August 2016 | For The Love Of Fashion And Other Things

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

How deep is your love (and style)

Flashback to your 8th to 10th birthday party (more so if it fell in the winters). If you grew up in India as a more or less '90s kid then the chances are your mother definitely wrestled you into a turtleneck and a dress or a pinafore over that at some point of time in your childhood. I know my mother did. I cannot quite remember my feelings about my style then but I guess I was always one of those 'I will rock your socks off' with my 'can-do' attitude and not just my hideous clothing kid. Seventeen years later, big mama's epiphany about everything in life, learning to do house hold chores and appreciating her cool sense of style has come a full circle. I'm voluntarily adding layers under and over my dresses and jumpsuits, that are complete in themselves to begin with. The much abhorred turtlenecks are hanging pretty in my closet and probably mock me amongst themselves every time I put one on. Maybe love has something to do with it? Love is the strongest of emotion and while Dumbledore identified that much earlier on in life, me, much like Voldemort am still struggling to find the deep connect between style and love.

This was just one instance. Carrie's style in Sex and the City had such a strong undertone of emotions too. Love, for instance. When Carrie goes to Paris, it's almost like her wardrobe has a complete overhaul. Of course the directors wanted to dress her grandly for Paris but maybe what my psychoanalysis tells me is that the character as written, was in love with Aleksandr Petrovsky (then) and the idea of Paris and it determined her choices of clothing.

Personal style is obviously deeply connected with how women feel emotionally but does it have a strong, direct bearing on love as an emotion? I would love to hear what you think. Especially if you wear a certain set of colours more when in love. A certain style of clothing that you always associate with love, of any kind.

Meanwhile, here's me doing what my mama told me to do seventeen years back and finally enjoying it. Wearing teeshirts under my jumpsuits and wind breakers over them.

Photography by: Saumya and Shiva of The Open Art Project

Wearing:

Jumpsuit: Bershka

Tee: Thrifted

Jacket: Adidas

Bag: c/o Stalk Buy Love

Shoes: Jessica Simpson

Velvet choker: River Island

Sunday, August 21, 2016

After Hours-II

Continued from what you read and saw here last week.
When did we stop believing in love? The have-eyes-only-for-each-other kind of love. The go-the-distance-even-when-we-are-far-away kind of love. As I think about love and the vantage point it had driven me to I realised it was also what put me in the firing line. My heart had managed to seep down to my knee sometime in the last few months and my sleep had headed for the fire exit too. But suddenly the opportunities were unending and I put my duster coat on with only one thought in mind: paint stories so magnificent in the after hours that the memories pack their bags too.
With no idea of what I was after, I light a cigarette and let my lungs breathe in the toxicity of yet another kind. The music was going to be loud enough to drown out my heartbeat. The memories of the patchy drug-store aftershave mingled with the smell of sweat and alcohol rush in. The din of the night called. I answered.
Who was to say this was not love? I was walking on a cloud of nouveau experiences. The infinite human interactions that the future held. The mere idea of being in love with and at peace with the self. With every closing shutter I tried to slide under, this night refused to stop giving. I knew I was nearing a psychological climax. The kind I could only achieve by letting my heart carry me through the night. I had seen women in movies holler cabs and ask the cab drivers to take them wherever they pleased. I felt liberated, not stupid so I decided to walk. I walked to leisure valleys and I walked in parking lots. I walked till my legs refused to carry me. There was one last lingering thought that was holding my eyes open, how do broken hearts mend themselves? And just as I thought about it, a prickly searing pain lifted itself out of my body and the last thing I saw were flashing cameras right before I fell into a deep, peaceful, reticent kind of a lull. The dawn had broken.

Wearing in Image 1:
Dress worn as top: Huemn
Shirt and Skirt: Anaam

Wearing in Image 2, 3 and 4:
Dress: Huemn
Skirt and Shoes: Adidas Originals
Backpack: Squareloop

Wearing in Image 5:
Dress and fur: 431-88 by Shweta Kapur
Jacket: Zara

Wearing in Image 6:
Shirt: Zara
Gown: Huemn

Wearing in Image 7 and 8:
Top: Adidas Originals
Shoes: Adidas Superstars
Skirt: Poco & Jacky
Brooch on cap: Outhouse

Hair and Make up: Anjum Bharadwaj

Photography by: Raju Raman

Styling and creative direction: Vrinda Narang

Modelled and written by: Shreya Kalra

Location c/o: Hauz Khas Social, Pings by PCO & Yes Minister

Sunday, August 14, 2016

After hours-I

I lean back comfortably on the lounge chaise. As comfortable as I could be anyway. The subjectivity of the term 'comfort' strikes you a lot harder when you have seen nights of drunken wish-washing with not a moment's bodily rest. The subjectivity of it all when you realise that insomnia and anxiety treat your body like their nesting cage. I thought back on the night I decided to sit at my old, rickety writing desk, a glass of wonder in one hand and a pen in the other. All I could manage with the pitter patter of the rain all night was a few doodles and the constant scribbling of his name next to mine. Not something I could turn in to my editor the coming Monday, could I?

I'm pulled back into the present as I think about sleep and the tumultuous relationship we shared. Sleep? Sleep is that that eludes me. There is a foggy sensation that envelopes my head. Sleep? I wonder again. But it's only the placebo effect. The discomfort is beginning to wear me down and the tingling cold makes me want to curl up and sleep. Remember the time we just could? I pull myself together and start pacing up and down the room with a soliloquy in mind. Maybe turning up the music a bit will help. I break into a tune as I take a bite out of a cold, day-old pizza. The taste lingers in my mouth just long enough for me to feel my body slacken in comfort. Signs. Music. Food. Thoughts. That was a definitely a lot of food on my plate, no pun intended of course. I was bound to slip into a night's worth of rest. I wipe the crumbs on my hand against the side of my skirt and find two old movie stubs from the time we took on the night together. I still could, couldn't I? The allure of a new beginning to breathe in the art in the gallery, the green in the parks, the music in the clubs, all with an overarching theme of solitude was beginning to draw me in......(To be continued)