of style in certain circles, but there are some things we just do not do, even ironically. One could not get away with blackface ironically. I’m not sure if this issue is that different: one does not do “homeless” ironically.
Think about the message your clothes are putting into the world. In some ways your dress will always say: “This is who I am, this is who I want to be.” I can say with certainty you do not want to be homeless. Look at your life, look at your choices.

348 and Maine street

Don’t forget it: the survivies style guide

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Evan Horwitz

Columnist

April 24, 2014

I’ve got so much to say about dressing for Ivies that I’ve decided to make this week’s column a kind of Style Survivies—a guide for sartorial concerns of this very special last weekend in April.

Let’s start with one timeless Ivies dilemma: how to wear as little as possible without freezing to death in this icy purgatory we call Maine.

Now I could tell you to stay warm and be comfortable; that it’s not worth worrying about your outfit when you’ll be standing and dancing and prancing around outside for hours. I could tell you to bring a blanket, or that the key is lots of layers, but the truth is that at some point, no matter what, you will get cold. You’ll survive.

The next great style dilemma of Ivies is this: should you wear clothes you don’t care about, or a fancy outfit?

Here’s the thing: everybody wants to look nice—you have more fun when you feel good about how you look—but during Ivies, anything you wear is destined for disappearance or destruction.
I could give you this rule of thumb: if anything you’re wearing is ruined, will that distress you for more than five minutes? If the answer is yes, put it down and pick out something else.

Because, at some point, something will spill all over you and stain your outfit. Is it purple drank? Vomit? Barbecue sauce? It could be any or all of these, but you’ll never find out; it’s a mystery that begins and ends with you screaming, “What the fuck is all over me?”

But if you’re just wearing old clothes (or if you’re drunk enough), this panic should subside in seconds.

Also, any removable item of clothing—which at Ivies is almost everything—is likely to get lost. If you realize something’s gone within an hour of losing it, and you spend anywhere from 15-75 minutes retracing your steps, then you’ve still got a chance, of seeing it again. If you haven’t seen it in hours, or it is a pair of sunglasses, odds are you’ve lost it to the Ivies abyss.

No one likes losing things, but it’d be a shame to let it ruin your day. Very few people like stains either, but I personally think they add character and individuality to any outfit.

I cannot overstate this however: sunglasses are the most likely thing to go missing. So even though croakies usually strike me as something that should only be worn by middle-aged whitewater rafting guides, this weekend I might revise that stance.

Because no matter what, at some point, the sun will duck behind a cloud—maybe for minutes, maybe for hours—and you will want to take your sunglasses off your face. And that is how you’ll lose them.

“Should I wear a hat to Ivies?” you may ask, “And if so, what kind?” I could tell you that maybe you should wear a hat, and, really, it could be any kind from sombrero to fez. But remember: at some point, you will want nothing more to do with your carefully-chosen chapeau, and, having no where to put it (see above about things getting lost).

I could advise you on Ivies footwear. Is it time for some fun spring sneakers? The season opener for Sperrys? Warm enough for sandals? Or should you stick with those boots you’ve been clomping around in all winter? There are pros and cons to all these approaches, weather being as variable as it is.
No matter what, at some point you will probably decide you wore the wrong shoes. But as long as you can dance and frolic in them, you’re good.

I could tell you that the most important Ivies accessory is not your hat or your sunglasses, but the tricked-out water bottle you’ll use to stay, um, hydrated. And I could beg you not to put any drinks with milk in it, because you will regret it, and whomever you spill it all over will probably kill you.

I could tell you all these things, but I won’t. Because for once, I don’t care.

It’s Ivies. Just have a good time and do whatever you want. Ivies is a time to take risks (with your style) because you can play them off as drunken jokes. Plus, very few people will remember. Happy Ivies.

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