What we see when we see clothes

What my girl crush on Sofia Coppola taught me about the pursuit of personal style.

For a very long time, one of my favourite personal style icons was Sofia Coppola—the epitome of low-key cool girl luxury. The fact that she happens to be Hollywood royalty and a filmmaker in her own right gave her an added dash of elàn. I was so drawn to her style that I once considered parting with a big chunk of cash to buy a bag she co-designed with Louis Vuitton.

When I think of her uniform of plain jumpers, black trousers or jeans, and crisp but relaxed shirting, the word “idiosyncratic” comes to mind even though this would not seem evident to the casual observer. Her clothes are often simple, even banal; rarified and luxurious in execution to be sure, but very simple in design, and they are not necessarily unique choices—she was not the first to wear a Chanel tweed jacket or cropped trousers with ballet flats. But what is unique about her style choices is that they stand in stark contrast to the conventions of Hollywood glitz—her taste is much more sophisticated than the average celebrity, reflecting the privilege of her upbringing. For me, the world and context in which she chooses her clothes, renders her style personal and highly idiosyncratic.

I’ve been thinking about idiosyncrasies for some time now, amid the plentiful online discussions about taste and personal style. To me, idiosyncrasies are what makes a someone’s style truly memorable, and more importantly, they are in the eye of the beholder. When I see a photo of Sofia Coppola in a shirt and tailored shorts at Cannes, I also tap into the delicate mood and flawless art direction of her films. I may find her sympathies for women living in a gilded cage¹ a little questionable, but I also understand why she is preoccupied with those themes in the context of her privileged upbringing. When I see her outfits, I see more than just nice clothes; I see a deliberate understatedness that telegraphs her artistic sensibilities and her rarified status—she can wear shorts to Cannes because she doesn’t need to impress in couture to land a movie role. It’s a heady cocktail of meaning.

With such larger-than-life figures looming in our collective consciousness when we talk about style and taste, is it any wonder, then, that sometimes we feel such dissatisfaction with how we dress? We may admire the style of Coppola or Carolyn Bessette Kennedy but the true essence of their style is basically unachievable because it is impossible and meaningless to emulate the peculiarities of someone else’s life. We can score the the status signifiers—“archival” Yohji Yamamoto to channel the spirit of CBK; the aforementioned Sofia Coppola bag for Louis Vuitton—but we cannot buy authenticity. But the fashion industry would have you believing otherwise, all while pushing unrealistic, highly idealised imagery at us.

The likes of Coppola and CBK provide useful baselines for us to start experimenting, but ultimately, style is a language that we must choose for ourselves, and exercise regularly to gain proficiency. As Derek Guy put it in an excellent essay on Mr Porter, “there are also thousands of aesthetics with their own ideas about fit, proportions and styling…by understanding the themes that tie particular aesthetics together, you can create stylish and culturally legible outfits.”

It made me realise that I admire Coppola’s style not because she wears carpenter jeans to Cannes and understands the power of navy blue, but because I relate to the style language she speaks—a practitioner of “less is more”, a lover of classics, a respect for practicality, a stickler for fit, and a taste for luxury. Over time, instead of mimicking her, I learnt to understand what her style language is saying, and then I made my own choices to suit my lifestyle and reflect my personal preferences and values.

The more we are willing to explore these complicated nuances that lie beneath our clothing choices, the more interesting our personal style will feel to us. Without carefully considering our personal histories and why we feel so strongly about a certain aesthetic, we end up prizing our clothes for what they telegraph to others, rather than what they mean to us. And end up with outfits that say nothing about who we are.

It is also important to note that the most interesting and personal aspects of our style may not be visible or understood by others. Would we still buy the same things, if no one around us (physically or online) recognised their cultural currency or significance? It’s a great question to ask ourselves when we feel the urge to buy specific things; for me, it has helped me shake off the feeling that I need certain items to be stylish, and slowed down my pace of consumption.

At the heart of all this is the oft-contradictory desire to be recognised and belong, versus the urge to express ourselves and assert our individuality. For example, we like to think that only fashion victims follow trends, but it’s undeniable that truly impactful trends are interesting—they open our eyes to things we may not have considered otherwise. Coco Chanel may have been problematic, but the trends she helped to create reshaped what society thought was “appropriate” for women to wear. We don’t need to keep up with every “core” happening on TikTok, but every now and then, it’s worth paying attention to see why certain things are taking off. We might learn something.

What I have taken away after years of obsessing about what I wear is that if you like fashion and are curious about what’s happening culturally, there is no “end point” to cultivating personal style. We are not the same people we were ten years ago, and we will not be the same in ten years. To quote Derek Guy again (I’m sorry, I really should read more widely), “personal style is often about adjusting an aesthetic at the margins so that it remains culturally legible while also reflecting our uniqueness”.

I love he seems to recognise this very human urge to be influenced by something bigger, and encourages us to explore it in a thoughtful way, whatever that might be. That’s good taste for you.

1. I rewatched “Lost In Translation” last year and I don’t think that movie aged well.