Freeing Myself From Fashion

The best personal style is untethered to the fashion industry.

Two of my favourite designers working today are Christophe Lemaire and Sarah-Linh Tran, who design the Lemaire brand. I love how they play with structure, volume, proportions and drape and combine them in deceptively simple ways that do not belabour the eye. They find elegant and artful ways to iterate and refine on what are essentially fairly classic styles, often drawing from workwear and using utilitarian fabrics (two things I love very much) without showboating or insulting their wearers. A Lemaire look from 10 years ago still looks good today and you’ll be hard-pressed to date their collections; there’s a timelessness about their work.

And yet, some time ago, I saw photos of some of their fashion show guests (like this one or these), and it gave me pause. Many wore Lemaire, and they were almost indistinguishable from the models. They looked beautiful, but it also all felt rather impersonal.

I’m not saying that everyone needs to be an original, but I was reminded that the fashion industry is not the best place to look when it comes to developing personal style. The industry (and this includes fashion content creators) has much to offer in terms of ideas on what clothes can be, but it is ultimately about selling a brand and products for profit. The best designers put up thoughtful, original propositions on how to dress today, which are then echoed and amplified by content creators, but these ideas — and products — do not make for true personal style.

This growing realisation is reflected in how I shopped this year. Much as I want to connect with certain designers and brands for their vision, I’ve also come to realise that the actual ownership of the clothes they designed isn’t essential to my enjoyment of style. Neither am I particularly interested in recreating runway looks using what clothes I have. It’s just not what excites me about dressing. When I shopped, I rarely had fashion in mind. I just want to be me, however normal or unremarkable that might be.

This feeling clicked into place when I read this piece by Cathy Horyn about finding her personal style in The Cut. Horyn is a seasoned fashion critic and journalist who has seen fashion up close for four decades, and has deftly explored its relationship to culture, yet her biggest critics like to fixate on what they perceive as her lack of style. As if she can’t possibly know what she’s talking about, or care about style, because she doesn’t shop or dress a certain way.

Much of this is because we think about style by way of imagery, but it’s increasingly challenging to imagine style that can’t be neatly flattened into an IG post, a TikTok reel or a Pinterest board. We’re also extremely caught up with thinking of style as taste and status signifiers (yes style signals these things, but they don’t only signal these things). Imagery and aesthetics are central to forming personal style, but they’re not enough. We need to look deeper and develop intuition, and that comes from living our lives in full and paying attention to what moves us.

In her article, Horyn wrote:

“…Once I began trusting my intuition, I found that what I was most drawn to was a refined mixture of masculine tailoring and jaunty sportswear…Not only did they represent my idea of feminine, they were also distinctive — when I wore them, I was no longer part of a brigade but one person.”

What a powerful idea, to be able to free ourselves of the ideas of others, to be our own biggest style influencer. Throughout the article, Horyn doesn’t frames her quest for personal style in terms of originality; rather, she simply wants understand what she wants:

“I realized I wanted less fashion: no oversize shoulders or novel fabrics. And I wanted to use everything I’d learned from all the years of writing about clothes, and from the memories of my mother’s taste and my friendships with people like André [Leon Talley] and Bill Blass, and turn them into a style that has meaning only to me. Because at 67, there is nowhere else for me to go but in reverse, to memory and tradition.”

None of this is something a street style photographer could capture, and that’s what I found so inspiring. Aesthetics are important, but the best images are the ones that don’t exist in anyone’s eye but yours. What makes me feel truly stylish is when I get dress with an intention that’s informed by all the things I love, from my mum (who taught me the joy in getting dressed), to movies (“A Bigger Splash”, “The English Patient”), to where I am and what I do (writing, living in a city), to artists (Irving Penn, Barbara Hepworth), and other stylish people (Lauren Hutton, Sofia Coppola, Hirofumi Kurino). And of course, aesthetics and style movements, but always with an awareness of their cultural and historic context (City Boy style, prep, workwear, minimalism).

Looking at what I bought this year, I wouldn’t say I wasn’t influenced by the fashion industry. There’s the cult favourite Babaà jumper, the Dries dress with its very recognisable print, and the rugby shirt, which was interpreted by at least two fashion brands (Miu Miu, and Dries). But looking at them, I don’t see the runway shows or style influencers, I just picture myself wearing them. And I don’t care if that sounds narcissistic; I think that just means that I know myself.

What I bought this year so far.

I will always be a sucker for a pair of Lemaire trousers (a pipe dream for now) or the right Dries piece surfacing on eBay or TRR, and yes I am still interested in fashion. But I also no longer feel like I am tethered to the images the industry or social media pushes at us to foment desire. Instead, I feel free to explore and understand why certain pieces appeal to me, and confident that the items I welcome into my life have their place.

What are your style influences?