Karen Portugal York
The New Me
No one has ever called me a fashionista. Indeed, my dear departed sister Loretta, a true creative spirit, especially when it came to style, early abandoned all efforts to dress me in her own image as I energetically (and loudly) rebuffed all her well intentioned efforts to do so.
As a child, I was what was then called a “Tom Boy.” I recall it as a very liberating identity for an active and independent little girl of those conservative times. I don’t remember anybody in my family (except for Loretta) being at all concerned with the fact that I insisted on wearing only jeans and cowboy boots and “changed” my name to Tex. There were no whispered conversations regarding gender identity or aesthetic apathy. I was simply allowed to be Tex … until I became Karen.
As Karen, I accepted that girls did not wear jeans and cowboy boots; at least not to school (this was the ’50s). But even then, the dresses, skirts and blouses (many of them made by my very talented mother) delivered fresh from the closet clean, starched and ironed, were very much the worse for wear by the end of the day. While other little girls were able to maintain pristine grooming for more than a few hours, wrinkles, stains and scuffs became my personal trademark. Loretta despaired. Finally, by high school, I was able to achieve, if not high style, at least a credible level of neatness; managing to match my sweaters to my skirts to my socks and to keep my white bucks white (most of the time).
You can imagine what a relief it was for me when I found myself in college during the beat-hippy era. For those four happy years at UCLA, fashion issues of color, fit, skirt length, etc. were moot. Everything was basic black. A large sweatshirt and, perhaps, some beads, were the only fashion requirements. Jeans were worn by everyone, everywhere. The only difference from my Tex years was that cowboy boots were replaced by Birkenstocks. For the first time in my life, when I shopped or dressed, I knew exactly what to do.
Motherhood and career days followed, each with their own fashion requirements. During the fading hippy days, at least in Malibu, a two-piece sweat suit (preferably matching) was suitable attire for child rearing. “Ethnic” and comfortable flowing caftans were “evening wear.” As for career clothing, early “dress for success” options focused on navy blue, black or gray suits, white shirts, little ties and plain pumps. In other words, unimaginative and neat. No problem.
With this fashion history, who could have predicted that in my “old age” my eyes would suddenly open to the wonderful world of high fashion! It crept up on me, this awareness of apparel as art. And, art that I wanted to own and to wear! Now, I realize that this radical change in my personal style was the accretion of many environmental influences. It probably started with the evolution of Malibu shops from small town to toney. Suddenly, the plain “no name” cotton sweats and T-shirts in shop windows were replaced by Dolce & Gabbana and Demeulemeester (whoever they are). Flip-flops and Birkenstocks were replaced by Manolo Blahnik and Ferragamo. Just looking at these elegant items (not to mention checking price tags) was an education. There was the increasing attention paid to fashion in every magazine and newspaper in the country (Forbes! The Wall Street Journal!). Then, of course, there were the “Red Carpet” phenomena. Elegant women attired in sometimes elegant (but often strange garments). Of course there was also “Sex in the City.” Those women. Those dresses. Those shoes. Call me perverted, but while the greater viewing audience was enthralled with what happened when they were naked, I was obsessed with what they wore when they weren’t. And, most recently, there was the film, “The Devil Wears Prada.” Good movie, good acting and great fashions. I wanted to take notes. Me. Tex.
So, you may ask, how is this playing out in my life? Am I limiting this new interest to objective appreciation as I might any other art form? Have Philippe Derey, Theodore and La Chausseur become my new museums? Am I “just looking?”
Unfortunately, no. I am, alas, acquiring. Slowly, to be sure. And the words “Sale,” “Knock-Off” and “Discount” remain among my favorites. Just a hand painted silk ruffled blouse here (crystal beads too and coordinated tee to match), some faux lizard open-toed pumps or rhinestone-studded sandals there. Slowly and surely my basic black Chico’s wardrobe is undergoing a “sea change.” Recently, a friend, acknowledging the more upscale me, even asked me if I had undergone a fashion gene transplant.
Loretta would be pleased.